Survival Of The Fittest

22

That night at ten, we entered the rear party-room of a bar and grill on Santa Monica Boulevard, four blocks west of the West L.A. station. The plain-faced red-haired hostess looked happy to see us and a bill slipped into her hand improved her disposition even further.

The room was big enough for a wedding party, with asparagus-green wallpaper and brown banquettes that were either real leather or fake. Dainty Impressionist prints hung on the walls- street scenes of Paris, the Loire Valley, other places cops were unlikely to go, but the only people in the room were three cops at the largest booth, up against the back wall.

Southwest Division Detectives Willis Hooks and Roy McLaren drank iced tea, and a chunky, white-haired man of nearly sixty, wearing a houndstooth sportcoat and a black polo shirt, nursed a beer.

As Milo and I slid into the booth, he introduced the older man as Detective Manuel Alvarado, Newton Division.

“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” His voice was mild, his skin was dark as a field-worker's, rough as bark.

“Thanks for coming on your night off, Manny.”

“A whodunit? Wouldn't miss it. Things are slow in Saugus.”

“You live all the way out there?” said Hooks.

“Fifteen years.”

“What do you do for fun out there?”

“Grow stuff.”

“Like plants?”

“Vegetables.”

The hostess reappeared. “Is this the entire party?”

“This is it,” said Milo.

“Food, gentlemen?”

“Bring the mixed appetizer thing.”

When she was gone, McLaren said, “Gentlemen. She obviously doesn't know us.”

Obligatory smiles all around.

Hooks said, “Your call was the biggest surprise I've had since my ex-wife told me I wasn't handsome anymore.”

“It surprised me, too, Willis,” said Milo.

Alvarado took a pack of gum out of his jacket pocket and offered it around. No one accepted and he unwrapped a stick, and chewed. “DVLL. A common thread no one's ever heard of before.”

“We checked with every gang-cop and banger and social worker and youth leader in our division,” said McLaren.

“Same at West L.A.,” said Milo. “FBI has nothing in VICAP or any other files.”

“I went back through my copy of the Ortiz file,” said Alvarado.

“Your copy?”

“The original was missing, just came back today, some sort of storage screw-up, fortunately I always Xerox. No DVLL message in the bathroom where my victim was probably taken and I copied down every bit of graffiti at the time. I'm still trying to locate the boy's shoes, but from what I remember there was no writing in them at all, just blood. So I can't say mine belongs with yours.”

“And yours was a boy,” said Hooks.

“And we never recovered the body, which is a big difference from both of yours.”

“Not that pattern seems to mean a damn thing here,” said Hooks. “West L.A. diplomat's kid and a mid-city strawberry?”

He shook his shaved head. “This is nutty. Twilight Zone stuff- right up your alley, huh, Doc? What do you think, does DVLL stand for some devil thing?”

“Could be,” I said. “Despite the differences, Latvinia and Irit do have things in common: mildly retarded, non-Anglo teenage girls. The fact that the killer chose handicapped victims says he despises weakness in others, and maybe himself.”

“A handicapped killer?”

“Or someone preoccupied with strength and weakness. Domination. It could mean powerlessness in his life.”

“A wimp who kills,” said McLaren. His hands were huge and they closed around a spoon handle.

“Raymond Ortiz was retarded, too,” said Alvarado. “But being a boy… usually when they go for boys, they don't go for girls.”

“Usually,” said Hooks, “when they go for inner-city street kids they don't go for rich kids on the West Side. Usually when they string one body up, they don't leave the other one stretched out on the ground. So if there is a pattern, it's eluding me.”

He looked at me.

“Maybe the pattern here is deliberate avoidance of pattern,” I said. “To outsmart you guys. Serial killers often read up on police procedure, collect true-crime magazines, for stimulation. This one could have used it for reference material. Learning the rules in order to break them. Varying his M.O., moving from district to district, other surface variables.”

“What do you mean by surface?” said Alvarado.

“The core of the crimes will be consistent,” I said. “The trademark. Because sex killers are psychologically rigid, crave structure. In this case, it's retarded teens and leaving behind the DVLL message. That could be a private message for him or a taunt, or both. So far, he's not advertising: he left it so subtly he can't have expected anyone to find it. One advantage for the good guys. He doesn't know anyone's made a connection.”

“That paper in your victim's pocket, Milo,” said McLaren. “ “Inspected by number 11.' Was that preprinted or did he type that, too?”

