The Watchman

13

John Chen’s Secret Mission

DESPERATION bred innovation, and John Chen was a desperate man. That same desperation also bred lies, deception, and masterful acting, all of which John had employed with convincing brilliance because-well, face it-he was the smartest senior criminalist employed by LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division. In the past few years, John had broken more cases (necessary for career advancement [read that: money]), amassed more face time on the local news (mandatory for hitting on chicks [read that: At six-two, one twenty-seven, and with an Adam’s apple the size of a goiter, he needed all the help he could get]), and garnered more merit pay raises (essential for leasing a Porsche [read that: This isn’t a gearshift, baby, I’m just happy to see you]) than any other rat in the lab. And how had he been rewarded for putting SID on the map and ascending to criminalist stardom?

More work.

A larger caseload.

Less time to enjoy the fruits of his labors.

Namely, poontang.

John Chen was all about the ’tang. He was the first to admit it, and did, often, to anyone who would listen, including the young women of his acquaintance, which probably explained why he couldn’t get a date. He was a man obsessed when it came to the ’tang; hungry to make up the poontang shortfall which had been his lifelong burden; convinced, as he was, that every single straight male in California had enjoyed a veritable all-you-can-eat smorgasbord of the stuff since puberty. Except him.

But now was the payoff.

John Chen had scored a girlfriend. Well, okay, she wasn’t really his girlfriend. He knew that; he wasn’t kidding himself. Ronda Milbank was a married secretary with two kids from Highland Park who liked to drink. Every couple of weeks she told her husband she was going to a movie with the girls, but what she really did was hit a few bars hoping somebody would buy her a drink. John Chen had delivered the goods. Hey, princess, what are you drinking? Gimlets. She liked the sugar.

Well, he hadn’t really said that; he had been too scared. But he sat next to her, and after a while Ronda spoke to him. A couple of weeks later, he saw her again at the same bar. That was last night. He bought her a drink, and then another, and then-after having three or four drinks himself-he asked if maybe he could, you know, kinda see her sometime. And Ronda said, sure, tomorrow between eleven and noon-my husband will be at work and my kids will be at school.

SCORE!!!!

But then came the problem. As Jack Webb said: This is the city- Los Angeles. Four hundred sixty-five square miles; millions of civilians; untold criminals, all of whom were out doing crime; nine thousand of the world’s finest police officers, all of whom were out busting said miscreants; hundreds of crime scenes, more every day, more every hour of every day; an unending tsunami of crime scenes and evidence; each and every item of which had to be preserved, documented, recorded, tested, and analyzed by LAPD’s understaffed, underfunded, overworked, but world-class-

Scientific Investigation Division.

So John knew the answer even without asking. I mean, what? “Oh, sure, John, you need a ’tang break midway through the morning, be my guest.” Yeah, like that could outlast a snowball in hell.

Here’s how John Chen orchestrated his departure: That morning, he secured a small bit of dental enamel from a comparison kit, then waited for the height of the mid-morning coffee break when lab techs, scientists, or criminalists (who were all too overworked to leave their workstations) wolfed down muffins and Cheetos between sperm samples and bloodstains. At exactly fifteen minutes after ten, John made a point of walking past his supervisor just as he took a bite of his Ralphs Market raspberry-swirl muffin, and screamed-

“AHHHHHH!!!”

John jumped sideways, grabbing his jaw as he spun in a circle, not stopping until he saw that everyone in the crime lab was looking.

Then he opened his hand to show the enamel, and shouted-

“SONOFABITCH!!! I BROKE MY TOOTH! I GOTTA SEE MY DENTIST!”

Harriet eyeballed the enamel.

“It doesn’t look very big. Maybe you just chipped it.”

“JESUS CHRIST, HARRIET! IT’S KILLING ME. THE NERVE IS EXPOSED!”

Harriet said, “Here. Let me see.”

John covered his mouth, backing away.

