Because of the new development in the case, the scheduled meeting of the Sunrise Task Force was delayed until early afternoon. It was attended by all the brass from both patrol and detective divisions, watch commanders, everybody from sergeant on up. The chief gave “overrides” and “passports” in every situation except life and death emergencies and the department was directed to stand in close support of the mission. Sergeant Peter Storme was in charge, reporting directly to the chief. His group, including Detectives Frank Barton, Mike Rodriquez and Rebecca Storme, were placed on “open shift”—which meant that they came and went in accordance with the demands of the task.
Not all the brass were happy with the setup but the chief left no room for debate. All of these officers were good cops and knew that the time had come to “leather up and buckle down,” whatever their personal agendas.
It was a Friday afternoon, not an ideal time to inaugurate any program anywhere, but they jumped straight into it. Sergeant Storme sent Barton and Rodriquez to the streets to begin a block by block shakedown of Old Town and every known informant. Storme knew that some may feel that it was a simple approach but he also knew how many crimes were solved that way. The killer was a guy. Some guys hang out in bars, sometimes drink too much then often talk too much.
Also Sergeant Storme knew how really “smart” the street-smarts sometimes are; very often the street is a step or two ahead of the cops in the solution of any crime. Whatever, he knew that they had to start somewhere.
Rebecca was given the task of re-interviewing the victims’ families and their close neighbors. This, too, is standard police procedure and often more productive than one might believe. Victims and witnesses to a crime frequently will later recall small details that seemed insignificant in the immediate aftermath or were squelched in the trauma of the moment.
Sergeant Storme undertook a close review of each of the crimes in the hope of establishing a sensing of the case. He knew that Rebecca already had one. It was her sensing that the rapist-killer had developed a list of candidates by studying their early morning habits and establishing a “window of vulnerability” through which he could invade and victimize. She also entertained a notion that this guy hated young mothers. She also believed that he too was limited by his own “window of opportunity”—that early morning time period when he was free to indulge his criminal compulsions.
So she had the killer profiled as a sort of Jekyll-Hyde personality, a guy who probably lived an otherwise normal life whose family and friends would be shocked to learn of his sunrise activities—probably resided in or near Woody Heights, perhaps married and even a father, who committed his crimes enroute to work.
Peter did not argue with his wife’s instincts but simply felt that it might be more productive to investigate his own hunches and somehow attempt to achieve a wider perspective. Maybe it was only because the left side of his brain dominated the right side; whatever, he knew that he worked better with visuals than with pure imagery. He began by marking the scene of each crime on a large wall map of the city.
Nothing really leapt at him from that exercise other than the obvious geographical grouping of the victims which was already apparent. It did verify his feeling, however, that the strike zone was easily and quickly accessible from any point in town, in particular from the foothills freeway which pours thousands of motorists through the community every morning.
He found little comfort in that exercise so he began thinking in terms of non-geographical relationships between the victims—that is, some linkage other than the obvious. Did they perhaps all buy their groceries at the same store? All use the same hairdresser, the same doctor, the same dentist—or were there any other circumstances or common experiences shared by the victims?
The circumstances of geography could be the all-important factor, sure, but maybe not. Woody Heights would be a happy hunting ground for a creep with a sadistic compulsion for pretty, young mothers—and Rebecca’s “window of vulnerability” could not be argued—but her “window of opportunity” could and should be argued if based on nothing more than geographical factors. The creep could live in San Bernardino and work in Los Angeles, or vice versa, and ditto for every other possible combination of cities in the region. His selection of victims could have nothing whatever to do with the coincidence of geography.
S o how do you narrow down the possibilities? You take them one at a time, that was how, and you start whittling. It is a slow and laborious process for sure, but that is what police work is all about.
Peter Storme’s laborious task had only just begun.
And the young mothers of San Remo, along with their children, were still in extreme jeopardy.
Chapter Twelve
Rebecca had no argument whatever with Peter’s sensing of the case. She was sure that his “police instincts” were as fully operative as hers were. He was older and more experienced and she had never found any reason to fault his grasp of time-honored police routines. She felt that his understanding of the criminal mentality was probably unexcelled by any cop she had ever known. She was aware, however, that men and women often see the world in different terms, and knew that it applied to police men and women as well, regardless of the training approach.
Not that she felt either sex to be superior or inferior to the other but only that they may sometimes take different avenues to the same conclusions.
At the moment, of course, Rebecca was neither male or female—she was just a cop, doing her job as she again went into Woody Heights for follow-up interviews, but her job was becoming more difficult. The families as well as the neighbors were less cooperative than earlier, evidently now more interested in a closure of their wounds than in seeking justice. That was perfectly understandable.
These people were frightened, almost panicky, under the specter of an obviously psychopathic killer. She could smell the fear hanging like a dark cloud over the entire area. Unwittingly, the neighborhood was in effect playing into the killer’s hands. Terror, after all, can immobilize as well as galvanize, and it appeared that this neighborhood was lapsing into immobilization. It was a bust of a night as far as she was concerned.
