Bleeding Out (12 page)

Frank swirled her finger above the clustered pins.

“This is his home base. This is where he feels most comfortable. If he’s never raped before, and we have no indication he has, he’s not going to do it in an unfamiliar place. I’ll lay even money he spends a lot of time at these parks, and that they’re close to where he lives. This is his
‘hood,”
Frank stressed.

“By the time he does Nichols, he has a long and successful string of rapes behind him. He’s got to be feeling pretty good, pretty confident. So let’s say he accidentally sees Nichols, he’s got a perfect opportunity to take her, and he does. See, he’s never
taken
anybody before, so he must feel very safe here. He’s familiar with this ‘hood and its rhythms.”

Still tapping the cluster of pins, Frank stated adamantly, “I’m willing to bet my left tit that we’ll find him somewhere in this area. He does Nichols because, again, she’s an easy mark. A little girl. Easy to handle. It’s his first abduction. He’s excited. He can spend time with this one. We don’t know exactly how much time, but from when she left school until seven that night. And where does he dump her? Behind a sandwich joint, a barber shop, and a trophy store, all closed by five. Someone from that area would know that the parking lot behind all those shops would be deserted by seven o’clock—around the time he dumped her.”

Frank paused, but started again almost immediately as Noah began to speak.

“He might not even have meant to kill her. He could’ve gotten carried away, which is what I think happened.”

She handed Noah the pictures of Cassandra Nichols.

“If you look carefully you can see the marks from her bra. Look at the lines there,” she pointed. “I think he got a little panicky, didn’t know what to do, messed her up a little to throw us off his track, make it look like a hundred other rapes, and dumped her. When I was looking at this picture I almost dismissed this as an unrelated case, because of the clothes, and the fact that she’s black. But the marks from the bra tell us he never had her clothes off; she was dressed the whole time. We know he likes that.”

“Yeah, but what about her being black? I mean that’s pretty inconsistent with his pattern.”

Noah was asking good questions. Frank had been up all night asking them too.

“Right again. But one, I don’t think he was really trolling for Nichols. I think he happened upon her somehow, saw his opportunity, and took it. That would explain why he panicked. And two, I went through my notes from that residency I did at Quantico. A serial perp will usually have an ideal victim that fits his fantasies, but it’s not unheard of to sacrifice ideal for opportunity. That could explain Nichols.”

Still staring at her pictures, Noah said, “She’s just a baby.”

Frank didn’t tell him she’d felt the same thing, continuing instead with her case.

“Nichols is young. He’s back to practicing on little girls, but she goes down so smoothly, and he’s confident from all his rapes, so his next girl is closer to his ideal.”

Frank gave Noah the Jane Doe pictures.

“According to the coroner’s report she’s between sixteen and eighteen. But look at her—she’s small. He’s not IDing these girls.

He doesn’t know how old she is, and she could easily be fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Another thing. She was a runaway. Autopsy showed alcohol and crack in her system, grass, no food in her stomach, looked like it had been days since she’d eaten. She’d be another easy mark.

“Now, I’ll bet with her he was totally prepared. He’d tasted blood with Nichols and he liked it, so he was prepared to waste this girl. When he was done with her. Remember, this is the first time he’s had these girls for as long as he wants them. I think he killed Nichols accidentally, maybe while he was raping her. He used a belt on Nichols instead of a towel, which would be consistent with a lack of planning. Maybe he put more force on it than he realized, then poof, she’s dead and he’s kinda freaked.

“But with the Doe he’s more careful. No belt marks. He’s gone back to using a towel. He’s playing with her. He’s in his element. She has all her clothes on. He likes that. He’s punching this girl around like a boxing bag. You can see in the coroner’s pictures where a button and a seam on her jeans left marks on her flesh.”

Frank’s eyes were shining, her voice excited as she added, “This is one interesting boy, No. He’s slamming these girls, but he’s not getting off on degrading them, he’s not making them sex slaves. He doesn’t like anything except anal sex. He’s not getting off on torturing them per se, though if some mother were doing this to me it’d go down in my book as torture. It’s more like he’s angry.

