by Baxter Clare
"Now?"
"Yeah!"
"It's the middle of the night," Frank protested.
"Oh, I know," Kennedy exaggerated. "It's ten o'clock. Oh my God, that's so late! Come on. Let's go. And besides, you don't have to be anywhere tomorrow."
"Thanks for reminding me."
She looked briefly at Kennedy, hoping she was joking, but the expectation in her eyes was real.
"You can't go swimming," Frank warned.
"I know, I just want to see how the surf is. Maybe poke my baby toe in. Please," she begged.
Frank sighed. "Tell me where to go."
The whores didn't satisfy him anymore. He just wanted to look at the girls. It didn't matter if they were Mexican or black or white. He loved how small they were, how unsuspecting. The whores were tough, and certainly not innocent. He never felt bad hurting a whore. They were willing and they got paid for their trouble.
But the girls were different. He thought about fucking them the way he fucked the whores. For a while, his fantasies were enough.
27
The weekend passed amiably. Saturday they fired rounds at the range until Kennedy got tuckered out. She napped in the afternoon while Frank circled the dining room table— restudying, rethinking, trying to be him. She paused once, sensing the sleeping stillness of Kennedy's presence. It was a good feeling, but the sensation bothered Frank nonetheless. She distrusted pleasures inspired by others. They were ephemeral at best, treacherous envoys for disappointment at worst. Squashing the small feeling, Frank resumed her circuit around the table.
The next day Kennedy taught Frank how to play canasta, while Frank shared the finer points of football. The good weather still held on Monday, so they returned to the beach. Frank watched Kennedy wade in the surf. When she jogged back to where Frank hunkered next to a cooler, she was absolutely radiant. Once again, the sleeping desire stirred in Frank. She drowned it with half a beer, wondering how many homicides the Pacific had swallowed.
Kennedy went to bed early that evening, tired from the sun and water. Frank sprawled out on the long couch watching the Eagles beat Dallas. All the Cowboys looked like they were mired in concrete, but if Troy Aikman could get his fat ass out of the pocket they might actually make something happen. Emmitt Smith carried for two miserable yards before succumbing to a flurry of tackles. Frank closed her eyes knowing the next play would either be another hand-off to the overused running back, or a toss to Irvin. The Cowboys' offense was stale and predictable: it was no surprise that Irvin had been busted for blow and Smith ran like an old crab washed up on the beach.
She felt sorry for the running back and didn't envy his Tuesday morning. She thought about the bruises he'd be carrying on his black flesh and remembered the vivid colors on Melissa Agoura's body under the bright autopsy lights. That image was replaced by the outline of the jean rivet on Jane Doe's body. Frank pictured a bear of a man wrapping his arms around the homeless girl and falling on her against the hard street. He'd bruised her with his body, his weight crushing against her. Hitting her hard enough to leave a perfectly readable logo on her skin.
He was ramming his head and his shoulder into me the whole time.
Lisa McKinney's words ricocheted against pictures of Agoura and Peterson's waled corpses. Crocetti's comment fluttered into the mix: It looks like this poor girl was mistaken for a bowling pin. And then there was the new ME, whatever her name was, who'd said the bruises were apparently made with something flexible or soft.
Frank whirled her feet squarely onto the floor, concentrating intensely, her head in her hands. She was unaware Dallas had kicked another field goal.
The overall bruising pattern on Agoura and Peterson was consistent with tackle patterns. Above the knees and below the neck. The faces were relatively unblemished. Clean and legal tackles. Many of the hematomas had large, rounded edges, as if they could have been made by a bowling ball. Consistent with the size and shape of a football helmet. There were no lacerations because there was padding. Either he wore pads or the girls wore it. Maybe both. Agoura's dislocated shoulder, Peterson's broken collarbone, the contusions—all were classic football injuries. Frank remembered the cuts and gashes and myriad black-and-blue marks from playing with her cousins.
There was no evidence the girls had been slapped or hit with fists. No open hands. Legal tackles from a player on the secondary. A linesman could use his hands, a backfield player couldn't. Ever the skeptic, Frank probed her theory for weak spots. Then she quickly moved to the glass-topped table.
