Survival of the Fittest (16 page)

He picked up the chart and ran his finger down the middle. “Truthfully, Alex, what I see is lots of partials, very little that goes across the board. And one killer operating out of three jurisdictions?”

“What better way to evade notice than by moving around?” I said. “It would lessen the chance of a connection being discovered because how often do detectives from different divisions get together? It could also be part of the thrill: By killing all over the city, he expands his sphere of influence. Rules the city, so to speak.”

“The Killer King of L.A.” He frowned. “Okay, let’s stick with the one-killer hypothesis for argument’s sake. Raymond’s abduction was a full year before Irit, Latvinia three months after. You say he’s compulsive. Not much even spacing there.”

“Assuming no murders took place between Raymond and Irit. And even if they didn’t, with lust crimes the drive often accelerates as the victims pile up. Or he killed out of town. But let’s assume he operates only in L.A. and Raymond was his first. Even with his arrogance he would have been apprehensive, pulling back to see if the investigation turned anything up. When it didn’t, he left the shoes. When that didn’t get any attention, he struck again. In a safe place, like the conservancy. And
that
success bolstered his confidence so he repeated sooner.”

“Meaning the next one could be even sooner.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he began to pace.

“Something else,” I said. “If Raymond was his first, maybe he removed the body to
use
it. Kept it for two months until he thought he was finished with it. Or—and this is sickening—until it wasn’t usable, anymore. At that point, he disposed of it, keeping the shoes and whatever else as mementos. Maybe he was still at a point where he wanted to quit. But after a while, the shoes no longer worked for him as sexual stimuli so he delivered them to Newton Division, with the clipping, to revive some of the power-thrill. That was temporary, too, and he went stalking. Driving around the city, looking for another outdoor setting. Some place that evoked Raymond’s murder but different enough to avoid detection of a pattern.”

He stopped pacing. “First a boy, then girls?”

“He’s ambisexual. Remember, he doesn’t have sex with them. The thrill is the stalking and capture. That’s why he took Raymond but not Irit and Latvinia. By then, he was less impulsive, had learned what really turned him on.”

“You’ve got some mind, Doctor.”

“That’s what you pay me for. When you pay me.”

He tapped a foot and studied the rug. “I don’t know, Alex. It’s a clever construction but there are still too many differences.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “But here’s another thought: All three kids were murdered in public places. Perhaps because the killer—or killers—finds that erotic. Or, he has no access to an indoor killing spot.”

“Homeless?”

“No, I doubt it. He’s got a car and I still see him as middle-class, neat and clean. I was thinking just the opposite: a family man, living an outwardly wholesome and conventional life. Maybe with a wife, or a live-in girlfriend. Even children of his own. A nice, cozy domestic setup where there’d be no convenient place to play with a dead body.”

“What about a van?” he said. “You know how many of these assholes love vans.”

“A van might work but sooner or later, he’d have to clean it up. If I’m right about his being a family man, with a job, it would be sooner.”

“Not a nine-to-five job, Alex, because he gets away in the middle of the day.”

“Probably not,” I said. “Someone with flexibility. Self-employed, an independent contractor. Or a work schedule with revolving shifts. Maybe a uniform. Some kind of repairman, or park maintenance worker. A security guard. One thing I’d do is cross-reference the personnel lists for the conservancy and the park where Raymond was killed. If you come across someone who switched jobs from East L.A. to the Palisades, ask him lots of questions.”

He pulled out his pad and made a note. “And keep looking for other retarded victims. Other divisions   .   .   .”

Robin came in with three bowls and set them down. Milo folded the chart I’d made and slipped it in the pad.

“Here you go, boys. Chocolate syrup for you, Milo, but the only flavor we had was vanilla.”

“No prob,” said Milo. “The virtue of simplicity.”

Chapter

18

At nine-thirty, I walked Milo down to his unmarked. He lagged behind me on the stairs and his footsteps were halting and deliberate.

“Going home?” I said.

“Nope, back to the office. Gonna call every goddamn night-shift detective in every goddamn division, look for any remotely possible matches. If I don’t get any, that’ll tell me something, too.”

