Bleeding Out lf-1

by Baxter Clare

  At last she returned to the rape folders. Reluctantly, she dialed the phone number of the first girl on the list. Alissa Aguilar. Frank studied her picture while the phone rang. Finally a machine picked up and Frank left a message saying it was very important that Mr. or Mrs. Aguilar call her back, no matter how late. She left her beeper number.

  Making the calls in the chronological order of the rapes, she reached Claudia Menendez' father on the next try. After introducing herself, she explained that since Claudia's assault, they believed her attacker had raped seven other girls and might well be responsible for the murder/tortures of four more. Frank was encouraged by Mr. Menendez' sounds of anger and disbelief, and asked if it would be possible to talk to Claudia again in light of this new evidence.

  He was understandably hesitant, and Frank assured him she wouldn't be asking if it wasn't crucial. She had no wish to reopen Claudia's wounds, but his daughter might be able to add something critical that she'd forgotten the first time. Frank heard the frustration in his voice when he said he'd have to talk to his wife, but that they could probably talk to Claudia when she got home from school. Frank left her beeper number, with the appeal that they call her back as soon as possible.

  She squeezed the back of her neck. Frank had never worked rape, but she didn't think she'd be very good at it. Handling pain wasn't her forte. Dead was dead, and in homicide she didn't have to deal with the victim's wounds.

  An answering machine at the next number took her message. Before she could dial again, Diego came in about an extradition case. Frank was getting him started on the forms when Bobby leaned into the doorway.

  "We're all going to the Sizzler for lunch. Want to go?"

  Diego nodded, but Frank indicated the case folders stacked next to her.

  "Can't," she said, pulling a ten out of the wallet in her back pocket. "But bring me back something, a salad."

  "What sort of salad?"

  Bobby was very thorough. He would want a detailed list.

  "Anything green."

  "What sort of dressing?"

  "I don't care. Surprise me."

  "What—"

  "Come on," Diego said, snatching up the money. "I'll get the friggin' salad."

  The squad room was suddenly quiet, and Frank picked up the phone. The fourth girl was Jessica Orenthaler. The girl's mother answered. She started crying before Frank could even tell her what she wanted. Frank waited her out, listening to the phone ring in the squad room. When Mrs. Orenthaler quieted down, Frank started to explain the circumstances. Mrs. Orenthaler hung up almost immediately.

  Contemplating Claudia Menendez, Frank found nothing remarkable about the child's appearance. She was slight and doe-eyed, with a suggestion of a pallor, and Frank wondered if she didn't go outside much anymore. She and Noah sat at an angle from Claudia on plastic-covered chairs, while the girl nestled between her parents on a matching couch. The only hint of her recent trauma was the way she snuggled into her mother like a much younger child might.

  Frank made the introductions, explaining why they needed to ask more questions. The previous interviews had dealt mostly with physical factors about the assault, but because she and Noah were interested in constructing a psychological profile of the assailant, they needed to ask some different questions. Frank pointed out that they wouldn't be nice questions. The parents agreed, and Frank let Noah start. There was a gentleness about him that put people at ease, and maybe because he had three of his own, he was especially good at interviewing kids. The girl looked reluctant, but her father patted her leg and she gamely launched into a quiet recounting. Noah had a list of questions, but he waited for Claudia to finish before asking them. He explained that although the questions might seem silly or dumb, each answer told them something about the man they were looking for.

  "Can you remember him touching you anywhere else, except for where he grabbed you and hurt you? This is real important, so take your time and think about it. Don't rush."

  Claudia pulled her teeth over her bottom lip and gazed at the coffee table. She shook her head no.

  "You're sure?"

  Claudia nodded.

  "Okay, that's good, that's real good. Another thing that we need to know is if he pulled your pants up before he let you go."

  They could see she was struggling to remember, but Mr. Menendez answered for her.

  "When she came back to us her clothes were all on. We thought she'd just fallen down or something."

  "Do you remember pulling your pants back up, Claudia?"

  She wagged her head, still puzzled, then said almost in a whisper, "I think he pulled them up."

