Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1)

by Chill, David

The next morning was as pretty and temperate and as serene as one could hope for. I stretched luxuriously in bed as streaks of soft sunlight trickled in through the curtains. The clock read seven-fifteen and I wondered if Ms. Linzmeier's pipes had been taken care of. Maybe I was just getting used to them.

  After breakfast, I cleaned up the apartment a little and came across the DVD Johnny Cleary gave me. It was the USC-LAU game from the year before last. Deciding it would be infinitely more entertaining than housework, I inserted it into the tray and pushed the Play button.

  It had been a while since I had reviewed any game film and I needed to adjust to the omission of play-by-play announcers and their coarse ex-jock commentators. Not even the sound of the crowd hummed in the background, nor did the smashing of pads, helmets and bodies. Only the visuals, silent and sure, unfolded on the screen.

  I had missed this particular game, as I had most over the past few years. Commitments to career, clients and lovers took precedence, and I grew farther and farther away from my childhood pastime. As I watched the players romp and tumble across the gridiron, a maudlin feeling came over me. I had played in three games against LAU when I was in school, each one a classic thriller whose ending invariably went down to the wire. It didn't matter that we had a better team than they did, the emotions of the cross-town rivalry were enough to cancel out any disparity in talent. The rivalry was unique in college football because Los Angeles was the only city in the nation to boast two major college football powers. The students in many cases had played with or against each other as far back as Pop Warner, and it was often a reunion of old friends and rivals.

  Norman Freeman stood tall and sure of himself as he lined up over center to take the snaps. He dropped back into the pocket with grace and strength, whipping pass after pass into his receivers' hands. Robbie had a clump of red hair hanging through the back of his helmet and was easy to spot. He caught a pass in their first drive and three passes in the second. He moved effortlessly and appeared to be open on a frequent basis. LAU scored two touchdowns in the first quarter, but after that the Trojans began to take control of the game.

  USC had always been known for having a slow, deliberate offense that relied on a power running game. Time after time, they wore the other team's defense down near the end of the game by pounding continuously with its tailbacks. For many years their favorite play was student body right, where the quarterback would pitch to a tailback lined up directly behind him. The entire front line would pull out to the right and lead the tailback downfield. It sometimes took a while to get into gear, but once it was in motion it became a thing of beauty and a difficult play to stop. They had modified it over time, but USC still relied on the running game to win. I remembered going up against it in practice and eventually crawling to the showers by the end of the workout. My body shuddered at the thought of it.

  By halftime, USC had taken a 16-14 lead. Norman hadn't been shut down by USC's defense so much as he was kept off the field by the USC offense. In the second quarter, LAU only had the opportunity for one series of plays. The third quarter was pretty even, with the Trojans scoring on the last play to take a 22-14 lead. The extra point was blocked and the fourth quarter began with USC kicking off. McCallum inserted Robbie in the game to return the kick and he took off on an electrifying run for about sixty yards, before he was finally dragged to the ground by the kicker himself.

  The LAU offense got a quick first down on a slant-in pass from Norman to Lenny Caputo, who juggled the ball momentarily before tucking it away. The Trojan defense stiffened at that point and LAU settled for a field goal to make it a five point USC lead. The Trojans took possession and for the next ten minutes maintained control of the ball with a grinding running attack that LAU seemed to be able to contain but not stop. USC consistently got three to four yards per run, wearing the exhausted LAU defense down. The Trojans had driven all the way to the LAU six yard line when on a third down and goal to go, the quarterback fumbled the snap from center and the exuberance shown by the defense proclaimed LAU had recovered the ball. And when LAU's offense stepped onto the field, Norman Freeman took over.

  While the LAU offense had been all but non-existent since the first quarter, a new confidence began to emerge. On the first play, Norman dropped back into the end zone and flung a forty yard pass to Robbie, who had to leap high to snare it away from a Trojan safety. Norman then completed a number of short look-in passes and LAU had pushed their way into Trojan territory.

