Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  On the drive back to West L.A., I thought about what I had learned. The similarity between Darlene Mayfield’s murder and the current Magpie killings was undeniable. After binding her hands and feet to the bedposts, Darlene’s killer had manually strangled her for some period of time, then ended her life with a garrote. Or maybe she had already been dead by then, and he had placed the necktie to divert attention from his manual strangulation. Given the inconsistencies in the case, was boyfriend Brian Shea even the killer? Either way, I knew how to find out.

  But for that I needed to visit San Quentin.

  Next I considered a possible connection between Darlene Mayfield and Dr. Erich Krüger, Cal State University professor. I thought back, mentally checking the dates and confirming that Darlene had been a Cal State graduate student during the same time Dr. Krüger had taught there.

  Coincidence?

  Maybe.

  But I didn’t believe in coincidence . . . at least not as a general rule.

  On the other hand, Cal State offered one of the top forensic programs in the country. It was a huge university with nearly thirty thousand students. Darlene had been enrolled in a graduate program, so it was conceivable that during her time there she had experienced no contact with Dr. Krüger and his undergraduate curriculum. At minimum, however, she must have been exposed to his textbook.

  Thinking back, I reviewed Krüger’s list of students. Although I had only glanced at it briefly, I was almost positive that Darlene Mayfield’s name hadn’t been on it.

  Granted, that absence could be explained by her graduate status.

  Still . . .

  I decided another visit to Dr. Krüger was in order.

  Coming to a second decision, I placed a call to Aken. “Jerry, I need something from you,” I said as soon as he picked up.

  “No problem. By the way, I sent over the 911 tape. You take a listen yet?”

  “I’ve been out, but I will.”

  “Let me know what you think. In the meantime, what do you need?”

  “I talked with the pathologist who performed the postmortem on Ms. Mayfield. He says manual strangulation was a factor in her death. I’m thinking maybe it was the only factor, and the necktie was meant to throw us off. Were any DNA tests run?”

  “Just on the recovered semen, which turned out to be from Brian.”

  “Nothing on the tie?”

  “Nope. That was way back before PCR,” Aken replied, referring to a molecular-biology technique in which a polymerase chain reaction could amplify a few segments of DNA into millions of copies—making the identification of minute genetic traces, or touch DNA, possible.

  “We need to test the tie,” I said.

  “You think there might be touch DNA on it?”

  “Maybe, especially on portions of fabric that were pressed tight against her skin. I would expect Brian’s DNA to be present, of course. But maybe someone else’s DNA is there, too—”

  “—transferred from the killer’s hands being on Darlene’s throat,” Aken finished.

  It was a long shot, but given the forensic-student angle, the strangulation murder that matched The Magpie’s M.O., and an unexpected connection to Dr. Erich Krüger, my gut said we were on the right track.

  “Good work, Kane. I’ll get a DNA test on the tie underway.”

  “And make sure they test for male DNA only, okay?” I suggested, referring to a microdissection technique that could isolate a relevant target cell from an overwhelming mix of other cell types. With it, one could separate a male cell from a larger population of female cells, for instance—creating a clear DNA profile that would otherwise be swamped by the major sampling component.

  “I’m on it,” Aken assured me.

  Next, instead of heading back to West L.A., I remained on the Santa Monica Freeway. There was one final piece of business I wanted to address before returning to the station. It was something that had been bothering me for some time, and right then seemed as good an opportunity as any to deal with it.

  After exiting in the freeway in Santa Monica and taking Lincoln Boulevard crosstown, I parked in front of a steel-and-glass office building on Montana Boulevard. Stepping from my car, I checked the name out front: Donovan, Taylor, and Kerr, Attorneys at Law.

  Inside, a friendly receptionist smiled as I entered, asking whether I had an appointment.

  “Nope,” I answered pleasantly. “I’m an old friend of Mark’s. Thought I’d drop by and say hi. He around?”