  "You think so?" Noah encouraged.

  Again she nodded, but they could tell she was uncertain.

  "Okay. You're doing great," Noah smiled. "Can you handle some more questions?"

  He waited for her assent before asking if the man had said anything to her, and her answer was certain.

  "I tried to scream, but he had his arm around my throat so tight I couldn't breathe and he told me to shut up or he'd kill me. I was scared so I didn't say nothing else. And I couldn't hardly breathe," she added apologetically.

  "Did he say anything else to you besides shut up or he'd kill you?"

  Her brown hair shook emphatically.

  "Did he ask you to say anything?"

  Again a shake of the brown head. Mr. Menendez was getting restless. Noah said, more to him than Claudia, "Okay, darling. Hang in there, you're doing really well and we're almost done. Can you answer a few more?"

  Again Claudia glanced up at her mom for reassurance and was heartened by a warm smile. The last questions were the hardest for everybody. Noah asked ugly questions as gently as he could, but finally the fear and shame and horror caught up to Claudia. Tears slid down her face, but Noah pressed on, promising her he was almost through.

  At last, he reached across the table and cupped her face in his long hand. "Alright, honey, that's all. You did a really great job. You told us a lot about the man who hurt you. You helped us a lot."

  The girl buried her face against her mother while Noah looked expectantly at Frank. She rose and extended her hand to Mr. Menendez.

  "You've got a fine daughter. We're awfully sorry to have stir this all up again, but she's been a big help."

  Mr. Menendez followed the detectives to the doorway, asking specific questions that they weren't free to answer.

  "This must be very frustrating for you, not having any answers or resolution. I promise we'll keep you advised one way or another."

  Mr. Menendez was grateful, and so were the detectives once they were in their car and on the highway.

  "Jesus, that was fun," Noah said bitterly.

  "Want me to drive?" Frank offered.

  "No!" he snapped. Pointing through the windshield to an economy tire store decorated with tinsel and Christmas greetings, he ranted, "Look at all this shit! Can you believe it? It's not even Thanksgiving yet and everybody's got their fucking Christmas stuff up already. Jesus! Whatever happened to the pilgrims and turkeys and fall leaves?"

  Frank started to return her beeper calls but thought better of it. Noah was letting off steam, and she decided to humor him even though all she wanted right now was to go home, box for an hour, slam a six-pack, and slip into a torpor.

  "Well, let's see. First off, this is L.A. There aren't any fall leaves and it's been a long time since I saw pilgrims around here. More importantly, though, there's no money in Thanksgiving. Even Halloween's a bigger moneymaker than Thanksgiving."

  "That's my whole goddamn point!" Noah banged on the steering wheel. "Fucking prick. I swear to you, Frank, if anybody ever so much as touches a hair on one of my daughters I'm gonna kill him."

  Frank nodded solemnly. "I'll help you."

  They drove in silence for a while, both processing the interview with Claudia Menendez. Neither would come right out and say it had been hard to watch her, and harder for Noah to ask the questions. There was a code of sile
nce about seeing pain or feeling it. Pain was part of being a cop and it was expected to be borne stoically and without complaint. This was the LAPD—whiners were not allowed.

  Frank sighed quietly, then punched a number into the cell phone. She cut a glance at Noah, who seemed somewhere else.

  She poked him in the arm.

  "Five bucks says you can't eat two Big Macs and a large fries."

  "Five bucks says how can you be that dumb and still be a lieutenant?"

  Frank introduced herself to Heidi Troupe's mother on the cell phone. She reluctantly agreed to let them come over after dinner. The second number was busy. Noah picked up on his Christmas tirade again. Just before they reached Alissa Aguilar's apartment Frank redialed and received permission for another interview.

  "Two more after this," she said to Noah, handing him the phone. Want to call Tracey?"

  "Goddamn this job," he bitched, entering his number.

  The halls of the building where Alissa Aguilar lived were filled with the smells of dinner, making Frank salivate and Noah whine some more.