Rebecca went into a coffee shop for a quick dinner at seven o’clock. She hoped that she had not been given a fruitless assignment just to keep her busy and out of the way. Such thoughts were unworthy of her and she knew it—still, a woman working in a traditionally male world can often be excused for harboring such thoughts. However, she was aware that she had been relegated the least desirable cases since her promotion to the detective division. If these guys thought that they were going to usurp her job as the sex crimes specialist, they could think again. She was not about to back away from this one, even if she had to work it on her own time. Not that she wanted to go it alone—just that she wanted to be carrying her own weight.
She reminded herself that this was the real work of every police detective and that even the non-productive tasks were vitally important. She remembered once in particular, a year or so earlier, when Peter busted a case on his twenty-umpth time through the same evidence. So this is what police work is all about, really.
She supposed that she was just feeling disappointed because she was unable to turn up any new leads during this second round of interviews. It did not improve her state of mind when she saw Charlie Andrews walk through the door. He showed her a smile and slid into the booth beside her.
“Mind if I join you for some coffee?” he said genially.
She replied with a sour smile, “As long as I’m not buying.”
“You wouldn’t buy me a cup of coffee?” he asked with a bantering smile.
She told him, “Not if I can help it. What?—star reporters don’t get an expense account?”
He said, “Not that I’ve ever noticed. I don’t get freebies either like cops do.”
“I’ve always paid my own way, Charlie.”
“That’s only because you are not a real cop.”
“So what am I
?”
“Window dressing. Very pretty dressing, but that’s all it is and you know it. How many cops does it take to nail one lone suspect?”
She said, “Go to hell. I take it back—I do mind. Get out of here, Charlie. You’re giving me heartburn.”
He was still smiling. “Tough guy, huh? Where’s Pete?”
“Pete’s taking care of business. What are you doing?”
“I spotted your car. Wanted to run in and thank you for ruining my film at the latest crime scene. You owe me, Rebecca.”
At least that reminder gave her something to smile about. She told him, “Always happy to help the press. And you’re such a sweet guy. How could I have done otherwise?”
He chuckled and replied, “I hate it that we have this adversarial relationship. I also hate it that you are in the wrong line of work. I have the feeling that you and I could be great pals if you’d just give me half a chance.”
She told him, “No, I think not. I don’t like you, Charlie. I have never liked you. Has nothing to do with my work or yours.”
“No, I think that’s wrong. Has everything to do with it. Okay, we don’t see eye to eye on the criminal justice system in this country but—”
“Would you like it better in Mexico or—”
“No, it’s about the same everywhere. There is no justice in this world.”
She said, “Maybe not but at least we do have the Bill of Rights. Anybody arrested you lately for printing your poison in public?”
He actually seemed to be enjoying this. He was so congenial, in fact, that she wondered if his usually hostile attitude was no more than a sham. Some guys, maybe, felt an obligation to play that kind of game.
Charlie was still smiling at her as he said, “No, they’re all too afraid of public opinion. Look, it’s your job to protect the public. That’s my job, too. Let’s make a truce. I’ll stay out of your face if you will stay out of mine, at least while we’re dining.”
She said, “We’re not dining, Charlie. And I did not start this stuff with you. You started it, and you’ve kept it going. So, if there is to be a truce, you’ll have to initiate it. Get human, mister. Then maybe one day I could look at you as a reasonable guy.”
He asked, “And as a friend?”
That seemed so improbable that she could not keep a straight face as she told him, “Human, first. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”
He took her smile for more than it was worth. “Well, I’m glad we straightened that out. Will you let me ride shot-gun again with you some day?”
She said, “First things first. Show me that you’re not totally warped, then the rest will take care of the rest.”
He gave her a genuinely pleasant smile. “Let’s work on that, then.”
She was not buying this guy as any more than he had ever been. But she could not stomp on him, either, without giving him a chance to redeem himself. She was not a fool, though. She would be watching this new “friend” with eyes in the back of her head.
Their conversation turned to purely general small talk. By the time they finished their coffee she was beginning to feel that he was not totally unredeemable and she had to admit that she was even enjoying his company. Not that she was forgiving his rotten attacks on the department but that possibly she had been taking the whole thing too personally. He was a working stiff, after all. Maybe he actually believed that he was just doing his job.
At any rate, they were on outwardly friendly terms when he told her goodnight. She nursed the remains of her coffee long enough to let him clear out ahead of her. She did not know why she did that except that she did not want it to appear that they were leaving together.
She was also aware that possibly her hormones were affecting her present attitude. Charlie was, after all, a good looking guy and could have charm when he wanted to turn it on.
He was no where in the same league with Peter…but where was Peter now?—and was there any real future in their marriage now? She did not know. Not even her heart knew for sure.