  Norman was on a roll. He completed a few more passes and took off on a scramble that moved the ball inside the twenty yard line. But by that point there were only thirty seconds left in the game. The next two passes fell incomplete, and a surprise running play fooled nobody. It was fourth down and there were only seven seconds left in the game.

  There are moments in life where you can sense something monumental is about to transpire. Be it the confident strut of a man who feels destined for greatness or the look of apprehension on the face of the enemy, certain moments radiate a dramatic feel. As Norman Freeman strode purposefully towards the line of scrimmage, you could appreciate his keen sense of stage presence and emotional poise. As he barked signals to his team, they dropped into their three point stance in unison, all parts working in synchronized harmony. He back-pedaled into the pocket, set himself, and without hesitation flung a perfect spiral deep into the end zone.

  Robbie Freeman had lined up flanked wide to the left, with three other receivers lined up wide right. As Norman faked a hand-off to the tailback, the safeties froze momentarily and Robbie took off downfield, his body churning with purposeful strides. The cornerback that lined up with him kept pace initially, but at the ten yard line Robbie cut inside at a forty-five degree angle and gained two steps on the defender. The free safety tried to react and move over, but Robbie was too quick. He was running a post pattern and executing it flawlessly.

  A post pattern derives its name because the receiver's pass route has him cut towards the goal post, set a few yards behind the end zone. The quarterback fakes a hand-off to lure the safety in, thus giving the receiver an opening over the middle, towards the goal post. Many years ago, the goal posts were shaped in an 'H' design with two posts stuck in the ground. More recently, the switch was made to a squared-off 'Y' shape which allowed for only one post, to reduce potential injuries when an unfortunate player collided with the immovable object. While it was layered with padding, the single post was still as unyielding and unforgiving as ever.

  Robbie raced into the end zone unimpeded. There were two defenders desperately attempting to catch up, but he had three steps on both. The ball however was overthrown slightly, and Robbie extended his arms and grabbed it literally with his fingertips. He drew the ball into his body and still managed to plant one foot inside the back line of the end zone. It was an amazing reception, the catch of a lifetime. But as he tucked the ball away, he lowered his head and stumbled. His momentum carried him forward and, like a car without use of its brakes, he crashed head-on into the goal post. Stopping in his tracks, Robbie fell straight to the ground in a heap, but at no time did the football ever slip from his hands.

  His teammates mobbed him, and the trainers had to practically fight their way through the pack to reach Robbie. They worked on him for a few minutes until he was finally able to get up under his own power. The team lifted him up on a few shoulders and carried him to the locker room.

  The recording ended at that point and I found myself staring at the blank screen in deep thought. Robbie Freeman died as he had lived, dramatically and flamboyantly. Many people claim to live on the edge but he was one who did. He thrived on it, and somehow it was his undoing. I felt myself becoming closer to him and as such, closer to his demise.

  I pulled the disc from the DVD player and decided to have another look at the party. I fast forwarded through most of the footage and stopped when I saw the black arm open the door. I viewed it over and over again hoping it would somehow jog my memory. No features
were evident, no body shape, no hair, no flesh. I turned the machine off and unloaded the disc, letting it sit in my lap protectively.

  The phone rang and it was Gail on the other end. She scolded me mildly for not calling her last night and I apologized as best I could. She then told me she had some information for me about the Freeman case. When I asked what it was she said she'd prefer to drop it off after work. That is if I still had any interest in her. I convinced her my desire was as torrid as the temperature had been and she playfully relented. I told her to stop by my office after work.

  She hung up and I sat there, feeling the warmth and excitement of her voice, and thought of the way she looked the other night. And then something else came over me, an idea so rich with possibility I kicked myself for not thinking of it sooner. I leaped out of my chair and headed for my Ford Focus.

  *

  The drive to Brentwood took ten minutes perhaps, but in my mind it was an eternity. When I finally arrived at the Freeman estate, I zoomed up the glazed brick driveway and onto a grassy area. A black Mercedes and a silver Acura were parked out front and though there was room enough to park on the bricks, I felt the lawn left more of an iconoclast impression. I only wished I had my truck. Knocking on the door, I was surprised to see Harrison Freeman answer it himself.