Forensic tests were complete for Agoura, but the lab was still working on Peterson's. Frank reread the DOJ analysis, hoping she'd missed a detail, but the report only frustratingly cited the sample colors and compositions. Upon its receipt, Frank had shipped samples to the FBI's Trace Evidence unit. They wouldn't be back for three or four weeks at the soonest. Still, the DOJ's conclusions didn't exclude the possibility that the fibers could have come from a football jersey.
Frank started pacing around the table, pausing to make notes to call a uniform shop, sports shop, talk to the lab techs, talk to Crocetti. She thought for a moment. Carver and Crenshaw, where the bodies had been dumped, both had football teams. Was it a cheerleader thing? An old girlfriend? She quickly dismissed both notions because the perp had no specific victimology. If he was fixated on a cheerleader or a particular girl, his vies would fit that mold. None did.
Okay. Let's assume you played football, and while I'm assuming, let's say you played in a secondary position, maybe a safety or a tight end. Maybe even a receiver. But you're a big guy, you'd make a good tight end. If you're as much an underachiever as I think you are, you probably never made it to college. So maybe you played in Pop Warner and high school. High school ball. Sure. Something happened to you in school, something around football. And now you're stuck there.
Frank found her notes from the meeting with Richard Clay. She grabbed a legal pad and returned to the couch. Clarifying ideas on paper, she drew lines through the less likely ones and starred her favorites. Thinking of the red-and-white fibers, Frank made a note to check the color of the football uniforms at Crenshaw and Carver. She grinned broadly, her full smile rare and genuine.
First thing next morning, Frank was at Crocetti's office. She startled his replacement when she opened the door without knocking. "Morning. Where's Crocetti?" she demanded brusquely.
Gail Lawless sat back in Crocetti's chair, clearly appalled by Frank's lack of social skills. Frank hadn't bothered to change out of her sweats that morning, and with her yellow hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her hard, intense gaze, she looked like an East Bloc Olympic contender.
"Do you know that most people knock before they enter someone's office?"
"Sorry," Frank said with no attempt at sincerity. "Is he here yet?"
Shaking her head incredulously, the ME replied, "No. He's had the flu all last week and called in again."
The coroner watched as Frank pursed her lips and glanced around the room as if it were empty.
"Are you still Relieved of Duty?" she asked curiously.
"Yeah," Frank answered, and Dr. Lawless offered, "I...we— Crocetti and I—we did your suspect's autopsy."
When Frank didn't reply, the coroner tentatively asked, "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"I don't know. Crocetti did an autopsy for me, about six weeks ago, a sixteen-year-old Caucasian female. Name was Agoura. I've got the case number," Frank said, producing a slip of paper. She'd left the protocol copies in her trunk, not wanting to be seen with anything resembling case work.
"Yeah, I remember," the doctor murmured. "I was there."
She glanced at the number and walked across the large office to a bank of filing cabinets. Lawless found Agoura's folder and scanned it.
"What about it?" she asked, but then her green eyes narrowed suspiciously and she said, "Hey...why are you here if you're ROD? Technically, I shouldn't even be talking to you."
Realizing the new cut
ter might be able to help her, Frank dipped her head in acquiescence. "You're right. I'm not even on the case anymore. Robbery-Homicide has it. But I had a hunch about something last night and wanted to ask a couple of questions before I go off to the big boys half-cocked and make an even bigger fool of myself."
The doctor weighed Frank's explanation before smiling skeptically, seeming to relent against her better judgment.
"Don't get me fired while I'm still on probation," she warned.
Frank smiled back, her winningest smile, but it didn't ease the tiredness around her eyes.
"What do you want to know?" Lawless asked.
"While you're at it, could you pull this file too? Crocetti did this one, but I'd like your opinion."
Lawless made a reproachful face but pulled Peterson's file as well. "Anything else?" she asked with sarcasm.
Frank offered a quick, placating nod, jutting her head toward the files in the ME's hand. "I'm wondering what you think could have made the bruises."
