Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (15 page)

Maybe he’d been sincere when he promised.

A fertilized egg changed everything.

I thought we agreed, Petra! We were using birth control, for God’s sake!

Ninety percent effective isn’t one hundred, honey.

So why didn’t you use something more reliable?

I thought it was good enough—
Apologizing? Was she really apologizing?

Great, Petra. Fuck around with our lives like that. You’re an educated woman! How could you do anything so stupid?

Bloody potential. Cramping so badly she felt she was being torn apart, she’d rested her cheek on the cold porcelain rim of the toilet, flushed, listened to it whirlpool away.

Alone, barely able to stand, she drove herself to the hospital. Tests, a D and C, more tests, three days in a semiprivate bed next to a woman who’d just birthed her fourth baby. Two boys, two girls, family members all around, cooing and ahing.

The postcard from Nick came two weeks later. Brilliant sunset over sand. Santa Fe.
Taking some time off to think.
She never saw him again.

The hole that opened in Petra’s consciousness expanded, hollowing her, lowering her immunity. More cramps, fever, an infection, back to the hospital.

Outpatient follow-up. Feet in stirrups, too drained to feel demeaned.

Dr. Franklin’s sad sympathy.
Let’s talk in my office.
Charts and pictures.

Unable to focus any better than she had during all those mind-numbing boarding school health classes, she played dumb.

What are you saying? I’m sterile?

Franklin averted his eyes, dropped his glance to the floor. Just like suspects did when they were about to lie.

No one can say that for sure, Petra. We have all sorts of procedures nowadays.

She’d flushed away life, flushed her marriage.

Gravitated toward a career full of death. Using the grief of others as a constant reminder of how bad it could get, her situation was okay—right? In that sense, the more brutal the better. Bring on the bodies.

So why the hell was she
crying
? She hadn’t cried in years.

This case? It had barely begun; she had no feel for the victim.

Then she heard Lisa’s name and her aching eyes flew to the screen as the story flashed. Feeling stupid for being surprised—how could it be any other way? Now millions of people were viewing sixty seconds of tape that Stu and she hadn’t been allowed to ask for.

Had Stu seen it? She knew he got to sleep as early as possible, especially when making up for lost nights. If he hadn’t seen it, he’d want to know. She supposed.

She phoned his house in La Crescenta. Kathy Bishop answered, sounding subdued.

“Did I wake you? Sorry—”

“No, we’re up, Petra. We just watched it, too. Here’s Stu.”

None of the usual small talk. Kathy usually liked to chat. Something different with both of them—a marital thing? No, couldn’t be, the Bishops were poster children for marital solidity, don’t disillusion me, Lord.

Stu came on. “Just got off the phone with Schoelkopf. Quote: ‘We don’t want another f-ing O.J. My office, eight
A.M.
’
”

“Something to wake up for.”

“Yeah. How’d the notification go?”

“Spoke to the father. He hates Ramsey’s guts, is positive Ramsey did it.”

“He back that up with anything?”

“The beating. And he says Lisa was scared of Ramsey.”

“Scared of what?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Aha . . . okay, eight
A.M.
”

“What do you think about the broadcast?”

Silence. “I guess it could help us. Make Ramsey a de facto suspect and get the brass worried about looking stupid if we
don’t
press him a little.”

“Good point,” she said.

Silence.

“Okay, I won’t keep you—just one more thing: Dr. Boehlinger runs an ER, probably a take-charge kind of guy. I’m sure he and his wife will be coming out ASAP. He hates Ramsey. What if he decides to get proactive?”

“Hmm,” he said, as if it were mildly interesting. Same way he’d reacted to the library book. Was she off her game? “Share it with the captain. He’s such a sharing person.”

Tuesday, 7:57
A.M.

Edmund Schoelkopf looked more Latin than Teutonic. A short, trim man in his early fifties, he had moist black eyes, thick, artificial-looking black hair combed back from a flat, shallow forehead, and delicate lips. His skin was the color of All-Bran. He wore knockoffs of Armani double-breasteds and aggressive ties; looked like a former cop who’d gone on to corporate security. But he’d spent every moment of his work life in LAPD and would probably never leave till mandatory retirement.

His office was unimpressive, the usual mix of city-issue and community donations. He let Stu and Petra right in.

