The interview had ended, for all practical purposes. As Rebecca rose to take her departure, she advised the woman, “We think it’s the same man. I happen to believe that he has a list of victims already staked out. So tell your husband to beef up the security around here. I don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily but you simply cannot be too careful. This creep seems to have a thing for young mothers.” Her gaze strayed to the next room where the girls were serving “pretend” tea to their visitor from next door. “In each case so far, he has struck within a few minutes after the man of the house left for work. So…be advised.”
Joan Parker’s reaction clearly revealed that she had taken the “advice” to heart. Her voice was trembling as she replied, “Thank you. I just might take the girls and visit my parents for awhile, until this is all over.”
“Maybe I’d do the same thing, in your place,” Rebecca replied.
Meanwhile can’t we get some policemen out here to watch this neighborhood?”
“We’re doing what we can,” Rebecca assured her. “I was out here myself this morning cruising around. So were the responding patrolmen. That’s why we got here so quick after you called. But, you know, we can’t put a guard at every house. And I’m not even sure that would work.” She gave the woman her card. “Give me a call if you should think of anything, anything at all, any suspicious person or car or telephone call or anything over the past few weeks that maybe didn’t seem important at the time—call me night or day.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that. But I think I’m just going to get away from here real quick.”
Rebecca smiled, paused on her way out to pat the little boy’s head, and went on more determined than ever to nail the creep before he could spread his horror further upon the young mothers of San Remo.
But she could not move on her determination quickly enough, and neither could Joan Parker.
The “creep” struck again at almost exactly 21 hours after Rebecca departed the scene of the third crime.
And within twenty yards of that scene.
Joan Parker was the next to die, and she died horribly, choked to death on a balled-up sock that had been stuffed into her mouth to stifle the frantic screaming that had to accompany the terrible things that were being done to her.
This creep was a creep from hell.
He had also killed both of Joan Parker’s little girls, probably before the horrified gaze of their mother.
The police reorganization went into effect at nine o’clock that Friday morning. A fully crewed second shift was instituted under Lt. Tom Petit. The three detectives of the old Swing Team—Storme, Barton and Rodriguez—were reassigned to the brand new Sunrise Task Force, as was Detective Rebecca Storme and a troop of patrol officers.
The Stormes would be working together now toward the apprehension of the Sunrise Killer.
Too bad, Rebecca reflected upon receiving that news, that they had not yet learned to live together.
Pete had moved out of the apartment one day earlier.
Chapter Ten
A small police force is not necessarily a primitive one. San Remo, like most other smaller cities in the Los Angeles metropolitan area, was as well protected citizen for citizen as any major city in the country, despite the worries of the new administration. It was a modern, well equipped and efficient force of career officers who took their responsibilities seriously and wore their badges with pride. Any who could not meet that standard did not remain with the force.
Joe Walsh, though a product of the “old school” when many small-town cops were uneducated, untrained and sometimes even unwashed, had fought vigorously to keep his small force on a par with the most progressive departments in the nation. That meant battling the politicians for budget dollars, instituting training and educational programs, sending his people around the country to police conferences and seminars, keeping abreast of new procedures, philosophies and technologies, maintaining close liaison with neighboring departments, competing for federal and state grants.
Walsh possessed an instinct for good public relations and departmental morale. He regularly sent officers to speak at community functions and to visit classrooms from pre-school to 12th grade levels. He established the first police cadet corps of Explorer Scouts at San Remo, badgered local businessmen to sponsor youth baseball and football teams, organized Christmas toy drives and food baskets for disadvantaged families, developed an “Officer of the Day” program to provide ombudsman services to the community at large, and he’d been at the forefront of drug educational activities for the public schools.
So Chief Walsh was a popular as well as a powerful member of the community, as well liked by the new as by the older factions in the rapidly growing city. Even the newer politicians treated him with deference and at least pretended to respect his judgment even if they did not. He would be a tough opponent in any contest for public support, and this was one prominent reason why Joe Walsh had always been such an effective Chief of Police.
He was also a tough one. It was okay for his off-duty officers to congregate in groups at bowling alleys, baseball fields, schoolyards and the like, but never at saloons or disreputable public places, not within the city of San Remo—and public intoxication anywhere could consign one of his officers to “retraining and reevaluation.” A couple of those and you’re out the door, and all his cops knew it.
But in many ways Chief Walsh was every officer’s best friend and most trusted confidante. He was loyal almost to a fault, as concerned with his people’s personal lives as their professional ones, and he could show great compassion for any officer who was troubled by either.
Walsh had been a cop for 28 years and knew well the pressures that so easily spilled over into the personal lives of his officers, so years earlier he had instituted a monthly “wives luncheon” over which he presided and listened to complaints from the distaff side, regarding this as an important adjunct to departmental morale. “A cop with marital problems is an officer in trouble,” he’d once told a rookie’s young wife, “and as dangerous to him as any psycho on the streets. I don’t mean you should coddle him, but at least try to be a little understanding and a little more forgiving than the ordinary situation calls for. Try to remember that a policeman’s beat is his battlefield. Don’t send him off to war every day in an emotional tizzy.”
