Authors: Steve Gannon
After dropping Catheryn at home in Malibu, I had spent the remainder of the morning at the coroner’s office attending the autopsies of Charles, Susan, and Spencer Larson. “Sorry, Arnie,” I said as I sank into a chair behind my desk. Arnie had been my Training Officer, mentor, partner, and best friend for most of my police career. When he’d retired several years back, I had reluctantly assumed his position as the D-III supervising detective for the West LA homicide unit. Since taking on the additional duties of overseeing personnel, delegating responsibility, and monitoring ongoing investigations, I’d belatedly come to appreciate the scope of my older friend’s abilities. “I would’ve been here sooner,” I added, “but I heard Deluca was reprising his piss story for about the ten billionth time, and I decided to make myself scarce.”
“I’ve made revisions,” objected Deluca. “You’ll like this version.”
Banowski glared at Deluca. “You were never one to agonize over the facts.” Then, to me, “See the news last night?”
“No. Why?”
“’Cause your smilin’ face was all over it, that’s why. That good-looking broad from Channel Two, Lauren what’s-her-name, got a nice shot of you callin’ one of our local psychos a maggot.”
“The other stations picked it up, too,” added Arnie. “Probably get the department sued for slander.”
“Damn,” I grumbled.
“When are you gonna learn not to converse with our brothers and sisters in the media?” chided Arnie. “
Especially
the lovely Ms. Van Owen. I swear, every time you open your mouth around her, you wind up sticking—”
“We’re all in agreement that diplomacy isn’t my strong suit,” I interrupted. “So what?”
“So the el-tee wants to have a little conference with you, that’s what,” Deluca answered, referring to Lieutenant Nelson Long, the West LA detectives commanding officer. “He’s been on the phone all morning with the mayor, the chief, and every news agency from here to New York.”
“Sorry, Arnie,” I groaned, rising from my desk. “Can we get together later tonight?”
“Maybe,” Arnie said doubtfully. He had a new girlfriend and recently had been spending most of his time at her place. In the weeks I’d been bunking at Arnie’s, I hadn’t seen much of him. “Kate leaving for Europe tomorrow?” he asked.
I nodded.
“So let’s hit some of the old watering holes later this week,” he suggested. “You can hoist a couple Shirley Temples while I destroy what few brain cells I’ve got left.”
“Sure. Say hi to Stacy for me. By the way, how’s that going? She hasn’t dumped your fat ass yet?”
“Not yet, partner. But thanks for asking.”
After passing a low counter guarding the entrance to the squad room, I rapped on a door near the personnel board. A Formica nameplate screwed to the wooden surface of the door read “Lt. Nelson Long.”
“Come,” a gravelly voice echoed from the other side, sounding like a truck grinding in low gear.
I entered Long’s cramped, windowless cubicle. The lieutenant looked up from a thick binder on his desk, his dark-brown eyes displaying an intelligence that seemed almost startling in his otherwise ordinary, broad-featured face. As a black graduate fresh from the academy, Long had ascended the ranks of the LAPD on ability alone and, in my opinion, was one of the few members of the brass who merited my respect and trust.
“Listen, Lieutenant,” I began. “If this is about my comments to the TV people yester—”
“Relax,” said Long, returning his attention to the three-ringed binder on the desk. “By now I’m used to your press releases. Your on-camera screw-ups are getting to be a matter of course.”
I sat in a wooden chair beside Long’s desk. “This one wasn’t so bad,” I observed. “I’ve done worse.”
Long closed the file, which I noticed was marked “Larson.”
“No argument there,” he agreed with a patient smile. Then, more seriously, “We have a problem brewing, Dan. These Palisades murders are going to turn into a real shitstorm. The mayor’s already jumping all over it. Did you see the papers this morning?”
“Nope.”
“It’s not good,” Long sighed. “Nobody’s safe in their own homes, the cops aren’t doing dick about rising crime in middle class neighborhoods, that kinda crap. Plus, the
Times
and some of the local TV news stations are hinting at a connection with the killings last month in Orange County.”