  "Man, I can't wait to get to those Big Macs."

  Frank smiled to herself. If Noah was hungry, he was alright.

  "Maybe if you're nice, Mrs. Aguilar'll give you a bowl of menudo."

  "Hey, I'm so freakin' hungry I could even eat that brain shit at this point. Let's get this over with quick, huh?"

  But the interview with Alissa Aguilar didn't go smoothly. Mr. Aguilar paced around the living room, frequently interrupting the questioning, or answering for Alissa so that Noah had to get her back on track and have her answer in her own words. The interview took longer than it should have, with both Alissa and Mrs. Aguilar ending up in tears and Mr. Aguilar bellowing at the detectives. They let him. They'd heard what they wanted.

  Alissa's story mirrored Claudia's, except she'd struggled when he caught her and ceased as the towel grew tighter around her windpipe. She clearly remembered the man pulling her pants up after he'd raped her and thinking that was really crazy. And no, he hadn't touched her anywhere else, which she thought was kind of crazy, too, 'cause she knew guys liked "girls' other parts." More importantly, and this was a bonus neither detective expected, her perp hadn't said anything to her except, "Shut up or I'll kill you."

  "Are you sure that's what he said?"

  "Do you think my daughter's lyin' to you?"

  "Mr. Aguilar," Frank explained, "we have to know if he said something like that or exactly that."

  She looked at Alissa.

  "No. It was exactly that. I was so scared 'cause I thought he would, too."

  The detectives thanked Mr. Aguilar, and Frank handed him a card, asking him to call if they had any questions or if Alissa remembered something else. Mr. Aguilar ripped the card into tiny pieces and threw them in Frank's face.

  They drove on to the next interview, but at least this time they both had Mr. Aguilar to use as a whipping boy.

  He was tall and strong and fast. He was an outstanding tight end. His father wanted him to get a scholarship, but his grades were mediocre at best. So he just got better and better at football, hoping that would be enough to get him into a good college. He never thought beyond playing football. It was all he knew.

  Now as the defense took the field he pulled his helmet off and rested on one knee apart from the other players. The cheerleaders caught his eye, and he watched them jumping up and down inside their little outfits, trying not to think about that now, trying to watch the opposing team, to concentrate on the game. There'd be plenty of time for the other later, when he was home tonight, alone in his bed. He felt himself stirring and frowned, forcing himself to focus on the other team's receivers. Waiting.

  12

  Foubarelle was fifteen minutes late for his meeting with Frank. When he finally showed, he kept his lieutenant waiting with a phone call. Frank glanced at several small but carefully hung pictures of fleshy, billowy nudes. She'd been to a party at Foubarelle's house, where his penchant for nudes was unmistakable. His walls were lined with reproductions of Renoirs and Botticellis, all showing carefully posed women in various stages of disarray.

  She studied one of the pictures from her chair, wondering how it differed from a pin-up. Frank was pretty sure that if someone of a lesser rank had these tacked above their desk, they would be considered sexual harassment; in a captain's office, it was art.

  At last Foubarelle hung up and smiled broadly.

  "How are we doing, Frank?"

  She felt like she was in a dentist's chair. Slapping a progress report on his big, clean desk, she announced, "We've connected the Agoura perp to what looks like at least nine rapes and two other murders, besides Peterson."

  Foubarelle had been about to pick up the report, but now he froze, as if the fat folder on his desk had suddenly turned into a rattlesnake. Frank artfully concealed her amusement.

  "What did you say?"

  "I think our boy's got a whole string of assaults behind him."

  "In our jurisdiction?"

  Frank shook her head. "A rape at Crenshaw, but the rest are in Culver City."

  Foubarelle sagged with relief, then he jerked up again. Like a fucking puppet, Frank thought.

  "Is this on the streets yet?"

  Again she shook her head, and again her boss was obviously relieved.

  "What are you doing?"

  "There are gaps in the case reports. If this is the same guy, we're dealing with a major offender. And he's crafty. I want to do some profiling on him, use what I learned at Quantico. I submitted a Request for Information to VICAP and I want to talk with Richard Clay, the shrink at Behavioral Sciences, get his input."

