The Pain Scale (5 page)

Five hours. Maybe six. Hours I’d spent losing myself in the Benton investigation. With almost no awareness of my pain.

That was the best I’d done in over a year.

Son of a bitch.

The psychologist was on to something, after all. It wasn’t the technique that was wrong. It was the imagery.

I live in the lower unit of a duplex in Belmont Heights, on Roycroft, a block from Warren High School. The tenants before me were a graphic designer and his family. He had a flair for color, and the way he’d painted the place was the reason I moved in. The kitchen is done in bright primary colors—red and blue and yellow—with a Caribbean flair. The dining room, living room, and master bedroom are finished in textured plaster, each in a different earth tone, with the ceiling molding and accents in perfect contrasting colors. The detail that really sold me, though, was the bedroom that had belonged to his daughter. From the doorway, the wall on the left is painted a deep blue, highlighted with a night full of white-gold stars surrounding a smirking crescent moon over which jumped one very happy cow. As your eyes travel up the wall and onto the ceiling, the colors gradually fade, perfectly blending together in imitation of the growing dawn, becoming lighter and lighter until day breaks on the far right wall in a rainbow of bright colors, with a glowing yellow-and-orange sun that beams out from behind a perfectly detailed pair
of Ray-Ban sunglasses. Even now, I like to stand in the middle of the room and let my gaze slowly drift from one wall to the other.

When my wife, Megan, died, she was pregnant and hoping for a girl.

I moved in about six months later.

The night of the Benton murders, I tried to sleep, but as is often the case, I couldn’t. I went into the spare bedroom, spun the desk chair away from the computer in the corner, and stared at a grinning star painted by a man I’ve never met. As I massaged the pain in my left forearm, I thought about the day and all that had happened. I couldn’t help wondering if it was a twinge of guilt I felt as I smiled back at the sun and imagined the coming day.

I
MANAGED A
few hours of sleep and woke to the pain dull and throbbing in my wrist and forearm. It seemed like a good sign. I do better with that than when it’s sharper and more piercing.

Most days I have to make a choice. Usually I know shortly after I wake up whether the day will end with Vicodin or with vodka. If the pain tends toward the sharper side, the narcotic usually works better, but if it’s duller and more generalized, the Grey Goose is usually more effective. Either way, just to take the edge off, I have to get so wrecked that I wind up in a near-drooling daze.

At that point, I’d manage with just one or the other, but most days I figure it is just a matter of time. It is all about the Vs.

Even with a solid four hours of sack time, I still managed to beat the lieutenant into the squad room by more than an hour. When he arrived, he helped himself to one of the donuts I’d brought. He went for his regular—a maple bar. Me, I was on my second vanilla cruller. And I had serious designs on a third. That’s the thing about picking up the pink boxes yourself. It’s really the only way to make sure you get enough crullers. Nobody ever gets enough crullers. And nothing starts the day off worse than having to settle for some strawberry-coconut piece of crap.

“Rise and shine,” Ruiz said around his first bite. “You get any sleep?”

“A little.” I didn’t sleep much. The previous night’s discovery about the case’s effect on my pain hadn’t allowed me much rest. But I couldn’t deny that I’d woken that morning feeling more enthusiastic about going to work than I had in a long time. Would I be able to get lost in the case again? What would happen to my pain? Now that I was aware of the phenomenon, would the relief disappear?

“What’s the game plan?”

“I’m hoping we can talk to Bradley Benton today. We’ve also got a friend who Sara canceled lunch plans with yesterday to interview. Beyond that, Jen and I are putting together Sara’s last seventy-two hours and working the victimology. Anything about the rush on the autopsy?”

“Paula’s doing it herself.”

Paula Henderson is the lead medical examiner for the southern region of the LA County’s coroner’s jurisdiction. “The chief asked her to move the Bentons to the head of the line. So make some time for the prelim this afternoon.”

“Will do.” I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of strings had been pulled on the congressman’s behalf. “When’s the press conference?”