Which is not to say that all the wives always agreed with Chief Walsh, but without exception they loved and respected him. And he’d probably saved a lot of marriages. Perhaps his luncheons had even saved a few policemen’s lives.
But now he had four sworn female officers on the force and had wondered how he would handle it when these women started taking husbands. Would he change the monthly affair to “spouses luncheon” or what?
Actually Walsh had resisted the trend toward female cops until it was simply too embarrassing to continue in that old-fashioned attitude, not because he doubted that women could handle the work—the experience of big city departments across the country had long since disproved that idea—but because he felt that the presence of women, especially pretty women, on such a small force could be a disruptive influence, both on and off the job, and he just didn’t want any of it.
The wives of the married officers could get jealous of the camaraderie which Walsh always encouraged between all of his officers, the unmarried officers might find their minds wandering where they shouldn’t, they might be more inclined to “hot dog” for the ladies and certainly there would be the ever present potential for discord of every variety.
He didn’t need it, didn’t want it. Especially he had not wanted Rebecca. She was just too damned pretty to be a cop. An actress, a model, okay—but not a cop. The decision was not entirely in Walsh’s hands, however, and there was no way he could deny her. She topped the list so he had to hire her. And the results lived up to his every dour expectation. Every officer on the force without exception had been dazzled by the female rookie. Wasn’t her fault, of course; Rebecca had always been the
model of decorum and no-nonsense commitment to the work but that did not discourage the male fantasies and competitions, the endless locker-room talk or the worried questions about this new officer at the first few wives’ luncheons.
So her marriage to Storme had been a mixed blessing for Joe Walsh. Aghast as he was over the development—marriage between two of his officers—it did at least serve to relieve some of the other tensions.
The three other female officers were attractive enough but they’d just not commanded the kind of attention that followed Rebecca everywhere she went. There’d been a few incidents involving the other females, sure, but nothing Walsh could not handle in a routine way—unless one of them decided to marry within the department, too, and the chief just did not want to even think about that possibility.
As for Rebecca and Pete—weren’t the problems now doubly magnified for those two? Talk about pressures! Both were intense cops, dedicated to the profession of law enforcement and committed to the best work possible, over-achievers both of them.
Why the hell did they have to get married?
Why couldn’t they just bunk together like everybody else seemed to be doing these days? Why complicate things with a marriage that could do nothing but get in the way of both of them?
Walsh knew instinctively that the Stormes were having marital problems even before Pete came to him early that Friday morning with the news that he had moved to a motel room. A special meeting had been called for eight o’clock sharp to announce realignments in response to the Woody Heights problem. Storme had arrived a few minutes early, probably in the hope of a pre-emptive private meeting with the chief before the fact. Walsh received the news of the separation with a nod and a bland face as he commented, “Sometimes that’s the best way to relieve the pressures, maybe, give each other some room to breathe and think unemotionally.”
“It’s beyond that, Joe,” Storme declared quietly. “I think it’s permanent. I wanted you to know in case you’re seriously considering teaming us on this problem in Woody Heights. I think that would be very uncomfortable for both of us and, uh, not exactly productive in a police sense. I’d rather work swing under Petit.”
The chief fixed his longtime friend with a stern gaze as he replied, “Don’t lay that crap on me, Pete. You know better than to haul personal grievances into your working relationships. You’re working with every officer on this force at all times, whether you love ’em or hate ’em, and you leave the personal crap at the door.”
“I think this is a unique situation, Chief,” Storme argued in a more formal tone. “It’s a lot harder to—”
“That’s exactly what I told you when you decided you wanted to marry one of my officers. Didn’t I tell you that? Okay. You were told. You leave your personal beefs outside.”
“I’d like to stay on swing.”
“You’re staying on swing, officially. But you’re also posted to temporary reassignment to the Sunrise Task Force, effective twenty minutes from now. So is your wife, and I’ll tell her the same thing I’m telling you. You leave your marriage outside.”
Storme knew that it was useless to argue the point any further. He merely swallowed hard and said, “Okay.”
“It’s a sensational case and I want my best people right at the point of it.”
“Okay, Joe.”
“That includes Rebecca. She’s first in line for the next available stripes in the detective bureau. Understand me?”
Storme swallowed again and replied, “I understand, sure. I agree. Rebecca’s sharp. Good cop. I agree.”
“I expect you to work with her…closely.”
“I’ll try to do that.”
“You will do that, dammit, or you’ll take your wounded ass to another department.”
“Hey, Joe, I…I didn’t mean….”