“I know. I went online and looked up the previous news reports,” I said. “I’m sure the O.C. guys held back some details, and this could still turn out to be a copycat killing, but everything I’ve learned so far fits. I hate to say it, Lieutenant, but I have a bad feeling that the Orange County murders and those in Pacific Palisades were done by the same guy.”
Both of us fell silent, considering the unsettling possibility that a serial killer might be responsible for both sets of murders. I knew that years back Long had participated in the “Hillside Strangler” investigation, and early in my career I had been peripherally involved in tracking a series of killings—callously labeled the “Bum in a Drum” murders by certain LAPD wags—in which the bodies of transients started turning up in downtown Dumpsters. In each instance, apprehensive public figures and citizens alike had called for immediate albeit unrealistic results, and as the cases dragged on, investigating agents had increasingly been served up as scapegoats. It was common knowledge on the Force that a serial killing investigation was a no-win situation for everyone involved.
Finally Long leaned forward. “Okay, give me the rundown.”
“Have you read my crime report?”
Long nodded. “Now I want to hear it from you.”
I reached into my jacket, withdrew a packet of digital photos I’d printed, and placed them on Long’s desk. “The SID shots aren’t back yet, but these will give you an idea of what we’re dealing with.”
Long picked up my photos and began inspecting them without comment. Although his face remained impassive as he worked his way through, I could tell he was shaken by what he saw.
“Here’s how I have it figured,” I said as he set down the final picture. “Shortly after midnight, our guy somehow got in through the front door. Everything else on the first floor was buttoned up tight, so the Larsons either left the door open or he had a key. Deluca’s checking the key angle, running down anybody who had one. Turns out the neighbor who found the bodies knew about a spare key under a flower pot. Maybe somebody else did, too.”
“You’re putting Deluca on as your secondary?”
I nodded. “I know he has his faults. The guy would have sex with a cactus, but when he keeps his mind off the ladies, he’s a good man.”
“Just asking. Go ahead.”
“Okay,” I continued, “once our man got in, he disabled the phones and turned off the power at the breaker box, then went upstairs and surprised the Larsons in bed. He tied them up—wife to the bed, husband on the floor. Not much sign of a struggle, except that the man suffered trauma to the back of his skull. Walter Chang did the posts this morning and says it was done with a blunt instrument. We’re examining blood and hair on a piece of pipe that was twisted in a rope around the guy’s neck. Urine was found on the carpet by the closet door, probably from when the husband’s bladder released at the end. Could have been the killer, though. The lab’s also checking that.”
“Any alarm system?”
“Yeah—out of order. I have a man from the security company going out this afternoon to check it.”
“What’s the time frame on the murders?”
“Between midnight and four AM. The liver temps and gastric contents indicate that the husband and wife died hours after the kid. It appears that once he’d tied up the Mr. and Mrs., the killer went to the boy’s room and put a bullet through his head, then took his time with the parents. Chang recovered slug fragments from the kid’s skull that appear to be from a .25-caliber projectile. They’re pretty chewed up, but we might be able to match them to a gun. Assuming we get lucky and find one.”
“Shell casing?”
“Nope. If our man used an automatic, he picked up the brass.”
“Why didn’t the kid bolt? He was right down the hall from his parents’ room. There must have been a lot of noise when the killer busted in. Shouting, screaming …
something
.”
“Maybe the kid was too scared to do anything but hide,” I offered.
Long picked up my photos and flipped through them again, stopping on one of Susan Larson. “Go on,” he said.
“Chang listed the husband’s cause of death as ligature asphyxiation. The hyoid bone was still intact, with the larynx and trachea bruised but not crushed, suggesting a soft type of strangulation—probably to prolong the torture. Chang thinks the husband was repeatedly choked into unconsciousness and then allowed to recover, which explains how the killer managed to cut off Mr. Larson’s eyelids while he was still alive.”