“I NEED ICE! I NEED ASPIRIN! I GOTTA SEE MY DENTIST!”

John noted that Harriet had already frowned at the clock. She would let him die rather than fall further behind their caseload.

“John, please. I’ve broken teeth. The pain will fade. In a few minutes you won’t even feel it.”

You see how she was?

“It’s a broken tooth, Harriet – shattered, ruined! I gotta see a dentist.”

“Why don’t you call first? Maybe he can’t see you until later.”

“He’s my cousin! Look, the sooner I get there, the sooner I’ll be back. I’ll call him on the way. If I leave right now, I’ll probably be back by one-thirty or so.”

Having cleared out before the husband and kids showed up.

Harriet scowled at the clock again, but finally relented.

“All right, but don’t take your personal car. Take a van. I might send you straight to a crime scene from the dentist.”

Chen thinking, fat fucking chance.

He grabbed a cup of ice to make his story look better, then snatched his keys and evidence kit and ran for the exit. He stopped at the door long enough to make sure no one was following him, then tossed the ice. No way was he gonna tool up to Ronda’s house in a clunky SID van. He washed the Boxster before work so that Black Forest ’tang-magnet gleamed! He intended to roll up to Ronda’s in style!

Chen had just reached the first line of parked cars when he saw Harriet watching from the door. SonofaBITCH-

The vans were parked together on that same row, so John veered toward them. He stopped at the first van, grabbed his jaw as if the pain was excruciating, then waved at Harriet. She didn’t wave back. He made his way down the line of vans, watching her from the corner of his eye. That bitch was anchored in place. He found the van he normally used, ran behind it to hide, then counted to one hundred. When he peered out, Harriet was finally gone, and John Chen punched the air. All his hard work, sacrifice, and local news face time was about to pay off. The burden of his geekiness was about to be lifted. John Chen – Master Criminalist – was going to get laid.

Chen turned to run for his car when-

– someone who hadn’t been there a moment ago blocked his path.

Chen startled so bad he screamed again, but this time he meant it-

“AHHH!”

– and lurched backwards, falling, until hands as hard as vise grips caught him and held.

Joe Pike quietly said, “Take it easy, John. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Chen hated it when Pike did that – appearing from nowhere as if the freaky psycho had stepped through a hole in the smog. Only an asshole did stuff like that, sneaking up and scaring people, and Chen had been afraid of Pike since they first met. Chen had taken one look at the guy and known Pike was one of those vicious, double-Y chromosome, beer-commercial slope-brows who loved showing up other people. True, Pike had also given him the tips that led to Chen’s first breakthrough case and the acquisition of the ’tangmobile, but Pike still made him nervous.

Chen said, “You scared the shit out of me. Where’d you come from?”

Pike tipped his head toward a green Lexus parked in the next row.

Chen immediately stood taller. A smokin’ hot babe with spiky black hair and the nastiest lips Chen ever saw was in the front seat. She gave him a little wave, and Chen damn near popped in his pants. That bitch totally vibed SEX FREAK.

Chen said, “Man, that chick is hot. Does she put out?”

“I need a favor, John.”

Chen remembered Ronda and his one-hour window of opportunity. He started to edge away.

“Sure, yeah, but I gotta get going. I have an appointment-”

“It can’t wait.”

Chen froze in his tracks, certain that Pike would beat him to death if he took another step. The best Chen could muster was a meek little squeak.

“But-”

Pike said, “Big case, John. You could make the papers again.”

Ronda vanished like a popping bubble, and suddenly Chen didn’t feel so tiny. Pike and his partner, Cole, had come through before, and John had the car to show for it. Another headline case, and he might even be able to quit working for the city. Spear a gig with a private lab and earn some lifestyle cash. Might even bag the Holy Grail of anyone involved in L.A. law enforcement: He might land a job as the technical advisor for a TV series! Move up to a Carrera.

He studied the girl again.

“I know I’ve seen that girl. She do porno?”

