Cold Hit

Chapter 12

It was almost 10 P. M. when I arrived at the Glass House. I had to fight my way through a downstairs corridor crowded with news crews, staff rank officers, and press relations. A network news team had actually brought in their own coffee trolley. On the way into the elevator, Carmen Rodriguez of Channel Whatever found me and nodded to her cameraman, Gar. With no preamble, it was all Lights, Camera, Action. No Hello. No How's it going? Just shove the old mike under my nose and start asking questions. I'm not good at this. When I see myself on TV, I always look pissed and dangerous. My annoyance with the press comes across.

"What do you think of the Fingertip task force being formed?" was her opening question.

"Carmen, do you think it's possible that you and I might ever have even one conversation without that damn camera in my face?"

"Cut, Gar," she said to her cameraman who turned off the sun-gun that was mounted on the nose of his state-of-the-art HD 24 camera.

"Much better," I said. "What task force?"

"Chief Filosiani is naming a Fingertip task force. The news conference is in a few minutes."

"A task force ought to be a big help." I smiled. "Nice chatting."

I turned and ducked into a closing elevator before she could stop me and headed straight for six. The sea-foam green carpet and light-wood paneling on the command floor were a stark contrast to the overpopulated steel desk clutter of my space on four. I found Alexa in her office going over some notes. She had changed into a tailored suit since leaving the restaurant, and was putting on her flats with one hand while holding up a protesting palm with the other.

"Don't start up with me," she said as I came busting through the door.

"You've gotta stop this. Shut this task force down. I finally have something. One of the Blues thinks he remembers this last guy in Canoga Park holding up a panhandling sign at De Soto and the One-Oh-One."

"It's too late, Shane. Tony contacted the FBI two days ago and since all the homicide detectives in HS have full, high-priority caseloads, the manpower assignments are coming from the five city Homicide Divisions and have already been made. He was all set yesterday and pulled the trigger two hours ago when the new body was found. I told you this was about to happen. All that's left is to announce."

"But I've finally got a lead-a good one." I handed her a Xerox of the Combat Medical Badge I'd made from the book.

"What's this?"

"Combat Medic's insignia. That's what the unsub's been carving on all the vics."

She picked it up and looked at it, then reached into her top desk drawer for a photo of the carved symbol. She compared the two. "It's not very exact."

"Hey, it's a very intricate badge. To get it exact, he'd have to use a tattoo needle or a pen, not a knife. It's close enough," I said. "If I'm right, this sets up a course for our investigation."

"Look, Shane, I "

"Lemme run it for you." She hesitated, but then nodded.

"Somebody is killing vics who are fifty to sixty years old. That makes all our DB's Vietnam vintage guys. They're homeless and they all have this medic's symbol carved on their chests."

"So you think the unsub was in Nam?" She leaned back in her swivel and studied me skeptically. "The mean age of serial killers is twenty-five. If you're right and the killer was in Nam, that makes this guy way over the target age."

She was right about the mean age. But that was just a computer-generated statistic achieved by taking all of the serial killers ever caught, adding their ages and dividing that by their total number. But serial murder, like bad fashion, often defies rationale, and when dealing with aberrant psychology, it's a mistake to marry computer generated facts.

"Maybe the unsub is a slow starter," I said. "Or maybe he's the son of a medic, was abused by his father and is killing him over and over. Maybe he's a current vet who was screwed up by a medic. Maybe all the victims were medics. Maybe he's a medic himself. Shit, come on. . I don't know what the connection is, but this mutilation is a part of his signature, and it damn sure means something. This medic thing is the first angle I've had in seven weeks that I can work.

"I've got all the Blues the watch commander in Canoga can spare, showing this new vies picture to homeless people around the De Soto off-ramp. If I get a name, I've got my first real foothold. I can start assembling possible motives, look for witnesses." I leaned toward her. "Give me and Zack another day."