  Frank paused, waiting for objections, but there were none.

  "We're going to have to reinterview everyone. That's going to take a lot of time. Plus I'd like to recanvass the area where the original incidents took place, see if we can't come up with something new, find someone that wasn't hit before. We're going to need additional manpower if you want us to move on this with anything resembling speed. There was a witness to the third rape. He's coming in this morning to do a composite. I think we should plaster this guy's image all over L.A. We'll need extra staffing just to handle phone calls on that, and then we're going to need help following up on all the leads."

  Foubarelle was nodding as if his neck had just gone elastic.

  "Do we know what the perp looks like?"

  "Maybe. The wit didn't actually see the assault go down, but he saw a man who fits our description peeking into the women's room right around the time the rape went down."

  The captain's face clouded. The DA would throw that back in their face like spit in a headwind. Frank explained it was the best lead they had and that she didn't intend to use the witness as supporting evidence.

  "And this is going to raise a shit storm, but we need to get the physical evidence from the two prior murders transferred into our custody. The forensic work was minimal on each of the cases, and I'm going to submit them for everything. I hope we can pull some DNA off their clothes that will match what we've got. If we could get a fire under CCPD's ass, that'd be helpful."

  "I'll make some phone calls," Foubarelle said pompously, adding, "I know you're going to burn me for overtime on this. Aren't you?"

  Frank shrugged. "It's your call, but more people makes better odds."

  "Alright. How soon do you think we can get this wrapped up?"

  Her wooden expression didn't change, but Frank wondered if Foubarelle had just dropped down into his seat from Mars.

  "I really can't say, John."

  "Give me an estimate," he wheedled.

  She knew he wanted a number for the press. "I can't. We could get a call right now from someone who turns us on to the guy, or we might look for years and never catch him."

  "Never is not an option, Frank."

  "All I'm saying is I can't tell you we'll have a suspect in custody by noon next week. We're doing the best we can with what we've got. Ge
t the extra personnel, get the perp visible, show people we're moving on this, and it'll look good."

  Being a man who easily confused sound and motion for action, Foubarelle liked that.

  "Alright. You'll get your people. What else?"

  She wanted to say, "A boatload of luck," but answered instead, "Dedicated hot line."

  Foubarelle nodded, jotting a note.

  Joe Girardi, her predecessor, had fought tooth and nail with the previous captain, and even though Foubarelle didn't know shit about homicide investigation, Frank had to grudgingly admit he knew how to pull strings to get what he wanted. Especially if he was in peril of looking bad. She played on that fear of his, and it usually gave her what she wanted—case resolutions—and that made Foubarelle a happy man.

  Leaving his office, Frank wondered why she didn't feel more victorious. In the squad room she told her detectives to have a good weekend because they were going to be spending the rest of their careers going door to door in Culver City.

  A couple of hours after their shift ended, Noah and Frank were creeping along Manchester Boulevard. An injury accident had shut down two lanes of traffic on Florence, and Manchester was getting clogged with the overflow.

  The detectives were on their way to interview the last rape victim. Five out of the eight families had consented to having their daughters reinterviewed, which Frank considered pretty good odds. If the testimony of the remaining victim was similar to that of the other girls, it would corroborate what they already knew: it was looking more and more like the same man was responsible for both the rapes and murders.

  But where are you?

  Frank had taken to spending downtime inside this guy's head.

  She'd fallen asleep last night on the couch in the den, imagining him lurking in the park, patiently waiting for just the right girl to hit on. While Noah drove, Frank again indulged in her new pastime.

  We've established a lack of confidence, so you're probably not going to be economically successful. But you do have a car. Have to the way you're moving these girls around. It's probably an older car, a practical model. You're a young man, so maybe it's your parents' car. Probably not a sibling's car—that would be harder to get hold of. You need more dependable wheels. We've ruled out friends and girlfriends. I bet you're a loner, that you spend more time with fantasies than people—