  “Mr. Taylor is with clients,” the receptionist replied. “They’re having lunch up the street, so he should be back soon. Would you like to wait?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go find him. Is he at that upscale place with the brick patio, just past Pavilions?” I asked, familiar with restaurants in the area from years of Santa Monica lunches.

  She nodded. “That’s the one.”

  I walked a short distance to the restaurant. Over the past week I had done some research on Mr. Mark Taylor, Esq., and I recognized him from his DMV photo when I saw him on the terrace, dining with two other men in suits. The three of them appeared to have just finished a late lunch and had now progressed to dessert and another round of drinks.

  “Mark Taylor,” I said, pulling up a chair and wedging myself in beside him.

  Mark, a thick-necked, muscular individual in his mid-thirties, struck me as a gym rat who probably spent a little too much time in front of a mirror. “Do I know you?” he demanded, clearly irritated by my presence and making no effort to hide it.

  “No, but I know you. You like to beat up women, right?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mark replied, staring at me coldly.

  “Really? Does, ‘I’ll hurt you in every way possible’ ring a bell?”

  One of the suits with Mark withdrew a cellphone. “I’m calling the police,” he announced.

  I flashed my shield. “I am the police. Both of you guys take a hike.”

  As the two men quickly stood to leave, Mark began rising as well. Placing a hand on his chest, I shoved him back into his seat.

  “Not you, pal,” I said. “You and I are going to have a nice, long talk.”

  28

  Leftovers

  I spent the rest of Friday at the station, working well into the evening.

  Along with conferring with Deluca and updating various threads of the investigation, he and I repeatedly listened to Aken’s 911 recording. On it, as described, a woman’s voice reported hearing shouts coming from Darlene Mayfield’s Venice Beach cottage, including the words, “No, Brian! Don’t!”

  To my mind, something about the call seemed staged. On a hunch, I sent the recording to my electronics friend Hank, asking him to examine it. I also sent the recording to Taylor, requesting that she forward it to her Bureau technicians and have them do the same.

  Before the end of my shift, I also placed a call to the warden’s office at San Quentin State Penitentiary, the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation prison where Brian Shea was incarcerated. After identifying myself, I requested a private visitation booking with Darlene’s boyfriend. Instead of making it a compulsory prisoner interrogation, I asked that Brian simply be told I was investigating a case that might dovetail with his, and there might be something in it for him. I added that if he wanted, his attorney could be present as well.

  Later, on my drive home, I received a call from Allison. Without saying why, she told me she had something important to discuss, adding that she would see me at the beach later that evening.

  Following a solitary dinner of leftover pizza Dorothy had kept warm for me in the oven, I retired downstairs to the swing. By then both Dorothy and Nate had gone to bed, but Callie joined me on our lower deck, eventually assuming a full canine-curl on the planks when she discovered we weren’t going for a walk.

  Twenty minutes later Allison thumped down the staircase. “Hey, Pop,” she said, easing in beside me on the swing.

 
; “Hi, Ali,” I replied. Although curious about her presence, I decided to let her get to things in her own time. “You bring Katie?”

  Allison shook her head. “She’s home with Mike. I assume you heard what happened.”

  “Did something happen to Katie?”

  For a long moment Allison didn’t reply. “Do you ever feel like you don’t know what you’re doing with your life?” she asked at last.

  “All the time. What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong is, while I was busy with my so-called career, Katie came down with a fever. Her temperature spiked over 102. Grandma rushed her to an urgent care center in Santa Monica.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’ll be fine—no thanks to me. The doctors think she might have a virus. They ran some tests and gave her Tylenol. We’re making sure to keep her hydrated.”

  “I’m sorry, Ali. I’m sure Katie will be okay. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Maybe, but I wasn’t there when she needed me. I feel so damn guilty . . .”

  “Your mother faced this same issue,” I pointed out, realizing what was bothering her. “Kids versus career. I’m ashamed to say, I interfered with your mom’s decision on that, not that she wasn’t happy being a full-time mother. But when you kids were older and she resumed her music career, I don’t think I had ever seen her more fulfilled.”