“Coffee?” His bass voice was morning-thick, barely into the human register. On the walls behind him were the usual graphs and pin charts—tides of crime that could be surfed but never tamed.

The coffee smelled burnt. They were supposed to refuse it, and they did. Schoelkopf pushed back his desk chair and crossed his legs, tugging up knife-crease slacks.

“Tell me,” he said, the basso corseted now.

Stu caught him up on the visit to Ramsey’s house, and Petra summed up her talk with Patsy K., the search of the apartment and the door-to-door, the notification of Dr. Boehlinger. Presented that way, it sounded as if she’d done a lot more work than Stu. She had. He didn’t seem to care; kept looking around. Schoelkopf seemed distracted, too, even when Petra talked about the discovery of Lisa’s dope.

“The father blames it on Ramsey, sir,” she said. “He really hates Ramsey’s guts.”

“Wouldn’t you? So . . . you’ll follow up with that black guy at the studio—Darrell.”

“Right away. What if Dr. Boehlinger tries to get involved?”

Schoelkopf’s black eyes fixed on the center of her forehead. “We’ll deal with that if and when it occurs. Let’s concentrate on getting some data. I know the lab’s got all the stuff, but is there anything even remotely resembling physical evidence yet?”

Petra was about to shake her head when Stu said, “Petra found something interesting. A library book, hundred feet or so above the body. And there are some other indications someone could have been up there recently. There’s a rock formation—”

“I’ve seen the crime-scene photos,” said Schoelkopf. “What other indications?”

Petra’s hands had tightened. She tried to catch Stu’s eye, but he focused on the captain.
Something interesting?

Schoelkopf said, “Tell me about the other indications, Barbie.”

“Food wrappers,” she said. “Like from a fast-food joint. Specks of ground beef, maybe tacos. And urine on one of the rocks—”

Schoelkopf said, “Someone eating and peeing and reading? What kind of library book?”

“Presidents of the United States.”

That seemed to annoy him. “Checked out recently?”

“No, sir. Nine months ago.”

“Oh, c’mon—that sounds like bullshit.” He tossed coffee down his throat. The mug was steaming. It had to hurt. “What makes you think this person was up there recently?”

“The meat wasn’t dried out, sir.”

“A speck of meat?”

“A few specks. Ground beef.”

“How long does it take for ground beef to dry out?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“I don’t either, but I’ll bet it varies, depending on how much fat in the meat, temperature, humidity, who knows whatever the fuck else. What about the urine?”

“The crime techs thought it was—”

“It’s a park,” said Schoelkopf. “People come up there to eat and relax, maybe they take a leak when no one’s watching—there are picnic tables not far from there, right?”

“Yes, but not right there, sir. These rocks—”

“Sometimes people don’t bother going to the john—is there a john nearby?”

“Just past the picnic tables.”

“People are lazy—okay, I can see you liking the food and the pee, but the book tells me you’re barking up the wrong tree. Because it was
dark,
Barbie. Why the hell would anyone be out there reading in the dark?”

“The person could have arrived earlier, stayed till after dark—”

“What, some intellectual with an interest in political science is reading about the presidents—God knows why, they’re all scumbags—eats, takes a leak, and lays his head down on a rock and falls asleep and just happens to wake up to see the girl get sliced? Fine, so where is he, your witness?”

“We’re not saying the book was even related to the food,” she said. “It was found a ways up from the—”

“Hey,” said Schoelkopf, “you want a gift from Santa Claus, fine. But for all we know it was
Ramsey
behind those rocks munching a burger and taking a leak—sitting in wait for her. She shows up, he jumps her.”

“The way she was dressed, sir, she seemed to be out on a date.”

“With who?”

“Maybe Ramsey. His everyday car, a Mercedes, was gone when we visited his house. If we’re allowed to ask questions, maybe we can find out where it is.”

Schoelkopf shot forward in his chair. “You don’t think you’re being
allowed
?”

Petra didn’t answer.

Stu said, “We have been told to be careful.”

“And what the fuck’s wrong with that? Ever hear of Orenthal James Asshole? Remember what happens when people aren’t careful?”

Silence.

Schoelkopf drank more coffee but remained slanted forward. “You’ll proceed appropriately once the evidentiary basis has been established. Let’s get back to your scenario, assume she was having some kind of date that ended in a meeting at the park. Ramsey, dope, or she’s trysting with some married guy. Or cruising some fucking whips-and-chains club, who the hell knows. And let’s say your
potential
witness
was
behind the rock. What kind of witness bunks out in the park at night and pees on rocks? Sees a brutal murder and doesn’t call us. That sound like Joe Citizen?”