The chief rose to his feet and ended the interview. “I know what you meant, Sergeant. And I’m telling you that’s not good enough. We’ve got a crazy on our hands and we’ve got to collar him quick. I’m expecting you to do that as the top priority in your life right now. You understand me. The rest you leave outside the door.”
Sgt. Storme understood, yes.
But he didn’t have to like it.
The question became entirely moot a moment after Storme left the chief. The Woody Heights rapist had struck again, right next door to Thursday’s victim, and this time he had killed the woman and her two small children. Rebecca was already rolling on the call, from somewhere in the neighborhood. Barton and Rodriguez were ready to roll too, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from a good night’s rest.
The whole world would be watching Woody Heights on their television screens from this moment on. The chief had been right, as usual. It was no time to be harboring wounded feelings or personal problems of any kind.
San Remo had a world-class crazy on its hands.
Chapter Eleven
Indeed, the Sunrise Killer had struck again, this time with a vengeance. Rebecca knew that this one was going to be especially brutal. She had spent “tea time” with the two little girls as well as with their mother, but she steeled herself and joined the investigating team.
The worst moment for Rebecca was when the husband, David Parker, arrived. He was pale and trembling as he came into his home. The man had been told only that there had been a problem at home but obviously he was expecting the worst. His eyes were wild with unspoken questions. Two uniformed cops who had come in with him responded to the command in Rebecca’s eyes to restrain him as he attempted to fling himself along the hallway leading to the master bedroom.
“You don’t want to go in there,” Rebecca told him gently.
The poor man screamed, literally screamed, and began struggling with the officers. They could not hold him without hurting him. He broke away and lurched into the bedroom. Rebecca made a strategic retreat through the front door when the young man’s reaction became a frenzy inside the death room.
As she would explain later, there was nothing she could do to soften his pain and, frankly, she simply could not handle it. She was in a rage as she stepped outside and it was Charlie Andrews’ misfortune to encounter her at that moment.
“So fine,” she was muttering to herself, “the next issue of the Bulletin would undoubtedly have something to say about female cops who cannot handle the heat of their job.”
The reporter was taking exterior shots with his camera. Just as he tried to snap one of Rebecca, she raised her hand and turned away to avoid the camera.
“Cut it, Charlie,” she growled angrily.
Andrews was standing just outside the security line in the company of two patrolmen. “I want inside,” he protested.
“Fat chance,” she replied, glowering.
He tried one of his patented smiles on her and said, “Come on, Rebecca. I have a job to do, too.”
She snapped, “Fine, do it all you like from your side of the line.”
He asked her, “Was that the husband who just arrived?”
“Did somebody just arrive?” she asked him.
He grinned wickedly. “Thanks. I figured it was him.” He patted the camera. “Shot ’im, just in case. Should be good for page one.”
Rebecca growled, “Give the poor guy a break.”
He replied, “I intend to. I’m going to offer him the front page of his newspaper to tell his community about the excellent police protection we all enjoy. Isn’t that the line you gave me the last time we talked?”
The man was definitely annoying to Rebecca. She took the camera out of his hands and told him, “Okay, Charlie, I’ll get some shots for you,” and walked away with the camera.
The reporter stood dumbly and watched as she re-wound the film and started shooting rapidly over the same frames. She then returned the camera with a satisfied smile and said, “There you go. Don’t ever say that we are uncooperative with the press. And here’s a page one official police quote for you. We’re going to nail this creep. That’s a personal commitment from
me. Either we nail him or I’ll leave the force and retreat to the kitchen. That good enough for the press, Charlie? Run it. Make it public and bind me to it. We are going to get this psychopath!”
Rebecca felt a trifle better when she went back inside, even though she was smarting a bit over her posturing.
It was not all posture, of course. She did feel it. They would get the guy. She was committed to that.
Be that as it may, this case was far from resolved and already there had been five brutal murders.
By the time Rebecca had left the latest murder scene, Charlie Andrews had been multiplied by about ten. There were reporters crawling out of the woodwork everywhere and the television news vans were becoming fixtures on the streets. It was a sensational case and it was natural that the public have an interest in it. The police, of course, had to be responsive to that interest.
It was Rebecca’s feeling, though, that the particular slant introduced by Charlie Andrews was alienating the department from its constituency and therefore making the police job more difficult. Andrews was selling his copyrighted feature stories through a statewide syndicate and she felt that their heavily weighted bias was tailor-made for sensational headlines and interesting if fictitious reading. Not entirely fictitious, of course, Andrews was smarter than that and, in Rebecca’s mind he was also smart enough to know that he was slanting the stories to his own advantage—and that he did not even care that he was wittingly fueling an improper image of the department. She knew that they were busting their butts to stop the killer but the newsman’s sensationalized stories were portraying the police as the problem instead of the resolution.
So, no, Rebecca had no warmth for the reporter. She even felt that the newsman’s biased slant was producing much of the interest now being focused on San Remo by the television news organizations.
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