“Look at the way he’s battering them,” she said, jabbing a finger into one of the autopsy photos. “And only anal sex. He’s not looking at these girls when he rapes them. He’s barely touching them, but he’s exerting his dominance in no uncertain terms. I’ll bet that somebody’s done this to him. He wants to hurt these girls like he’s been hurt and he’s running on pure rage while he’s doing it. It’s common for serialists to escalate the intensity of their attacks, like junkies needing progressively stronger hits to get high. With each assault this guy’s fantasies get stronger and stronger. At this point, a rape without murder would probably be very unsatisfying for him.”

“Which means he’s going to get worse.”

Frank nodded. Her enthusiasm suddenly vanished, and she looked like what she was—a cop who’d been up for forty-eight hours, working on the hardest case of her career. She sounded weary when she spoke. “We’re going to reinterview all the girls, the parents, the responding officers, Culver City homicide. It’s going to be a pain in the ass, but at least we’ve got a track on this guy. I want to get composites done, plaster his mug all over town, go to the parks and see if anyone recognizes the composite.”

“Does the captain know about this yet?”

“Nope. He’s in Sacramento. He’ll be back tomorrow.” Noah chuckled. “I wanna be there when you tell him.” Frank smiled tightly, unable to derive pleasure even from the thought of Fubar’s jaw falling to his feet.

The phone rang. “Homicide. Franco.” It was the assistant DA, and she unloaded. Within twenty-four hours, two of Frank’s detectives had tried to steamroll her into taking three separate cases based on practically no cause and with equally little supporting evidence. She explained that this was L.A., not some Podunk backwater town, and she needed compelling evidence to get a criminal to trial. Priors and circumstance wouldn’t do it.

Frank listened patiently. Pissing off Lydia McQueen was not a good idea. And she was right. If they didn’t have solid evidence the detectives shouldn’t have gone to her, but it was easy when they were carrying dozens of cases to show the ADA what they had and hope she’d go to bat with it. Frank spent almost half an hour trying to mollify The Queen and then had a talk with Gough about his case. She knew he was suffering from a big case of burnout. He was still a good cop—after all, he’d been doing it for so long—but he’d taken to cutting corners that were best left whole. Frank played on his loyalty to the squad, pointing out that long after he was gone the department was going to have to keep working with the DA’s office, and that it would help his colleagues if he went by the book while he was still badged.

Back in her office, the light was blinking on her phone. Hodges, Homicide from the Culver City PD. She returned the call. He was antsy that she was poking around in their cases. She reassured him that she wasn’t going behind his back, or being asked to get involved by higher-ups. All the while she was thinking what a paranoid mother he was.

At last she returned to the rape folders. Reluctantly, she dialed the phone number of the first girl on the list. Alissa Aguilar. Frank studied her picture while the phone rang. Finally a machine picked up and Frank left a message saying it was very important that Mr. or Mrs. Aguilar call her back, no matter how late. She left her beeper number.

Making the calls in the chronological order of the rapes, she reached Claudia Menendez’ father on the next try. After introducing herself, she explained that since Claudia’s assault, they believed her attacker had raped seven other girls and might well be responsible for the murder/tortures of four more. Frank was encouraged by Mr. Menendez’ sounds of anger and disbelief, and asked if it would be possible to talk to Claudia again in light of this new evidence.

He was understandably hesitant, and Frank assured him she wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t crucial. She had no wish to reopen Claudia’s wounds, but his daughter might be able to add something critical that she’d forgotten the first time. Frank heard the frustration in his voice when he said he’d have to talk to his wife, but that they could probably talk to Claudia when she got home from school. Frank left her beeper number, with the appeal that they call her back as soon as possible.

She squeezed the back of her neck. Frank had never worked rape, but she didn’t think she’d be very good at it. Handling pain wasn’t her forte. Dead was dead, and in homicide she didn’t have to deal with the victim’s wounds.

An answering machine at the next number took her message. Before she could dial again, Diego came in about an extradition case. Frank was getting him started on the forms when Bobby leaned into the doorway.

“We’re all going to the Sizzler for lunch. Want to go?”