Very often a cop’s best suit is patience. Usually, that is also the most difficult stance. Police work is not all “gang-busters”—in fact, very little is. In its most common element, it is a clerical job. Boredom can be its most punishing feature. A case like this one, especially, even with its sensational aspects, can drive a committed cop half-crazy when all he can really do is sit and wait for a killer to pounce on another victim.
If the prevalent sensing of this case was correct then the Sunrise Task Force would have a long, tedious weekend in store. If the killer did not “work” on weekends and he was dependent on his “window of vulnerability,” open only on weekdays, then this could be an agonizing weekend for sure. If the killer was going totally unhinged, of course, then that “sensing” could be meaningless. He could decide to create a whole new “window” that did not rely on stealth to attain his ends. Or, they could find themselves in a whole new game with copycats inspired by the sensational media coverage. That was a real worry.
Of course, none of these cops were prophets so could not could not have known a week earlier, or even a few days earlier, that they would have a serial killer in their midst.
There is no way to know that even an instant response to the developing problems in San Remo would have saved any of the victims. That is the maddening part. It is not a perfect world, after all, and there are no perfect cops. It is no comfort to the victims or to their families that the police were doing their best. They needed to do bet-ter—they needed to be perfect; with life and death in the balance, that is probably the greatest frustration of all for a cop who cares. Peter Storme did care and he was not sitting back merely waiting for the killer to strike again. The members of the Sunrise Task Force had been energetically punching every button they could find and every lead, no matter how fragile, in a committed effort to bring their case to a meaningful conclusion.
But, really, this was still a fledgling case. Patience was still their strongest suit even if there seemed to be no place to go from this point.
The Sunrise Task Force was still a long way from busting this case. Rebecca and Peter Storme, too, were a long way from “busting” the very real dangers to their marriage. As far as Rebecca was concerned at the moment, it was already too late. A dead marriage can be as impossible to mend as a dead body.
But she could be patient with her personal prerogatives, too. The problem, it seemed, was that her husband could not. He was obviously hurt and baffled by her seemingly insensitive attitude toward his needs and desires. In all the ways that counted, apparently his job did come first—and that was simply not good enough for Rebecca. Perhaps he had “left home” simply because he did not know how to handle the problems in his marriage and he had decided that it was easier to back away than to confront a painful situation head-on. Whatever, this marriage was in as much trouble as the case itself. And there seemed to be no simple solution for either.
It would be nice, Rebecca was thinking, if Peter could quickly crack this case. She sensed that he was in the throes of a serious loss of self-esteem and that this was in large degree responsible for some of their personal problems. A victory there would possibly help him find a better sensing of himself and therefore a new lease on their lives together.
But it was not to go that way.
Peter would not crack this case.
Rebecca would.
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday morning came and left as almost an anti-climax. Nothing happened—which was good, sure, but also it did nothing to advance the case. At least, Rebecca had the satisfaction of knowing that her understanding of the moving forces here was valid—the killer was holding to the anticipated timetable. The fact that he had not struck again on Saturday morning was, in a way, a vindication of her position. So maybe the young mothers of San Remo would be in for a short respite before the killer could gear up again.
Following time-honored procedures, Peter and his detectives were looking up known offe
nders in the area and talking to informants in a relentless attempt to get a handle on the killer. Rebecca, along with a beefed-up squad of uniformed officers, had canvassed Woody Heights throughout the critical time period. There was no way of knowing if the increased police presence had scared off the killer or if, simply, the logic was holding and the guy did not find it convenient to attack that morning. Every male who moved through those streets during the early morning hours was stopped and checked out.
Rebecca was back in the P.D. at nine o’clock and resolutely scanning through the data bases from CAL-ID and the FBI. It was a huge task, involving the known activities of criminals throughout the western half of the United States, in a search for similar cases and “trademarks.” Her search continued on through a fourteen-hour Saturday and resumed early Sunday morning following another fruitless stake-out of Woody Heights.
Ted Bonelli, the ID officer, looked in on her on Sunday afternoon after an exhaustive examination of the latents and other forensic clues found at the crime scenes. He was a man approaching fifty who, it has been said, “…turned forty at the age of twenty-one and stayed there,” one of those men who seemed to remain unchangeable through the years. Rebecca liked him and thought of Bonelli as almost a father figure, though he seemed too young for that. As the ID officer, the one who gathers evidence for the crime lab, Bonelli is a fine-detail man, looking for everything from lint and fibers to prints and weapons.
He told her, “We could spend years searching through print cards looking for a match. Even with all this modern technology, lasers and the works, we’re shooting totally in the dark without a name.”
Rebecca replied, “I know that. I’ll leave the sophisticated technology to people like you. I’m looking for trademarks and other similarities.”
“Good for you,” he said, “but I think you should know that we’ve got a shrewd one on our hands. This guy keeps it clean. I’ve only been able to find a couple of partials and one full print.”
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