“That part looks preprinted,” said Milo, “but with computers and desktop printers, you can't tell. I sent it over to the lab, maybe they can clarify. Either way, he brought it with him, because the DVLL part was in a different font, the lab says probably a computer, and I don't see anyone with killing on his mind bringing along a PC.”

“Hey, you never know,” said Hooks, “they make those laptop suckers pretty small nowadays. And the doctor, here, thinks maybe he took her picture. So if he had a camera, why not a laptop? Maybe he brought along a carful of stuff.”

“A vanful,” said Alvarado. “Those guys love vans.”

“Yeah,” said Hooks.

“I always look for vans,” said Alvarado. “On Raymond's case, I spent weeks checking out every van in the neighborhood- parking tickets, everything. Never found the killer but I did find quite a few set up as mobile bedrooms and one turkey who actually had handcuffs and burglary tools.”

“You bet,” said McLaren. “Vans and long-distance truckers, the well-equipped killer. There's probably a mail-order catalog out there somewhere.”

“So,” said Milo, “DVLL's important to him but he's not ready to advertise.”

I said, “Either he's still a beginner and building up his confidence, or he'll never advertise, too cowardly. The fact that he chose especially vulnerable victims points to cowardice.”

A knock sounded on the door and Milo said, “Come in, Sally.”

The hostess wheeled in a two-tiered cart full of platters. Fried wontons, fried chicken, fried shrimp, fried egg rolls, pigs in blankets, shish kebobs on wooden skewers, each piece of meat capped with fat. Miniature wedges of pepperoni pizza. Bowls of dip in various colors, nachos, pretzels, potato chips.

“Mixed appetizers, gentlemen.”

“Sure, why not,” said Hooks. “I walked fifteen feet today from the lunch truck to my car, musta burned up two calories.”

Sally served us and refilled the drinks.

“Thanks,” said Milo. “We're fine, now.”

“No more interruptions,” she promised. “You want something, stick your head out and holler.”

The men helped themselves to food and it didn't take long for half the serving plates to empty.

“I love this,” said Hooks, lifting a chicken wing. “Feeling my arteries clog up as we speak.”

“Your case,” Milo said to Alvarado. “You said the shoes are still missing.”

“The log says they're in the evidence room but they're not in the bin in the evidence room where they're supposed to be. Which is no heart-stopper, Milo, it's a year-old case, we've always got storage problems, stuff gets moved. It'll turn up, I'll let you know.”

Milo nodded. “Anything else?”

“Latvinia,” said McLaren. “We found lots of street creeps who knew her, even a couple who admitted doing her, but no one she hung with habitually. The grandmother says she went out alone at night a lot, the closest we've got to a hangout is that freeway on-ramp she got busted at. She went there from time to time so anyone could have picked her up- a West Side commuter who did her in his car- or van- then brought her back to the school so we wouldn't figure out he was a West Side guy.

“When the ramps are busy,” he said, “or when the freeway's metered, you get panhandlers, people selling flowers, bags of oranges. Traffic balls up, Latvinia's out there flashing skin, some joker picks her up… Maybe someone noticed that, someone stalled in the gridlock. I was gonna see if some TV station would flash her pic, though we couldn't get much exposure, she's just a Southwest hooker got in trouble. Then you told me about the gag order.”

“What gag order?” said Alvarado.

“My victim's family,” said Milo. “The Israeli Consulate. They insist it stays out of the media for security reasons and they've got major pull with the brass. I checked again today with my loo and he says it's come down from the mayor's office, don't mess with it.”

“So we're all gagged,” said Hooks.

Alvarado said, “So does that apply to mine, too? I'm still not convinced it's connected.”

“Why?” said Milo. “Were you thinking of going to the Spanish papers again?”

“No. I just want to know the rules- what exactly are the security concerns?”

Milo summed them up. “Now, with the tie-in to Latvinia, it doesn't sound like a terrorist. I explained that to my loo, but…” He covered his ears.

“Course it's not a terrorist,” said McLaren. “This is a freak.”

“Retarded kids,” said Hooks, shaking his head.

“So what's the plan?” said Alvarado.

“Keep looking for leads, keep in touch,” said Milo.

Alvarado nodded. “The shoes. I'll find them.”

“Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll make a mistake,” said Hooks.

McLaren said, “Our best friend: good old human error.”

“Assuming,” said Milo, “that he's human.”