The First Cut

by Dianne Emley

  The department had four rotational spots in detectives for patrol officers. The positions lasted one year and were generally in property crimes.

  “You detectives have too much paperwork,” Caspers said. “I need to get back on the street where the action is, homes.”

  “She’s ba-ack.” Detective Sergeant Kendra Early rounded the corner and enveloped Vining in a bear hug. She was forty, African American, shorter than Vining, and more filled out. Vining had never seen her wearing makeup, and the persistent dark circles under her eyes made her always look tired. A habit of frequently rubbing her eyes added to her world-weary aura. Vining’s nose brushed against her short, curly hair. She had liked working for Early and was going to miss it. Vining had been the sole female in Early’s crew. Their relationship was not particularly friendly or warm, and neither of them felt a pressure to move beyond the professional. However, they understood each other, which made their working rapport the most uncomplicated that Vining had experienced.

  “I am back.”

  “You look good, girl.”

  “Thanks. Feel good.”

  “Vining!” Ron Cho’s voice bellowed.

  A tiny waver of Early’s eyebrow conveyed that she didn’t think much of Cho’s greeting.

  Vining followed Early to the glassed-in room that she shared with the two other detective sergeants. Ernie Taylor’s and Ron Cho’s desks were side by side and held impressive piles of disorganized clutter. Early’s desk was opposite Taylor’s and looked like a place where one could work. Silver-framed photos of her extensive family spilled from a corner of her desk onto the empty desk beside her.

  The windows faced Garfield Street and the courthouse, an unadorned concrete rectangle lined with soulless windows. Across the street to the south was City Hall, empty and encircled by temporary fencing while it underwent refurbishing and earthquake retrofitting. PPD shields bore a replica of its Spanish Baroque dome.

  Vining shook the other two sergeants’ hands and pulled a chair in front of Cho’s desk. He wasn’t a tall man but he had a massive upper body from daily workouts at the station gym. His mother was Latina and his father was Korean.

  “What are you doing yellin’ at the woman, Cho? First day back after IOD leave.”

  “The criminals weren’t Injured on Duty. Judging from the pile of reports that came up last night, they’re in fine shape. Vining is, too. Look at her. Bright-eyed, fit…Ready to go.” Cho leered at Early. “You’re just ticked off because your girl got blown out at Wimbledon.”

  “You go there and I’m going to have to talk about your Lakers.”

  “Just squeeze ’em till they hurt, Early.”

  Taylor snickered as he went through a stack of reports. He had piercing blue eyes and a crew cut that disguised thinning hair. He was wearing a holster over a dark gray dress shirt.

  “What are you laughing at?” Early walked to him and brushed dandruff from his shoulders.

  “The way you treat me, Kendra. It’s hurtful.”

  “Making sure you’re keeping up your appearance. That’s all.” Early sat at her desk.

  “Seriously, Vining,” Cho said. “How do you feel?”

  “Great. Ready to get back to work.”

  This was not Vining’s first official meeting discussing her injury. She’d met with Early and George Beltran, the lieutenant in charge of Detectives, before. She’d worked hard to make her case that she was ready to return to a desk in Crimes Against Persons. Wanting to look robust, strong, like a force to be reckoned with, she’d spent many hours at the gym, believing being fit and disciplined physically was a prelude to mental strength. Bit by bit, she built herself up. Each chest press and bicep curl brought her closer. Closer to catching him.

  She also had to recertify with her firearms. That was no problem. During her leave, she’d gone back to the gun range as soon as she was able, honing her skills with her service Glock .40 and the 9mm that most PPD officers carried. She renewed her familiarity with the Remington 12 gauge that was standard in PPD patrol cars. She’d also built up her personal arsenal during her leave, adding a Winchester Model 70 Featherweight .30-06 high-powered rifle to the .223 she already owned, giving her additional range that could come in handy. She chose the Mossberg 500 as a good up-close-and-personal weapon that would stop anyone within twenty feet and would be easy for Emily to use under duress. She coaxed her ex-husband into buying that one.