  “What are you saying, Dad?”

  “I’m saying that balancing a career with being a mother is something you have to figure out on your own. Sure, a lot of people are involved—Mike, Katie, Grandma Dorothy—all of us, actually, but it’s your decision. And whatever you decide, I’m sure it will be the right choice, and I’ll support it.”

  “Thanks,” Allison replied. “I . . . I guess I have some thinking to do.”

  Allison gave the swing a push with her foot. Rocking gently, we both fell silent, gazing out at the ocean. “I talked with Trav today,” Ali finally continued. “He and McKenzie just got a new place in Manhattan, closer to Mac’s agency. I’m sure Grandma Dorothy won’t be too pleased about that.”

  “Well, I like Trav and McKenzie being together, married or not. Speaking of which, do you think that’s a possibility?”

  “Their getting married? I hope so, if only to put Grandma’s mind at rest.”

  “I hear you,” I laughed.

  “I also talked with Nate. Sounds like he plans to follow in your size-fourteen footsteps.”

  “How so?” I asked, sensing we still hadn’t addressed the reason Allison was there.

  “After finishing high school, he plans to take some time off and then apply to the LAPD Police Academy.”

  “Is that so? Well, your younger brother and I will be having a serious discussion about that.”

  “No police career for Nate, Pop? Why? I thought you liked being a cop.”

  “I like parts of it, Ali. Actually, I like most of it. Plus it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at, aside from playing college football. If Nate wants a career in law enforcement, I’m all for it, but he needs to get an education first.”

  “He says he can take extension courses while he’s on the job.”

  “Like I said, Nate and I will be having a discussion about that,” I repeated, thinking that few things in life turned out as planned. “Is this what you wanted to talk about? Nate’s coming up with some harebrained scheme to torpedo his future?”

  “Actually, no. I want to run an idea by you regarding The Magpie case.”

  I groaned. Since the “Blood Moon” murders in Trabuco Canyon, media scrutiny of the investigation had gone through the roof. Although hard to imagine, news coverage had grown even more critical of authorities, with reporters now accusing investigators of incompetence and worse. And to some extent, I had to agree. Time was running out for Snead’s daughter—as “countdown clocks” on numerous media sites reminded watchers daily—and despite an immense expenditure of money and resources by both LAPD and the FBI, we were still coming up empty.

  It had been twenty-two days since Ella’s abduction. To date, Allison had been respectful in asking me for information. Although I generally tried to avoid watching news coverage on any case I was investigating, I also knew that Ali was one of the few reporters who were presenting a fair picture of the men and women working the case. Nevertheless, I had nothing to give her. I shook my head. “Ali, you know I can’t—”

  “Just hear me out, okay? It isn’t what you think.”

  “All right,” I reluctantly agreed.

  “The memorial for your SWAT officers is this Sunday, right?”

  “Correct. Crenshaw Christian FaithDome.”

  “The last time a service was held for an LAPD SWAT member killed in the line of duty, over ten thousand people attended. It was the largest police-officer funeral in United States history.”

  “That’s also correct,” I said, wondering where she was going.

  “The memorial this Sunday promises to be even bigger. Televised coverage will be colossal. Millions will be watching—including The Magpie. He might even be present.”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” I said. At my suggestion, along with photos and videos of every memorial attendee, the plates of all vehicles entering FaithDome parking lots would be recorded and their owners compared with our other databases, hoping for a correlation. Granted, following the Trabuco Canyon murders, the authenticity of some of those lists was now in question, but it had to be done.

  “So during the memorial would be an ideal time for Captain Snead to make a direct appeal to the killer, asking for Ella’s release,” Allison continued.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Think about it, Dad. What better way for the killer to get recognition than by showing he can be merciful? It’s worth a shot.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe, but—”

  “I’ve already run it by Lauren,” Allison rushed on. “She thinks it’s a good idea. Channel 2 and CBS Evening News would cooperate with LAPD and the Bureau concerning call-tracing equipment and so on. Whatever you need.”