Petra said, “Maybe a homeless person—”

“Exactly,” said Schoelkopf. “A lowlife, a mental case. No sane person—no
legit
person—would be out at night alone in Griffith Park. Meaning, we’ve got a bum or a wacko or even the bad guy himself. Hell, I’ll go for a scumbag who reads about the presidents, but till you get me a lead, I’m not gonna authorize any media release for the info, because we are not going to look like idiots on this one.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, sir,” said Petra.

Schoelkopf stroked his upper lip. Had he ever worn a mustache? “Okay, so what you’re telling me is we’ve got fuck-nothing. Run forensics on all of it—food, book, pee—but don’t get sidetracked, because it’s weak. And find the
vic’s
goddamn car. Meanwhile, here’s what I did for you in the real world: made sure the coroner assigned a
competent
pathologist and not one of those slicer-dicers. I asked Romanescu to personally supervise the post, and he agreed, but who the hell trusts him—he used to work for the Communists. Same for the crime techs: I’ve asked Yamada to oversee, we don’t want mumblebums screwing everything up, another fucking travesty like you-know-who, and you better believe the media would love to turn it into one. They should have some prelims soon; keep in touch. What I’m saying is: Every bit of fiber and juice gets microanalyzed up the yin. Don’t tell me ninety-nine percent of the time forensics is useless, I know it is, but we’ve got to cover all bases. Also, there were no defense wounds on the girl’s hands, but that doesn’t mean she offered no resistance at all, so let’s pray for transfer, one damn molecule of body fluid with a story to tell.”

He scratched a front tooth with a fingernail. “No cuts on Ramsey, huh?”

“Nothing visible,” said Stu.

“Well,” said Schoelkopf, “don’t count on getting the guy to take his clothes off anytime soon.” The black eyes dropped to the phone messages. “At least the race thing isn’t an issue. So far.”

“So far, sir?”

Picking up the empty mug, Schoelkopf looked into it, meditating. “This black guy, Darrell. Wouldn’t that be lovely? What else do we know about him?”

“The maid said he worked with Lisa. And that he was older than her. Just like Ramsey.”

“So she wants to fuck her dad. Write a Psych 101 essay.” Schoelkopf put the mug down, stared at both of them, then avoided their eyes. “Next item: Ramsey called me last night at ten
P.M.
—himself, not some lawyer. The page operator wisely decided to put him through. First he pours on the grief, says anything he can do to help. Then he tells me about the domestic-violence thing. It’s going to be on the news tonight—he wants to explain that it only happened once; he wasn’t making excuses, but it was only once. He says the true story is she pushed him and he got pissed. He said it was the stupidest thing he ever did, he felt ashamed.”

Schoelkopf waved a finger around and around. “Et-fucking-cetera.”

“Covering his rear,” said Stu. “He never mentioned the DV to us.”

“He’s a star,” Petra half muttered. “Goes straight to the top.”

Schoelkopf’s color deepened. “Yeah, the bastard’s obviously trying to finesse, calling with no legal shield. That tells me he thinks he’s smarter than he is. So if we do get some physical evidence, maybe there’ll be a way to wedge him open. Not that we’d be able to talk turkey without his getting a lawyer mouthpiece faster’n Michael Jackson gets new faces. But meanwhile we finesse, too.
That’s
what I meant by context: no premature hassling; no getting accused of tunnel vision.”

Petra said, “The news broadcast—”

“Gives you a good reason to talk to him about all sorts of things, but at the same time you need to do an exhaustive check of all similar homicides. I’m talking two years’ worth—make it three. All city divisions. Keep
precise
written records.”

Petra was stunned. This was scut work—hours . . . days of it. She looked at Stu.

He said, “How closely related are we talking about?”

“Start with girls cut up with multiple wounds,” said Schoelkopf. “Girls killed in parks, blondes killed in parks, whatever, you’re the D’s. And make sure to check if any new slashers have been operating in noncity areas that border the park, like Burbank, Atwater. Maybe Glendale, Pasadena—yeah, definitely Glendale and Pasadena. La Canada, La Crescenta. Start with those.”