  Off-duty, she still carried a tiny, pearl-handled .22 in her purse, but now added a second weapon. She tried wearing a Smith & Wesson .38 in an ankle holster. Her mentor, retired lieutenant Bill Gavigan, had carried one as his sidearm throughout his career in the PPD. She loved the old-school aspect of the .38. Unlike the semiautomatics, it wouldn’t jam or let you down. The short barrel gave less opportunity for someone to grab it away from you. But she found it too heavy and bulky for an ankle holster, so she settled for a .32 caliber Walther PPK.

  Emily accompanied her to the gun range as she had done since she was a small child. Nan’s girl had a proper respect for firearms. While other mothers and daughters went shopping, Vining and Emily shot guns, to the overheated angst of her ex-husband’s newer wife, who had deemed Vining’s entire lifestyle as corrupting to a young lady. These shrill objections only enhanced the fun of those mother-daughter shooting outings for both Vining and Emily.

  Vining’s work in getting herself mentally fit to return to duty hadn’t been as easy to measure. She was here, so she must have done okay with the police-appointed shrink. That had been a challenge, revealing enough to sound credible yet holding back the critical flaw that could do her in. The panic attacks would remain her and Emily’s secret.

  Going inside houses set them off. Not every house, just certain ones. Old. New. Didn’t matter. A certain unknown attribute of the house triggered them. Her chest constricted. Beads of perspiration bloomed on her face and down her spine. Her hands grew clammy. Sometimes she hyperventilated. Sometimes she fainted.

  Being in the open didn’t bother her. There she could see. There, there were no wood blocks filled with cutlery. No refrigerator magnets. No pantries with smeared trails of blood leading inside. Being in her own home didn’t frighten her, or the homes of her mother, sister, or grandmother. She was okay in the home of her ex-husband and his wife. Supermarkets, malls, business offices, and movie theaters were no problem.

  But going into strangers’ homes was part of her job.

  Home. So many warm connotations, turned rancid by T. B. Mann.

  Vining knew there was no way to exorcise the panic attacks with words. She had to face her fears head-on. She and Emily devised a plan.

  She started by accepting invitations from the parents of Emily’s friends to come inside when she’d arrive to retrieve her daughter. At first, she could only walk a few steps down the front path before seeing spots and gasping for air. Eventually, she made it to the front door, then across the threshold, then further inside. Finally, she was able to reach the kitchen—that cozy center of a home. The place where family and guests congregated, where food was prepared and consumed, stories told and traditions passed down. To Vining, a home kitchen had become an opening to an abyss filled with knives and her own blood. An abyss in which he waited. T. B. Mann waited.

  Vining promoted herself to the homes of strangers. She made it through an hour at a cocktail party given by neighbors new to the street, her eyes darting to the hands of a grandfather clock, watching the minutes tick by, the hour chimes sounding like the recess bell at school. Finally, she attended realtor open houses. That “For Sale” placard in the front yard looked so innocuous, so inviting. Anyone and everyone can enter. T. B. Mann had.

  Emily had a theory. “Houses have karma, Mom.”

  She argued that houses retained a residue of the events and emotions that had occurred within their walls. A permanent imprint. A burned-in brand. Invisible, except Vining could sense it. She could sense a house’s karma, more psychic residue left by T. B. Mann. He ha
d changed her.

  “Mom, it’s like your antenna’s been retuned and you can pick up on these things now.”

  “That’s something to think about, sweet pea.” Vining then refused to think about it that way at all.

  Emily tried to convince her that it was a gift. Vining didn’t think so. She found it more like an embarrassing twitch that she couldn’t stop. It had prompted Emily to take up a new hobby. The girl attempted to capture on audio and film the essence of places and people that Vining sensed.

  The full-on panic attacks subsided. Vining felt she had got the demon under control. She had won this battle. Yes, she had. She was in control.

  “I guess you can’t go through something like that and not feel you’ve been given a second chance,” Sergeant Cho said.

  Vining nodded. “Lots of things matter less and a few things matter more.”