Long shuffled to a close shot of Charles Larson’s face. “Jesus. The guy was alive when …”
“Yeah. The cuts were made with a low blade-angle instrument like a scissors. No damage to the orbits. The guy was careful. The tissue distention and degree of bruising indicate that most of the wife’s wounds were antemortem, too. By the way, in our press release we didn’t mention the eyelids or that the murder knife came from the victims’ kitchen. We also held back the plastic handcuff ties.”
Long nodded his approval. In well publicized crimes, investigators are often inundated with phony confessions, and the descriptors I had withheld could prove invaluable as a means of elimination. “What did Chang get on the woman?” Long asked.
“Extensive blunt trauma to the face and head, but the cause of death was exsanguination,” I answered, still working from memory. “Most of the cuts on her face and chest were window dressing—the guy just having a little fun before the main event. A number of deep abdominal thrusts ended her life. One nicked her aorta, at which point she probably bled out in minutes. The incision angles indicate a right-handed assailant. Several missing tissue parts—a portion of her left earlobe and skin from her neck—were never recovered. I’m assuming he either ate them or took them with him.”
“Semen?”
“Nope. The woman’s anus and vagina were torn, though. He could’ve used something like a dildo, or maybe he wore a rubber. We’re checking for the presence of a prophylactic lubricant.”
“How about the bites? Anything on them?”
“The lab results aren’t in yet, but if the guy’s a secretor we’ll get a blood type. Bob Wolcott over at the UCLA Dental School is studying the bites,” I added, referring to a forensic odontologist who often worked with the LAPD. “He says he should be able to tell whether we have more than one killer, and because the bite wounds go all the way through in some places, he may be able to fabricate plaster casts.”
“Prints?”
“We’re still comparing the latents we lifted against those of the victims, the maid, the woman who found the bodies, and anybody else who might’ve been in the house. A couple of prints not matching anyone’s have turned up. No hits yet on any of the database systems yet. I have a hunch the guy wore gloves. Everything that we
know
he touched—doorknobs, power panel, knife, and so forth—turned up negative.”
Long took a final look at my photos, then slid them back. “So what’s the good news? Or is there any?”
“Not much,” I answered. “The neighborhood canvass was unproductive. Nobody heard or saw anything. We got hairs from the bathroom, beside the bed, and from pubic combings on the wife. All blood traces are being typed and compared with the victims’ to see whether any came from the killer. We’re trying to get a shoe size and make from the bloody footprints, too. I’m not optimistic, but who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Maybe. In the meantime, how are you proceeding?”
I paused to marshal my thoughts, then continued. “First, we’re running a toxicology analysis on the husband and wife to see whether they were using drugs. I found a small amount of cocaine in the upstairs dresser and a quarter ounce in an office safe downstairs.”
Long raised a questioning eyebrow.
“The wife’s brother opened the safe,” I explained. “Seemed surprised at finding the coke there,” I added. “It’s slim, but if there’s a chance the killings are drug related, we need to check it out. Second, because we didn’t find matching candles, rope, pipes, or Ace bandages in the Larsons’ house, I’m assuming the killer brought those items with him. We’ll run that down with local markets and hardware stores. We’ll also compare the candles and any other similar materials to those found at the Orange County murder scene. Third, one of the Larsons’ cars is missing. A 2010 Infiniti. I have an APB out in the hopes the guy took it after he killed the family. Last, I plan to go through the victims’ records, searching for some personal tie-in. We’ll also round up all known sex offenders in the area, interview friends and coworkers for the possibility of an ex-boyfriend or jealous lover, and see what the word is on the street. The funeral’s set for later this week, so we’re going to post an undercover van there and video everyone who shows up. Plus, family members will be watching for strangers. Speaking of which, sometimes these fruitcakes like to come back for another look. How about getting surveillance on the Larsons’ house?”