  "Burnside." he said.

  "Freeman." I countered.

  "I didn't expect to see you back so soon."

  "I didn't expect to see you open your own door. Maid's day off?"

  He gave me a disapproving look that said I had crossed a line. It wasn't the first time. Swinging the door fully open, he invited me in without a word. He wore a golf shirt and slacks and it looked as if he was ready to play eighteen holes at Riviera.

  "Do you have anything for me?" he asked.

  "I'm getting close. The reason I came over was to get the keys to Robbie's apartment."

  "What on earth for? You don't really need to go snooping around there, do you?"

  "I'm the snoop. Why don't you let me decide?"

  "I don't know if I like the idea of your going in there."

  "Why?"

  "Well, I feel... it's as if... oh, I know you have a job to do but in my mind I somehow feel Robbie is still, well, living there. I don't... I don't really like to admit he's gone forever. If someone starts poking around in his things... well it just drives home a fact I'm having trouble accepting."

  I felt myself soften a bit. "I understand. And I do feel for your loss. Robbie was your son. But practicing denial isn't going to bring him back. And it won't allow me to fully do the job you hired me for."

  Harrison Freeman looked at me through sad eyes and told me to wait in the foyer. He returned a few minutes later with a set of keys hooked together on a gold ring. He looked at me for a moment as if to ask me to reconsider, but finally handed them over. I put them in my pocket and went to leave. As I opened the door, I thought of something and turned around.

  "How many cars do you drive, Mr. Freeman?"

  He looked puzzled. "I generally drive a Mercedes but I take the Hummer out once in a while. Why?"

  I ignored the question. "And which cars does Norman have?"

  "Norman has an Acura. A silver one, I believe," he said. "What's this about?"

  "I'm not sure just yet. There are a lot of pieces to this puzzle. I think I may have something for you soon."

  "Why is it," he asked, "that I have this fear I really won't want to hear what you've come up with?"

  I shrugged. "The truth is sometimes ugly. But it's a far sight better than what you have now."

  Chapter 18

  I stopped off at the Purdue precinct looking for Captain Lafferty but he hadn't arrived yet. Saavedra was supposedly in, but nowhere to be found. When I'm on to an important stage in an investigation I despise waiting, so I poked around looking for a familiar face. And I found one.

  "Hello, Detective," I said as pleasantly as I could.

  Mickey Batson looked up from his newspaper and put his doughnut down. Cops eating doughnuts were now as stereotyped as Italians eating pasta, Jewish people eating lox, or Irishmen drinking beer.

  "You lost, boy?" he said, wiping some powdered sugar from his moustache.

  "No sir," I answered politely, looking down at his LA Times. "You're just the man I'm looking for. How'd you like to get your name on the front page?"

  "You know I still owe you one from last week, ya sonuvabitch," he said, standing up and pointing a finger at me. "You keep playing around and I'll pay off that debt right here and now."

  I swallowed my thoughts that might have suggested the debt, like his I.Q. had room to grow. But I needed Batson right now and being a smart ass would have no upside here. Entering Robbie Freeman's apartment on my own was too dangerous and would jeopardize whatever I discovered in there. I decided to pacify him.

  "Sorry about the other night," I said. "It was a hot one. I lost my head."

  "You lost it all right. Damn stupid thing to do, messing with me. I've put guys twice your size in the hospital."

  I held up my hands. "I have no doubts."

  "And you ever mouth off to me again and I won't hold nothing back. We clear on that?"

  "Clear," I said. As a crystal blue lake in the Canadian Rockies, I thought poetically but kept to myself. "I don't want us to be enemies, Mickey."

  "Okay," he relented. "What the hell do you want then?"

  "How'd you like to solve the Robbie Freeman case?"

  "The Freeman case is closed. We solved it."

  I shook my head. "It's re-opening."

  "Says who?"