  Cho watched Vining with eyes that revealed little. They all knew about the two-odd minutes when she’d flat-lined. No one at the department had yet asked her about that. She didn’t know what she would say if they did. It felt too private to talk about. A lot of cops were religious, but they were still practical and grounded in reality. She believed in God in a general sort of way. She attributed little significance to the weird out-of-body experience she’d had when she was dead, even though Emily felt otherwise. All Vining knew was that she felt present in the world in a way she hadn’t before. It was as if a door to a hidden room in her mind had been cracked and was waiting for something to blow it wide open. As if she’d turned a corner and had arrived on the other side of…what?

  Yes, Emily, she had changed.

  “Has he attempted to contact you?” Early asked.

  Vining knew about whom she was speaking. “I should be so lucky.”

  It was tough talk and she knew it. She wanted desperately to get T. B. Mann, but the panic attacks betrayed her. Both her hate and fear of him were visceral.

  “Working burglary is a good move for you,” Cho said. “The more cross-training you get, the better for your career advancement.”

  He had a misconception held by many at the department that Vining had ambitions to work on the third floor, where the department’s top brass had their offices. Vining did not consider herself ambitious. She was simply a single mother who needed to work. If an opportunity for promotion came, fine. She went for it. It meant more money and perks for her. Somehow she’d inadvertently earned a jacket that she was a political player, working the system, kissing behinds.

  Vining had another jacket as a cowboy. A lone wolf. She’d earned that one after the fatal shooting five years before. She was found to have acted within policy, but some still had questions about what had gone on that night.

  The events surrounding T. B. Mann’s assault on her a year ago in the house at 835 El Alisal Road revived the gossip. There were officers on the force, and she’d heard that Ruiz was among them, who thought she’d been cocky that day, knew better than what procedure mandated, didn’t need help, and consequently put other officers in danger along with her.

  The investigating committee found she’d used proper judgment in the El Alisal Road incident, but commented that Vining’s experience was a cautionary lesson about carelessness. Still, officers talked, and the talk had gotten back to her.

  She’d worn both jackets for years before she was aware she had them. She’d also learned that once you had a jacket, it was harder than hell to get rid of it.

  She’d made enemies along the way. Some female officers were cool to her. That started years ago when Lieutenant Gavigan singled her out, took her under his wing, and gave her primo assignments. Conversations still stopped when she entered the locker room. Women were hardest on one another. It was worse than high school. That was okay with Nan. Making friends had never been her objective. She wanted to do her job, stay safe, and go home at the end of her shift.

  She had one more jacket she would never take off. She was a mom, and that changed her view about everything.

  “I’m just happy to get back to work.” She tried to appear enthusiastic. She would get her old desk back. She didn’t know when, but she would.

  Cho picked up a stack of reports that had come up from the Records Section. The cases had initially been processed by the patrol sergeants after filtering up from the street cops on Morning Watch. He was about to hand them to her when they both turned at a slap on the doorjamb.

  Jim Kissick strode in, smiled at Vining, and gave her a couple of pats on the shoulder.

  “Hey, Partner. Good to see you.”

  She stood and shook his hand. “Nice to see you, too. Good to be back.”

  Their exchange was cordial, nothing more. Both were aware that the three sergeants in the room were watching them. There had been rumors about Vining and Kissick. No one but the two of them knew the truth and they weren’t talking.

  “Some Adam Henry dumped a body in the arroyo by the bridge,” Kissick announced, using a polite term for “asshole.” “A film crew arriving to make a car commercial spotted it. Nude female. White.”

  “She wasn’t a jumper?”

  “Appears her throat was slit. Folke is the officer in charge.”

  Pasadena averaged two or three murders a year, generally gang-related and occurring in the northwest part of the city. The Colorado Street Bridge spanned neighborhoods in the city’s affluent southwest side. The PPD likely would not be jacking up the usual suspects in this investigation.

  “Let’s roll.” Early grabbed her jacket. As she headed out the door, she said, “Cho, I’m going to need Vining.”

  He held his hand out to indicate the new cases he was about to hand over. “What the fuck, Early? Vining works for me now.”

