Survival of the Fittest (19 page)

“That was Denmark,” said Carmeli. “This is America.”

Liora’s smile vanished and she lowered her head, chastened.

“So you feel,” said Milo, “that Irit wasn’t afraid of strangers.”

“She wasn’t afraid of anything,” said Liora.

“So if a stranger—”

“I don’t know,” she said, suddenly crying. “I don’t know anything.”

“Liora—” said Carmeli, taking hold of her wrist.

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “Maybe. I don’t
know
!” She broke free of her husband’s grasp and faced the wall, staring at the bare plaster. “Maybe I should have told her
other
stories, where the demons won, so you needed to be careful—”

“Ma’am—”

“Oh, please,” said Carmeli, disgusted. “This is idiotic. I
insist
you leave.”

He stomped to the door.

Milo and I got up.

“One more thing, Mrs. Carmeli,” he said. “Irit’s clothes. Were they sent back to Israel?”

“Her clothes?” said Carmeli.

“No,” said Liora. “We sent only .   .   . she—when we—our customs—we use a white robe. Her clothes are here.” She faced her husband. “I asked you to call the police and when you didn’t, I had your secretary call. They arrived a month ago and I kept them.”

Carmeli stared at her, bug-eyed.

She said, “In the Plymouth, Zev. So I can have them with me when I drive.”

Milo said, “If you don’t mind—”

“Crazy,” said Carmeli.

“I am?” said Liora, smiling again.

“No, no, no, Lili, these questions.” More Hebrew. She listened to him calmly, then turned to us. “Why do you want the clothes?”

“I’d like to do some analyses,” said Milo.

“They’ve already been analyzed,” said Carmeli. “We waited months to get them back.”

“I know, sir, but when I take on a case I like to make sure.”

“Make sure what?”

“That everything has been done.”

“I see,” said Carmeli. “You’re a careful man.”

“I try.”

“And your predecessors?”

“I’m sure they tried, too.”

“Loyal, too,” said Carmeli. “A good soldier. After all this time, the clothes being in my wife’s car, what use are analyses?”

“I never touched them,” said Liora. “I never opened the bag. I wanted to, but   .   .   .”

Carmeli looked ready to sting, said only, “Ah.”

Liora said, “I’ll get them for you. May I have them back?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

She got up and went outside.

Unlocking the minivan’s rear hatch, she lifted up a section and revealed the spare-tire compartment. Next to the wheel was a plastic bag still bearing an LAPD evidence tag. Inside was something blue—rolled jeans. And a white patch—a single sock.

“My husband already thinks I’ve gone crazy because I’ve started talking to myself—like Iriti’s singing.”

Carmeli stiffened, then his eyes went soft. “Liora.” He put his arm around her. She patted his hand and moved away from him.

“Take it,” she said, pointing to the bag.

As Milo reached for it, Carmeli returned to the house.

Watching him, Liora said, “Maybe I am sick. Maybe I am primitive.   .   .   . What will you be analyzing? The first police told us there was nothing on it.”

“I’ll probably repeat what’s been done,” said Milo. He held the bag in both hands, as if it were something precious.

“Well,” she said. “Good-bye. Nice to meet you.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m sorry we upset your husband.”

“My husband is very .   .   . tender. You will return it?”

“Absolutely, ma’am.”

“Can you say when?”

“As soon as possible?”

“Thank you,” she said. “As soon as possible. I would like to have it with me again when I drive.”

Chapter

21

She trudged back into her house and closed the door.

Milo and I returned to our cars. “I love my job,” he said. “Those light and airy moments.” The evidence bag was nestled against his barrel chest.

“Poor woman,” I said. “Both of them.”

“Looks like things aren’t great between them.”

“Tragedy will do that.”

“Any other insights?”

“About what?” I said.

“Her, them.”

“He’s protecting her and she doesn’t want to be protected. Pretty standard male-female pattern. Why?”

“I don’t know .   .   . the way she talked about being crazy, primitive. She’s .   .   . something about her made me wonder if she has a psychiatric history.”

I stared at him.

“Like I said, light and airy, Alex.”

“Stalking her own child in the park and strangling her?”

“Strangling gently .   .   . could be a boyfriend, I’ve seen
that
plenty of times, guy develops a relationship, sees the kids as impediments—but no, she’s not a suspect. I just think ugly by reflex.”

His arm dropped and the bag dangled. “I’ve seen too many kids killed by mama. Can’t be effective if I avoid the shadows.”

“True,” I said. “My guess is that she might have been wound up pretty tight—a diplomat’s wife—and has unraveled. She probably used to put on a happy face, suppress things, now she says to hell with it.”

He looked down at the bag. “What do you think about her keeping this in her car all this time?”

“A shrine. There are all sorts of them. She knew her husband would be offended so she created a private one but she’s willing to risk his disapproval in order to cooperate.”

“Offended,” he said. “She talked about her culture. As opposed to his? Moroccan as opposed to wherever he comes from?”

“Probably. He looks European. When I was in private practice, I had a few Israeli patients and the East versus West thing came up. When Israel was created it became a melting pot for Jews and sometimes there was conflict. I remember one family with just the opposite situation. The husband was from Iraq and the wife was Polish or Austrian. He thought she was cold, she thought he was superstitious. Maybe Mrs. Carmeli didn’t want Mr. to think she was engaging in primitive rituals. Maybe she just knew he’d be grossed out by the clothes. Whatever the reason, she had no hesitation telling you she had the bag.”

“One thing for sure, I’m talking to the neighbors. Carmeli will freak but so be it. Worse comes to worst, he gripes and they pull me off the case and someone else gets to feel useless.”

I looked up the block. The electrician’s van was the only vehicle at the curb.

“Are you really planning to run new lab tests?”

“Maybe. First things first.”

I met him at the West L.A. station, upstairs in the detective room, relatively quiet now, with one other D, a young black woman, filling out forms. She didn’t seem to notice as Milo sat at his metal desk, cleared papers, and placed the bag next to a stack of messages weighed down by a stapler. He scanned the slips, put them down. Then he put on surgical gloves and unsealed the bag.

Removing the jeans first, he turned each pocket inside out. The denim gave off smells of earth, mold, and chemistry lab.

Empty.

Turning the pants over, he pointed out some very faint brown stains that I’d have missed.

“Dirt, from when she lay on the ground.”

Refolding the pants neatly, he took out the white sock and its mate, then a pair of white cotton underpants printed with small pink flowers, the crotch cut away cleanly.

“Semen analysis,” he said.

Next came tennis shoes. He peeled the insoles free and peered inside, saying, “The Ortiz boy’s shoes were obviously bloody but let’s check these out anyway—size six and a half, made in Macao,
nada,
no blood, surprise, surprise.”

A white cotton training bra caused him to pause for a second before removing the last garment—the lace-trimmed white T-shirt I’d seen in the photos. The front was clean but the back bore brown stains, too. Two breast pockets.

He put a thumb and forefinger inside the first, looked inside, moved on to the second and pulled out a small rectangle of paper, the size of a fortune-cookie slip.

“Aha, Dr. Sherlock, a clue—“Inspected by number 11.’ ” Then he turned the scrap over and his mouth dropped open.

Typed neatly in the center were four letters.

DVLL

Chapter

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.”