Pike fingered John’s chin away from the girl so they were eye-to-eye. Prick.

Pike said, “You know about the two men who were shot in Malibu?”

“That’s the Sheriff’s. Their lab handles all that.”

“The three men who were killed in Eagle Rock?”

Chen wondered where Pike was going with this.

“Yeah, sure. We got that one, but it isn’t mine. What do you want?”

“The identities of the dead men.”

Chen was relieved, and almost at once thought about Ronda again. He thought Pike might want something difficult.

“No worries. I’ll call the coroner investigator this afternoon. He’ll know.”

“No, John, he won’t. Live Scan came back empty. None of the five were in the system.”

“So the detectives probably recovered-”

“No identifying information was found on the bodies.”

Chen saw his miraculous breakthrough evaporating.

“Then what can I do?”

“Run their guns, John. Run the casings.”

Chen knew what Pike was asking and didn’t like it. The police and the criminalists covering both crime scenes would have recovered any weapons and spent shell casings found with the bodies. Those weapons would have serial numbers and identifying characteristics that might or might not lead back to their owners, but running the guns was almost impossible. SID employed only two firearms analysis specialists, and the backlog of guns waiting to be analyzed numbered in the thousands. The workload was so horrendous that trials often began before the results were in. Judges actually issued court orders demanding that wait-listed guns be jumped ahead in the line.

The elation Chen felt dimmed.

“I dunno, dude, that backlog is brutal.”

“You came through before.”

“Yeah, but running a gun doesn’t mean you’ll come up with a name. Most guns like this were stolen or bought off the street.”

“One more thing-”

Pike gave him a date.

“An automobile accident occurred that night. LAPD towed the vehicle the next day, a silver Mercedes owned by a man named George King. They kept it for twenty-four hours, during which they examined the vehicle. I want to know what they found.”

Chen thought back but couldn’t remember the night or the car or anyone mentioning the car.

“Was a crime committed in the vehicle?”

“It was involved in a traffic accident.”

“They had some of our guys examine a traffic collision?”

“I want to know what they found. Call Elvis when you know. I won’t be around.”

Chen eyed the girl again and figured he knew exactly where Pike would be.

Chen said, “What’s in this for me?”

“The bullets from the Malibu bodies will match the bullets from Eagle Rock. Same shooter, John. L.A. and the Sheriff’s have not yet made the connection. Neither has the press.”

John Chen stared.

“Are you sure?”

Pike’s mouth twitched.

Chen’s heart began pounding. John had not worked the Eagle Rock killings, but he had been in the lab when the evidence arrived. The criminalist who worked Eagle Rock had not mentioned a connection between the two shootings. With the bullets in two different labs, unless the police had some other connecting evidence, it might take months or even years to connect the two shootings. They might never be connected-until and unless a superstar criminalist made a miraculous breakthrough.

Chen said, “What about the gun? Is the weapon one of the guns we have?”

“You might dig around about that, too. Compare the number of weapons logged into evidence with the weapons you have. See if the numbers add up.”

John Chen’s heart was pounding so hard his ears hurt. Pike was implying some sort of conspiracy and possibly a cover-up. Forget the local news losers-if Chen played his cards right, he might end up on the national news. Maybe even 60 Minutes! All thoughts of Ronda were gone.

Pike drifted away toward the Lexus.

“Check it out, John. Call Elvis.”

Pike slipped into the car like he was made of hot butter, then drove away. Chen stared after them, watching the girl, certain she would go down on the lucky bastard before they reached the exit.

Chen turned back to the lab, scowling. After the way he carried on about seeing a dentist, Harriet would wonder why he never left the parking lot. But then Chen realized she had already given him an out-she had told him the pain would pass, and he would tell her it had. Everyone liked being told they were right, and he would also earn points by selflessly returning to work so they wouldn’t fall further behind!

John Chen was not the world’s smartest criminalist for nothing.

John ran back to the lab, and immediately went to work.

Ronda would get over it.