  “Sounds like you already have everything all figured out. What do you want from me?”

  “We sent a request to LAPD. So far we haven’t heard back. I’m not even sure Captain Snead was notified of our proposal.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Look, Dad, at this point how could it possibly hurt? And if Captain Snead does it right, he might even save his daughter.”

  “You want me to relay your proposal to Snead?”

  Allison nodded. “Will you?”

  I thought a moment. As Allison had said, broadcasting Snead’s appeal for his daughter’s life probably couldn’t make things any worse, and we were desperate.

  “Okay,” I sighed. “I’ll pass on your proposal to Snead. I don’t think he’ll go for it, but I’ll ask.”

  29

  San Quentin

  I arose early the next morning. Grabbing a Starbucks Venti on the drive to LAX, I caught a Saturday commuter flight to San Francisco, arriving at SFO around 8:00 a.m.

  After renting a car at an Enterprise kiosk, I drove to San Quentin State Prison in Marin County, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge on the way. Although the prison facility was only thirty miles from the airport, the drive took almost an hour, and I arrived with only minutes to spare before my 9:30 a.m. booking with Brian Shea.

  San Quentin is the oldest prison in California and the state’s only death-row facility for male inmates. I had visited the crowded, sprawling facility in the past, so I knew the drill. As such, I had requested a private visitation with Shea, realizing that for an inmate to receive a police visit could result in his being suspected by other inmates of being an informant—a potentially lethal situation for Shea.

  After checking in with a guard at the main gate and parking in a visitors’ lot near the central twin towers, I walked a short distance to the prison’s processing center. There, my position as an LAPD detective allowed me to sidestep some of the prison’s securi
ty procedures, but not all. After identifying myself and showing the Visiting Lieutenant my shield and ID, I surrendered my service weapon, filled out some paperwork, received a pass, and was driven by van to a secluded conference room in the East Block—a section of prison that housed a majority of San Quentin’s condemned inmates.

  Once there I waited in a windowless cubicle, sitting in one of the room’s sturdy metal chairs. About fifteen minutes later Brian Shea was led in, accompanied by two burly correctional officers. One of the officers looked at me and lifted an eyebrow. I nodded, signaling for him to remove Shea’s handcuffs.

  Once his restraints were off, Brian sat across from me at a bolted-down table, the cubicle’s only other furnishing. As the correctional officers departed, one pointedly advised me that if I needed assistance, they would both be right outside the door.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. Do you, Brian?” I asked pleasantly.

  “Uh, yeah,” Brian replied, massaging his wrists. “I mean, no. You won’t need them guards.”

  Brian, a tall, heavyset individual, might have been considered good-looking in his twenties. Unfortunately, his years in prison had not been kind. Now, along with several prison tats, his face displayed a broken nose and a droopy left eyelid—disfiguring additions that had undoubtedly been acquired since entering lockup.

  “Didn’t bring your lawyer today?” I noted.

  Brian shook his head. “That dickwad is the reason I’m here. Why would I want to bring him?”

  “Good point,” I said, relieved not to be dealing with Brian’s attorney. In the end, however, a lawyer’s presence wouldn’t have made any difference. I wanted one thing from Brian, and he was going to give it to me, whether he intended to or not.

  “You told the warden you’re here to help?” said Brian, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice.

  “That depends,” I replied, letting the silence between us grow.

  “On what?” Brian finally asked.

  “On how things go. I’m going to level with you, Brian. I think you killed your girlfriend, but there are some discrepancies in your case that are lining up with an investigation I’m currently working on. Maybe I can help you; maybe not. Either way, this isn’t an interrogation. I’m not Mirandizing you, so nothing you say can be held against you, and you’re free to leave anytime you want. Understand?”