Lawless returned to Crocetti's economically contoured chair and spread out the autopsy pictures.
"I don't think we came up with anything conclusive," she said as she studied first Agoura, then Peterson.
"Definitely similar bruising, deep, in varying stages, similar placement," she mused. "I remember Agoura looked like she was hit hard but because there wasn't any cutting or abrasion we thought it was with something relatively soft—"
"Or the blows could have been padded."
Frank watched the ME carefully appraise the pictures before nodding her shiny, dark head. She had thick, straight hair in a long bob that bounced whenever she moved. Frank examined her from force of habit. Her eyes were almond-shaped, almost Asian, but she was tall and big-boned, like an Iowa farm girl. She didn't appear to have any make-up on, which was unusual in L.A., but with her dark brows and lashes she didn't need any.
She was wearing hospital fatigues. Frank noted her arms matched her milky complexion. The backs of her hands were red and rashed, a reaction to latex gloves, Frank guessed. No rings, but tiny gold scissors dangled from one ear and a matching gold knife hung from the other. There were two long scratches on her left arm, parallel to each other, almost healed. Frank thought maybe she had a cat.
Gail Lawless looked up apologetically. "There's really no way to tell what did this. There's such contiguous bruising it's hard to find specific patterns."
"You said they were rounded."
"That much I can give you," the coroner agreed, "but as to what the specific instrument was..." She shrugged. "Maybe a bowl, a ball, a bowling ball, who knows. It would be awkward at best to wield something like that, especially as much as your suspect did on these girls."
"How about a football helmet?"
The ME dropped her head over the pictures again. Frank suspected she wore glasses and wondered why she didn't have them on.
"I could see that," she said with enthusiasm. She turned the pictures toward Frank and used a pencil to point to specific bruises.
"That would be consistent with the size and shape and the extent of damage on these leading edges. And it would explain the scale of the bruising, especially if he'd been hitting them with it over a period of time like he apparently did."
"So a definite possibility he was using a helmet on these two?"
"Yes. A definite possibility."
"And if they wore padding, or he was in padding and hit them with pads on, that could explain the deep bruising but no gashes or abrasions?"
"That could explain it, yes."
"Good," Frank said, concisely ending their meeting. She straightened up over the desk.
"Is that all?"
"For now. I appreciate your help," Frank said simply. "And if RHD happens to drop by, keep this under your hat, would you? I want to tell them myself."
The ME couldn't know that Frank would rather chew off her left foot before telling RHD about this.
"No problem," Lawless smiled.
Frank twitched her lips in a brief semblance of civility and moved toward the door. Once there she turned and looked at the ME's hands.
"You should try vinyl gloves."
The doctor followed Frank's gaze and smiled, a slight tinge coloring her cheeks.
Sitting in the Honda with her long legs sprawled out the door, Frank called Carver and Crenshaw High, as well as a sporting goods store, from the parking lot. She got label names and distributors for local and pro football uniforms, and after a few painstaking hours of telephone work, managed to track down over a dozen trade names for the nylon fibers used in football jerseys.
Then Frank went to the SID lab. Here she dared to take the murder book in, because without her badge or ID it was the best piece of evidence she had to show she was a cop. Making a show of opening the binder and extracting the tagged sample along with Agoura's official SID report, Frank apologized to the receptionist for not having her ID, but it was her day off and she'd just had a thought while she was doing errands and wanted to stop and ask about it. The petite and perfectly made-up young woman seemed satisfied with Frank's identity, but informed her that the tech who'd worked on Agoura's fibers was out of town.
After ten minutes of masterful pleading, conniving, and shameless flattery, Frank was able to persuade a tech to look at her samples. Two hours later, Frank had her answer. The fibers matched a multifilament denier yarn called Caprolan, made by Allied Fibers and Plastics.
Back in her car, Frank exhaled deeply, happily. The fiber was by no means conclusively off a football jersey, but it was definitely one of the fibers used in the manufactured high school uniforms. Satisfied that she was still on the right track, Frank again turned her attention to the phone. Punching in a number, she muttered, "Two down, one to go."