He opened the car door. “Thanks for the input. Now let me tell you about Sergeant Wes Baker. We were classmates in the academy. Two of the oldest guys in the class, he might have been
the
oldest. Maybe that’s why he started off thinking we were kindred spirits. Or maybe it was because I had a master’s degree and he fancied himself an intellectual.”

“And you didn’t want to be kindred with him.”

“What are you, a shrink? I didn’t want to be kindred with anyone at that place, still tucked deeply in the closet, waking up with my jaws clenched so tight I thought my face would break. Every day I memorized another section of the penal code, shot bull’s-eyes on the range, did hand-to-hand, the whole macho bit. After Vietnam, no big challenge, but it was like someone else going through it—I felt like an impostor, was sure I’d be found out and lynched. So I kept to myself, avoided after-hours with the other recruits, didn’t have to pretend to be a pussy hound and smile through the fag jokes. Why I didn’t quit, I still don’t know. Maybe after the war I couldn’t find any alternatives that seemed better.”

A sudden, frightening grin spread across his face. “And that’s my confession, Father .   .   . back to Wes Baker. He was a relative loner, too, because he considered himself above it all, Mr. Experience. He saw me reading Vonnegut and got the idea we could relate because he was into books. Philosophy, Zen, yoga, politics.
Psychology.
Always eager for a meaning-of-life discussion. I pretended to go along, which was easy because he liked to talk and I know how to listen. He told me his life story in weekly installments. He’d knocked around a bit, traveled everywhere, Peace Corps, worked oil rigs and cruise ships, taught school in the inner city, been-there-done-it. He was always complaining he couldn’t get a bridge foursome at the academy, that for the other guys poker was an intellectual challenge. He kept trying to buddy up, inviting me over. I kept declining politely. Finally, midway through the course, he asked me to his place to watch a Rams game and I agreed, wondering if he was gay, too. But his girlfriend was there—cute little grad student from the U. And her friend—a budding actress.
My
date.”

He smiled again, this time with some pleasure. “Noreen. Great legs, flat voice, maybe the silent era would have treated her better. Wes cooked up this Indian banquet—chutneys and curries, whatever. Okra, which to me is snot from the ground—chicken in a clay pot. He served some esoteric beer from Bombay that tasted like horse piss. The game was on the tube but it never got watched because Wes nudged us into a debate on East versus West, who really enjoyed the greater quality of life. Then he got down on the floor and demonstrated yoga positions, trying to show how they could be used to subdue suspects without undue violence. Gave a whole lecture on the history of martial arts and how it related to Asian religion. His girlfriend thought it was fascinating. Noreen got sleepy.”

“Sounds like a fun evening.”

“Real chortle fest. After that night, I was friendly to him but really kept my distance. The guy was too intense for me and life was hard enough without having to deal with all his cosmic bullshit. He must have sensed it because he cooled off, too, and eventually we were just nodding hello in the hall, then avoiding each other completely. About a week before graduation, I happened to be having one of my few nights out. Dinner at a place in West Hollywood with a guy I’d met at a bar. Older guy, an accountant, also struggling. He ended up divorcing his wife, had a massive heart attack shortly after and died at forty-two.   .   .   . Anyway, we’d been at this place on Santa Monica and when we came out some cars were stopped at a red light. The guy put his arm around my shoulder. I wasn’t comfortable being public, and I moved away. He laughed it off and we walked to the curb to cross the street. Just then I got that back-of-the-neck feeling when someone’s watching you, turned and saw Wes Baker in a little red sports car. Looking right
through
me, with this
so-that-explains it
expression. When my eye caught his, he pretended he didn’t see me, and jackrabbited the moment the light turned green. A week later someone busted into my locker and filled it with a stack of gay porn. A huge stack, including some really nasty S and M stuff. I could never prove it was Baker, but who else? And a couple of times I caught him staring at me in a weird way. Studying me, like I was some kind of specimen.”

“You wondered about his sexuality,” I said. “Maybe he was cruising West Hollywood for a reason, was worried that you’d seen
him.”

“And the locker was a best-defense-is-an-offense bit? Could be, but I think it was plain old homophobia.”