  Sergeant Taylor returned his attention to his work, pointedly staying out of the dispute.

  “Assume she’s not back today and handle it from there.”

  “This was all decided.”

  “That was then. This is now. I’ll deal with the L.T. Don’t worry.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried.”

  Vining guessed that Cho would be in Lieutenant George Beltran’s office as soon as Early was gone. She knew Early had predicted this, too, and had already worked out her argument. She wouldn’t have made her move if she wasn’t confident Beltran would agree with her.

  Cho stared Early down before making a sweeping motion with his hand to Vining.

  She bolted from the chair and followed Early and Kissick out the door.

  T H R E E

  T HE LOCALS KNOW THE COLORADO STREET BRIDGE AS SUICIDE BRIDGE. The elegant structure extends 1,468 feet in a slight S shape across the Arroyo Seco watershed, its curved structure resulting from the engineer’s quandary over finding solid footing. The white concrete bridge’s enormous double arches joined by columns create a delicate weblike effect that belies its notorious history. A hundred or so people had jumped from it since construction in 1913. Neither the police nor the fire department knew the exact count. The police were still called out to coax down would-be jumpers who managed to climb over the eight-foot iron protective fence that tops the bridge.

  Vining had answered one such call early in her career. She was still a rookie on probation, but had been cut loose to drive an L-car, meaning she was in a patrol car solo. She’d found a young woman, Tiffany Pearson, who had climbed outside the barrier and was pacing back and forth on the outside ledge. When Tiffany saw Vining roll up, she grabbed the bars behind her with both hands, her back bowed and her chest punched out, defiantly taking on the city.

  Vining tried to calm her down and keep her talking.

  “My old man ran off with some chick,” Tiffany explained. “Left me with three babies and no money. What am I supposed to do?”

  “I hear you, Tiffany. My husband did the same thing to me. Left me and my two-year-old daughter. Left me with no job and nothing but bills. But I got over it. It’ll get better.”

  Tiffany just looked out and shook her head. Moonlight shone on th
e tears that moistened her face.

  “Think about your kids, Tiffany. They need you.”

  Vining thought she was doing well, had made a connection with the woman and gained her trust. She still anxiously counted the minutes until the suicide prevention expert arrived. She was about to learn why the bars could only discourage jumpers. Seconds after saying she was fine, Tiffany let go, falling 150 feet to the dry ravine.

  Whenever Vining was on the bridge, she imagined the ghost of Tiffany Pearson holding on to those bars, her body arched like a bow, her eyes not looking down, but straight out. Vining concluded that she had already jumped, she just hadn’t let go.

  All cops collect war stories. The more years, the more stories. Pasadena’s eight square miles were the repository for dozens of Vining’s stories, from the ridiculous to the touching to the horrible, including her own bloody tragedy. As Early drove the Crown Victoria onto the bridge, Vining saw another story in the making in the twisted white figure that looked like a cast-off doll partway down the hillside. The PPD’s small Forensic Services Unit was taking photographs and searching for evidence.

  Vining was glad to see that Sergeant Terrence Folke was the officer on scene. He was African American with an easy smile that belied how tough he could be. A seasoned veteran, he had taken the precaution of unrolling yellow crime scene tape around a large area of the wash.

  The stretch of the Arroyo Seco that extended through Pasadena remained close to its natural state. Thick with trees, chaparral, and native plants and wildlife, it was a popular recreational spot where people jogged, walked dogs, and rode horses. Hiking trails crisscrossed the area.

  Vining recognized Tara Khorsandi from FSU. Young and new with the PPD, she was intense and methodical about her job. She flapped open a white sheet and covered the body.

  You’ve turned the corner of your life to find this woman, Vining told herself.

  The bridge was crowded with people from the production company, police officers, reporters, and Lookie-Lous. Black-and-white PPD patrol cars were parked beside catering trucks and long trailers with “Star Waggons” painted on the outside. One van bore the insignia of the L.A. County coroner. On flatbed trailers were the stars of the commercials, new hybrid vehicles manufactured by Honda.