"It's done. The FBI is sending us a profiling expert. Some ASAC from the local office named Judd Underwood. We're wheels up, babe. It's airborne."

"Shit." I turned and headed out of the office. "Don't go away mad," she called after me.

I looked back at her.

"I tried to stop this," she said softly. "I really did. And Tony almost bit my head off for it. Wanta see the teeth marks?" She started to pull down her turtleneck. "Look." She exposed her beautiful neck. There were no tooth marks on her ivory skin, but hey, every defense can't be bulletproof.

"Maybe with more people on this, we can run down your Vietnam angle quicker," she said hopefully. "You know it's gonna be a huge job going through a military hospital V. A. check."

"I don't want any help. Zack and I should have been able to do this ourselves." Then I felt the cold breath of political anticipation. "By the way, who did Tony put in charge of this cluster-fuck?"

"Deputy Chief Michael Ramsey," she said softly, knowing I'd hate it.

"Great White Mike?" My jaw dropped. He was the biggest asshole on the sixth floor. The guy actually kept makeup in his briefcase because he loved being on TV. "Guess we'll be having lots and lots of news conferences," I said.

"Give the guy a chance, Shane."

"White Mike will run this task force like a Vegas lounge act. At least, don't bullshit me."

"Okay, no bullshit?"

I waited.

"You've had seven weeks. Nothing's happened. Now we're trying this."

I left her office and headed down to Homicide Special. Crossing the squad room to my cubicle was a little like being the losing pitcher in the locker room after the seventh game of the World Series. I heard way too many Good trys and Not your faults.

When I got to my desk, I had a message waiting: Call Fran 555-6890. I picked up the phone and dialed.

When Fran Farrell answered, her voice sounded quiet, almost subdued.

"It's Shane," I said. "You called?"

"It's about Zack."

"You have any idea where he is?"

"He's here. You better come over."

"I can't come now, Fran. I've got my hands full. Our Fingertip case just went postal."

"You better come anyway." "Why?"

"He tried to commit suicide. I came home and found him bleeding in my bathtub with his wrists cut. Get over here, Shane. He wants to see you."

The house was a ranch-style, cream-colored bungalow with green trim in the Valley just off Rossmore. I parked the Acura at the curb and walked up the drive toward the front door. It was 11 P. M. I rang the bell, not sure of how I was going to handle this.

The door was opened by a red-haired boy about Chooch's age. It had been a while since I'd seen him, but I guessed this was Zack Junior. He was rawboned, with Zack's rugged Irish looks and blue-green eyes.

"I'm Shane. Zack Junior, right?" He nodded. "We haven't seen each other in a while," I added.

"Mom's in the living room," he said without expression.

I moved into the house and met Fran coming into the foyer. Young Zack disappeared down the hall. Like most kids caught up in a divorce, he didn't know which side to be on and ended up just trying to stay out of sight. Fran was wearing stretch jeans and a polo shirt. She was one of those people who should avoid stretch pants. She had a round face and an usually pleasant demeanor. I'd known her briefly when I'd partnered with Zack in the West Valley, but that experience had colored her opinion of me. There was always a hint of disapproval. She gave me a cursory hug and then pulled back and fixed me with a hard amber-eyed stare.

"Get him out of here, Shane."

"I'll try."

"I can't do this. It was hard enough throwing him out the first time. What on earth was he thinking? In my bathtub? I come home with the boys and find him bleeding, with Sinatra singing on the CD."

"What's going on with him, Fran? It's like all of a sudden the bottom just dropped out."

She snorted out a bitter laugh. "You don't know the half of it."

"If I'm going to help him I gotta know what's eating him up."

"You can't help him. His problems go all the way back to his childhood. I didn't even know about most of it till his mother called a month ago. Since he got back from Florida, it's gone to a whole new place."

"Look, Fran, I need to-"

"I'm not getting into it, Shane. Can't and won't. Just make him go."

"Where is he?"

She led the way into the den at the back of the house.