  "There's something in Robbie's apartment that may show that he had another visitor in his bedroom that night. Someone besides Curt Salvo, someone who had access to the apartment. An insider. You know yourself everyone was accounted for at that party. The DVD proved it."

  "What's in there, then?"

  I pretended to grope for an answer. "I'd rather show you then tell you."

  "Still a real cutie pie, huh?"

  "It won't take long. And you might wind up a hero."

  Batson looked me in the eye. He blinked first. "Y'know," he began, "I wondered about that whole case. Lafferty did eighty-six the thing pretty quick. Lafferty's an asshole. I wouldn't mind showing him up."

  "I can help," I said. Nothing like spreading harmony.

  Batson smiled brutally. "Let's motor."

  *

  We took Batson's unit which thankfully had leg room, not to mention a powerful air conditioner. The trip took about ten minutes, during which time Batson and I discovered we had a few friends in common within LAPD. Will wonders never cease.

  Arriving at the building, Batson flashed his gold shield at the security guard. "We're goin' upstairs, pardner. Apartment 2201. Get the key."

  The guard shook his head. "No got."

  I put my hand up and jingled the keys Harrison Freeman gave me. "I'm one step ahead of you."

  Batson shook his head. "Leave it to a private dick."

  We went up to Robbie's apartment and unlocked the door, slipping latex gloves on our hands before entering the premises. The silence of being twenty-two flights up hit me as we walked through the living room. The street noise, car horns blaring, the hum of the freeway, those banal sounds of urban life were all left far beneath us. It was similar to being on a tranquil airplane cruising far above the world of the living. Perhaps the reason I hadn't noticed this during the party was because the thunderous pounding of the stereo had created far more of a disturbance than any ruckus on the street could have provided.

  The sliding glass door had been left open and that should have ventilated the apartment, but the putrid odor of stale beer still lingered in the air. The living room had that morning-after-a-party appearance, with paper cups partially filled with golden colored liquid and half eaten bags of chips strewn hither and yon. A garbage pail outside of the kitchen was piled high with empty cans and bottles, along with a few Styrofoam coffee cups undoubtedly left by
the valiant men in blue. I lamented the days when cops left no stone unturned; this was a case where that attitude might have speeded up the process and kept a few people alive. There were plenty of stones that lay undisturbed and a vicious snake was hiding under one of them.

  I walked into the bathroom and was immediately taken by its enormity. There was a black marble floor, stand alone sink with gold faucets, sparkling blue tile shower unit and a Jacuzzi situated smack dab in the middle of the room. A pair of soft beige towels hung evenly on the gold rack. On the sink lay a few reminders that a freewheeling bachelor once thrived there. Menthol shaving cream, safety razor, cologne, and a few condoms lined the top of the sink. I opened a drawer out of curiosity, only to find dental floss, two kinds of mouthwash and a slender can of mousse lying undisturbed.

  "You said something about evidence in here?" Batson said, checking his watch.

  "Right," I answered and headed for Robbie's bedroom, with Batson in tow. He gave a low whistle as we walked into the room, the mirrored ceiling obviously striking a chord in his soul. Every overgrown adolescent's dream room. I opened the closet door, a huge walk-in that could have almost served as a second bedroom. A long rack of clothing, mostly golf and dress shirts of various colors, different slacks, jeans, and a number of jackets. On the floor were at least two dozen pair of shoes, boots and sneakers, and a pile of shirts lay bundled together that were obviously awaiting a trip to the dry cleaners. Folded carefully next to the bundle was a white denim jacket that looked brand new.

  I lifted the jacket and began to inspect it. There were brass buttons going up the front of the garment and silver stars sewn into the collar. It might have been worn a few times but had a stiff feel to it and did not appear to have been washed yet. The size was listed as medium.

  Rifling through the pockets, I pulled out a few pieces of paper and a pack of spearmint gum. Unfolding one of the papers I came across a credit card receipt from a restaurant in Venice, a ticket stub from a local movie theater, and a voucher from the Beverly Hills pawn shop. I handed the receipt to Batson and pointed to the name. He gave a laugh, albeit cynical, and handed it back to me.