“Sometime this morning. Probably around ten so it’ll be less likely to be picked up live. The brass are happy as pigs in shit. None of the media’s caught wind of anything yet. They can’t stop talking about ‘managing the story.’” Los Angeles had local news coverage on one station or another all day long, but the 9 to 11 a.m. window had the fewest live broadcasts going on. “They’re hoping to break it before any media does. You get any calls yet?”

“Not so far.”

“The chief wants something planned before the congressman gets involved.”

“Think he’ll want to be at the conference?”

“I can’t imagine a politician missing a chance to make a speech.”

“Better make it quick, then. You want Jen and me for the stand-up?”

“I’ll get you out of it if I can, but don’t count on it.”

“Might be a good chance to lasso some of the family.”

“Good idea.”

The brass would want the two lead investigators on the case to appear at the press conference disclosing the Benton murders. It was standard procedure. We wouldn’t speak or be spoken to. Our job would be to just stand there looking sad and competent. If Jen and I had to dance our jig, we’d lose a few hours of prime investigative time. But it might be worth it if it gave us an opportunity to interview the family.

It was quarter to eight when Jen arrived. She eyeballed the donuts but didn’t take one.

She studied me.

“What?” I asked.

“You look rested,” she said.

I thought about telling her what had happened last night, telling her about the relief the case seemed to be bringing me. But I didn’t know how to say it. I’d been trying to play down my pain levels. I knew she saw through it to some degree, but I didn’t know how much. I didn’t want to admit how much I had really been hurting, and I would have to do that for her to understand.

And even more importantly, I was afraid talking about the case’s effects would diminish them.

So I filled her in on the developments in the investigation and left everything else I was thinking about unsaid.

When I finished, I asked how she thought we should prioritize the morning.

“Talking to Benton’s number one,” she said.

“I figured I’d wait until eight to call Campos. Then badger him into the soonest meet we can get. A little luck and it’ll be the same time as the press conference.”

“How about the ‘Lunch with Cat’ note?”

“I cross-referenced the address book, e-mail, cell, and landline records. Smart bet is that ‘Cat’ is Catherine Catanio. In the last month, Sara’s talked to her more days than not. After the family, I think we should make her number two on the list.”

At 8:05, I called Campos’s office number, identified myself to the receptionist, and was told he was unavailable. I called back every two minutes. On the fifth try, she decided it would be all right to transfer me to his cell.

“Campos.”

“Hey, Julian. Danny Beckett, here. LBPD Homicide. Remember me?”

“Yes.” I thought I could hear traces of annoyance in his voice, but that might have been wishful thinking. “What can I do for you?”

“A couple of things. First, we’re going to need to talk to Bradley Benton today.”

“I’m not sure that will be possible.”

“Why not?”

“He’s having a very difficult time. His doctor has medicated him very heavily. It doesn’t seem he’ll be up to seeing anyone today.”

“How about the rest of the family?” Now it was my turn to try not to sound annoyed.

“That’s certainly more of a possibility.”

“The chief and Media Relations have scheduled a press conference for ten a.m. The congressman and any other members of his family are certainly welcome to attend.”

“Yes, we’ve been informed. Mr. Benton’s father and mother will both be in attendance.”

I wasn’t surprised. The chief’s office had probably cleared it with the family before they bothered to tell us. You get even more perks for being a congressman than you do for being just plain rich.

“Perhaps we could speak to them briefly afterward.”

“I’m certain we can arrange something.”

To nearly everyone’s surprise, the congressman was, in fact, able to pass up an opportunity to make a speech. He didn’t even make an appearance on the platform with the chief and the rest of us. He sat in the back of the room with his wife, Campos, and a small entourage. I kept my eyes on him for most of the duration of the press conference. He was wearing a dark suit, his hair was coifed in perfect anchorman fashion, and he seemed to be holding up well. I wondered how strong a wind would be required to dislodge it. His wife, Margaret, was taking it much harder. Even with the obvious face work and Botox, the grief still found its way into her expression. As the talking heads spoke, she closed her eyes, and her lips tightened into a subtle grimace that seemed her only defense against an overwhelming emotional onslaught. Even from thirty feet away, I could see her pain.