“Not very tolerant for an intellectual.”

“Since when do the two go hand in hand? And to me he’s a
pseudo
intellectual, Alex. Surfing the philosophical wave of the week. Maybe he is latent, I don’t know. For obvious reasons I couldn’t afford to make an issue of it, so I just stayed away. I didn’t see him again for a long time. Then around five years ago he made sergeant and got transferred to West L.A. and I thought oh, shit, here come problems. But there weren’t any. He made a point of coming up and saying hi, Milo, long time no see, how’s everything? Mr. Jovial. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was putting me on. Patronizing me. But D’s and uniforms don’t have that much contact and his path never crossed mine. A few months ago, he got kicked upstairs to Parker Center. Some sort of administrative job.”

“If he fancies himself an intellectual,” I said, “how come he stayed in uniform and didn’t try for detective?”

“Maybe he likes the streets—putting the cosmic yoga choke hold on bad guys. Maybe it’s the image—tailored duds, gun, baton, stripes. Some blues think detectives are paper-pushing wusses. Or could be he likes training rookies, easing little bluebirds out of the nest.”

“In some ways he sounds like Nolan. Self-styled scholar, trying on different philosophies. I don’t imagine the department operates like a computer dating service, but two guys like that getting together seems awfully coincidental.”

“I’m sure it’s not. Baker would have been in a position to pick and choose.”

“I’ve been wondering if the suicide had something to do with the job, but Baker told Helena he’s baffled.”

“The Baker I knew would have had an opinion. The Baker I knew had an opinion about everything.”

Thinking about Lehmann’s reticence and wondering who else shared it, I said, “Maybe I’ll talk to him myself.”

“Getting involved in this one, huh? When Rick sent the sister to you, he thought it would be a quickie.”

“Why?”

“He said she was a no-nonsense gal. All business. Move ’em up, get ’em out.”

I’d had the same feeling about Helena, had been surprised when she’d called for a second appointment. She hadn’t returned today’s calls, though.

“Suicide changes things,” I said.

“True. I called the department’s personnel office and Lehmann is on their shrink referral list, along with a bunch of others, but that’s all I can get on him.”

“Don’t spend any more time on it. You’ve got your hands full.”

“Big
hands,” he growled, and held them out, palms up. “For
big
man. With
big
job. Me go back to cave now. Try not to fuck up
big-
time.”

I laughed.

He got in the car and started the engine. “Lest I blanket you in total pessimism, Zev Carmeli called me just before I left for Newton, said I could talk to his wife tomorrow, at the family home. I told him I might be bringing you along, wondered if he’d give me some grief over that—psychoanalyzing the wife. But he didn’t. In general, he seemed more cooperative. As if he finally believed I was on his side. Have you the time and inclination?”

“When?”

“Five o’clock.”

“Should I meet you there?”

“Probably best ’cause I don’t know where I’ll be. They live on Bolton Drive.” He gave me the address, shifted the unmarked into drive, coasted ten feet, then stopped. “When you talk to Wes Baker, bear in mind that knowing me will not earn you gold stars.”

“I can live with that risk.”

“What a pal.”

The next morning I reviewed Irit’s file again, learning nothing. The theories I’d spun for Milo last night seemed nothing more than random shots.

I wasn’t any further along on Nolan’s suicide, either. Some elements of the “typical” problem cop were there—alienation, isolation, family history of depression, possible job stress, the dark secrets Lehmann had intimated. But trying to explain self-destruction on the basis of a collection of symptoms is like saying people got poor by losing money.

Lehmann’s caginess had accomplished just the opposite of what he’d hoped, piquing my interest.

What Milo’d told me about Baker was intriguing but before I talked with him I wanted Helena’s go-ahead and she still hadn’t returned my messages. I tried the hospital again and was told she’d called in sick last night. No one answered at her home.

Huddled under the covers, sleeping off a nasty virus?

Should I call Baker anyway? If I asked questions and told him nothing of substance, there’d be no breach of confidentiality.

But grief was a psychic tide, ebbing and flowing in response to the magnet of memory, and Helena’s “sickness” could be something of quite a different nature.