Richard Clay was next on her list, and she was apprehensive about talking to him.
His rebuke at their last meeting had embarrassed her, professionally and personally. While her call was being transferred, she wondered if he'd be receptive or refuse to help her. Her curiosity was settled when his secretary informed her that he was at a conference in Seattle and wouldn't be back until Tuesday. Frank was both disappointed and relieved.
She dialed her office and caught Noah on his way out to chase down some witnesses to a drive-by. An eighty-four-year-old grandmother getting out of the backseat of her granddaughter's car had been the unintended victim.
Frank offered to buy Noah lunch and met him twenty minutes later at Zacateca's. Sprawled akimbo in a padded red booth, chewing on an ice cube, he was a helluva sight in his baggy suit and Snoopy tie. She realized as she slid in opposite him how much she missed working. Clay's parting shot gnawed at her.
"Dude-ess," Noah grinned happily, raising his palm in a high-five.
She slapped his hand and responded, "Dude."
"Whaddup, Mac Momma?"
Pulling a plastic-coated menu toward her, she replied, "No thing, J-Daddy."
A pretty waitress said hello to them. Noah glanced up appreciatively. Frank ordered tacos and a beer while Noah went for the wet burrito and more water. He filled Frank in on the last couple of days, bitching about Fubar's micro-management.
"He's got us in that fucking station filling out 60Ds and MIRs and doesn't give a shit about us bein' out in the field actually trying to close some of these things. As long as he's got a pile of papers in front of him he's happy. Man, you should see us in the morning—we can't get outta there fast enough. Even Johnnie."
Noah took another long look as the waitress slid their plates in front of them. "Man," he complained, "that dildo couldn't manage his way out of a paper bag without a guide rope and a seeing eye dog."
The waitress giggled and asked demurely if that was all. Noah grinned goofily and wiggled his empty water glass.
"Damn!" he said, plowing his fork into a huge mound of guacamole, salsa, and sour cream that concealed a burrito somewhere below.
"Jesus, No. Where do you put all that?"
"Gets burne
d up by all my sexual energy," he replied around a dripping mouthful.
"That's more than I needed to know."
"You asked."
They ate steadily for ten minutes, then pushed their empty plates away. Noah sat back, groaning, and Frank wiped grease and tomato juice off her fingers. The waitress took their plates and Frank motioned for another Negro Modelo.
"So'd you miss me and decide to take me out to lunch?"
Frank smiled slightly, pushing her bottle around the wet rings on the table.
"I had an idea about the Agoura perp. Talked to SID and Crocetti's replacement about it. She agreed with me that the bruises could have been made by a football helmet."
Noah raised his eyebrows, intrigued.
Frank continued with her theory and when she was done, Noah nodded, "Interesting, but what's this have to do with me?"
"I want you to go back to Crenshaw. Interview the coaching staff. Get all—"
"Whoa." Noah held his palms up. "This isn't our case anymore."
"I know."
Noah bent over the table. "Then why am I out there knocking?"
"Because I'm ROD and you're not. I can't get to these people."
Noah laughed incredulously.
"Uh-uh. No way, Frank."
She let him fidget and rationalize all the reasons why he couldn't and wouldn't do it. When he ran out of steam she just kept staring.
"No, if I had my badge this would be an order, but I don't so I'm asking for a favor. Don't play innocent on me. You knew when you copied the murder books for me that I wasn't going to hand it over to RHD and walk away from it. I can't. I'm too into it now. If they close it first, that's great. I hope that prick gets off the street ASAP, but this isn't a high-profile case and you know what they'll do with it. They'll stick it on the burner behind the Carnassian OD and the Woodall capping."
Frank was referring to an influential businessman's suspicious overdose and the shooting of a Hollywood producer outside his favorite Chinese restaurant. "And there are other higher priority cases behind those."
Noah was fiercely shaking his head. Frank slid her bottle out of the way and leaned toward him. "No, when was the last time this guy attacked somebody?"