Diego nodded, but Frank indicated the case folders stacked next to her.

“Can’t,” she said, pulling a ten out of the wallet in her back pocket. “But bring me back something, a salad.”

“What sort of salad?”

Bobby was very thorough. He would want a detailed list.

“Anything green.”

“What sort of dressing?”

“I don’t care. Surprise me.”

“What—”

“Come on,” Diego said, snatching up the money. “I’ll get the friggin’ salad.”

The squad room was suddenly quiet, and Frank picked up the phone. The fourth girl was Jessica Orenthaler. The girl’s mother answered. She started crying before Frank could even tell her what she wanted. Frank waited her out, listening to the phone ring in the squad room. When Mrs. Orenthaler quieted down, Frank started to explain the circumstances. Mrs. Orenthaler hung up almost immediately.

Contemplating Claudia Menendez, Frank found nothing remarkable about the child’s appearance. She was slight and doe-eyed, with a suggestion of a pallor, and Frank wondered if she didn’t go outside much anymore. She and Noah sat at an angle from Claudia on plastic-covered chairs, while the girl nestled between her parents on a matching couch. The only hint of her recent trauma was the way she snuggled into her mother like a much younger child might.

Frank made the introductions, explaining why they needed to ask more questions. The previous interviews had dealt mostly with physical factors about the assault, but because she and Noah were interested in constructing a psychological profile of the assailant, they needed to ask some different questions. Frank pointed out that they wouldn’t be nice questions. The parents agreed, and Frank let Noah start. There was a gentleness about him that put people at ease, and maybe because he had three of his own, he was especially good at interviewing kids. The girl looked reluctant, but her father patted her leg and she gamely launched into a quiet recounting. Noah had a list of questions, but he waited for Claudia to finish before asking them. He explained that although the questions might seem silly or dumb, each answer told them something about the man they were looking for.

“Can you remember him touching you anywhere else, except for where he grabbed you and hurt you? This is real important, so take your time and think about it. Don’t rush.”

Claudia pulled her teeth over her bottom lip and gazed at the coffee table. She shook her head no.

“You’re sure?”

Claudia nodded.

“Okay, that’s good, that’s real good. Another thing that we need to know is if he pulled your pants up before he let you go.”

They could see she was struggling to remember, but Mr. Menendez answered for her.

“When she came back to us her clothes were all on. We thought she’d just fallen down or something.”

“Do you remember pulling your pants back up, Claudia?”

She wagged her head, still puzzled, then said almost in a whisper, “I think he pulled them up.”

“You think so?” Noah encouraged.

Again she nodded, but they could tell she was uncertain.

“Okay. You’re doing great,” Noah smiled. “Can you handle some more questions?”

He waited for her assent before asking if the man had said anything to her, and her answer was certain.

“I tried to scream, but he had his arm around my throat so tight I couldn’t breathe and he told me to shut up or he’d kill me. I was scared so I didn’t say nothing else. And I couldn’t hardly breathe,” she added apologetically.

“Did he say anything else to you besides shut up or he’d kill you?”

Her brown hair shook emphatically.

“Did he ask you to say anything?”

Again a shake of the brown head. Mr. Menendez was getting restless. Noah said, more to him than Claudia, “Okay, darling. Hang in there, you’re doing really well and we’re almost done. Can you answer a few more?”

Again Claudia glanced up at her mom for reassurance and was heartened by a warm smile. The last questions were the hardest for everybody. Noah asked ugly questions as gently as he could, but finally the fear and shame and horror caught up to Claudia. Tears slid down her face, but Noah pressed on, promising her he was almost through.

At last, he reached across the table and cupped her face in his long hand. “Alright, honey, that’s all. You did a really great job. You told us a lot about the man who hurt you. You helped us a lot.”

The girl buried her face against her mother while Noah looked expectantly at Frank. She rose and extended her hand to Mr. Menendez.

“You’ve got a fine daughter. We’re awfully sorry to have stir this all up again, but she’s been a big help.”

Mr. Menendez followed the detectives to the doorway, asking specific questions that they weren’t free to answer.