Suspect (4 page)

I’m here, Steph.

I didn’t leave you.

I was trying to save you.

Scott told her these things every night when she came to him, but Stephanie was dead and could not hear. He knew he would never be able to convince her, but he told her anyway, each time she came to him, trying to convince himself.

3.

The narrow parking lot behind Goodman’s building was furious with summer heat, and the air was sandpaper dry. Scott’s car was so hot, he used his handkerchief to open the door.

Scott bought the blue 1981 Trans Am two months before the shooting. The right rear fender had a nasty dent from the taillight to the door, the blue paint was pocked with corrosion, the radio didn’t work, and the odometer showed 126,000 miles. Scott had bought it for twelve hundred dollars as a weekend project, thinking he would rebuild the old car in his spare time, but after the shooting he lost interest. Nine months later, the car remained untouched.

When the air blew cold, Scott made his way to the Ventura Freeway and headed for Glendale.

The K-9 Platoon was headquartered with the Metro Division at the Central Station downtown, but used several sites around the city for training its dogs. The primary training site was in Glendale, which was a spacious facility where Scott and the other two new handlers had been trained as K-9 officers during an eight-week handler school run by the Unit’s veteran chief trainer. The student handlers trained with retired patrol dogs who no longer worked in the field due to health or injury issues. They were easy to work with and knew what was expected of them. In many ways, these dogs served as teachers for their baby handlers, but when the school cycle was completed, the training dogs would return to wherever they lived, and the new handlers would be partnered with pre-trained patrol dogs to begin a fourteen-week certification process. This was an exciting moment for the new handlers, as it meant they would begin bonding with their new dogs.

Scott knew he should feel excited, but felt only a dull readiness to work. Once Scott and his dog were certified, he would be alone with the dog in a car, and that’s what Scott wanted. The freedom to be alone. He had plenty of company with Stephanie.

Scott was passing the Hollywood split when his phone rang. The Caller ID showed LAPD, so he answered, thinking it was probably his K-9 Platoon Chief Trainer, Dominick Leland.

“This is Scott.”

A male voice spoke, but it wasn’t Leland.

“Officer James, I’m Bud Orso, here with Robbery-Homicide. I’m calling to introduce myself. I’m the new lead in charge of your case.”

Scott drove on without speaking. He had not spoken with his case investigators in more than three months.

“Officer, you still there? Did I lose you?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m the new lead in charge of your case.”

“I heard you. What happened to Melon?”

“Detective Melon retired last month. Detective Stengler was reassigned. We got a new team in here on this.”

Detective Melon was the former lead, and Stengler was his partner. Scott had not spoken with either man since the day Scott gimped into the Police Administration Building with his walker, and unloaded on Melon in front of the entire Homicide Special squad room because they had been unable to name a suspect or develop new leads after a five-month investigation. Melon had tried to walk away, but Scott grabbed him, fell out of his walker, and pulled Melon down with him. It was an ugly scene Scott regretted, and could have derailed Scott’s chance to return to the job. After the incident, Scott’s Metro boss, a Captain named Jeff Schmidt, cut a deal with the RHD commander, a Lieutenant named Carol Topping, who buried the incident. An act of compassion for an officer who was shot to shit in the street. Melon had not filed a complaint, but shut Scott out of the investigation and stopped returning his calls.

Scott said, “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

He didn’t know what else to say, but wondered why Orso sounded so friendly.

“Did Melon tell you what happened?”

“Yes, he told me. He said you were an ungrateful prick.”

“I am.”

Fuckit. Scott hadn’t cared what Melon thought of him, and didn’t care what the new guy thought, either, but he was surprised when Orso laughed.

“Look, I know you had a problem with him, but I’m the new guy. I’d like to meet you, and go over a couple of things in the file.”

Scott felt a flare of hope.

“Did Melon turn any new leads?”

“No, I can’t say that. This is just me, trying to get up to speed on what happened that night. Could you roll by sometime today?”

The flare of hope faded to a bitter ember. Orso sounded like a nice guy, but Scott had just relived what happened that night, and was fed up with talking about it.

“I’m on shift, then I have plans.”

Orso paused. This told Scott Orso knew Scott was giving him the brush.

Orso said, “How about tomorrow, or whenever is convenient?”

“Can I give you a call?”

Orso gave him his direct-dial number, and hung up.

Scott dropped his phone on the seat between his legs. The numbness he felt only moments earlier had been replaced with irritation. Scott wondered what Orso wanted to ask about, and if he should have mentioned the sideburns even though he didn’t know if they were real.

Scott cut across lanes and veered toward the city. He punched in Orso’s number as he passed Griffith Park.

“Detective Orso, it’s Scott James again. If you’re there now, I can swing by.”

“I’m here. You remember where we are?”

Scott smiled at that, and wondered if this was Orso’s idea of a joke.

“I remember.”

“Try not to hit anyone when you get here.”

Scott didn’t laugh, and neither did Orso.

Scott phoned Dominick Leland next, and told him he wouldn’t be in to see the new dogs. Leland growled like a German shepherd.

“Why in hell not?”

“I’m on my way to the Boat.”

“Fuck the Boat. There is nothing and no one in that damned building more important than these dogs. I did not let you into my K-9 platoon to waste time with those people down there.”

Robbery-Homicide housed their special units on the fifth floor of the Police Administration Building. The PAB was a ten-story structure across from City Hall. The side of the PAB facing City Hall was a thin, pointy, triangular glass wedge. This made the PAB look like the prow of a ship, so rank-and-file officers dubbed it the Boat.

“They want me at Robbery-Homicide. It’s about the case.”

Leland’s growl softened.

“Your case?”

“Yes, sir. I’m on my way now.”

Leland’s voice turned gruff again.

“All right, then, get your ass here as soon as you can.”

Scott never wore his uniform to Goodman’s office. He kept his uniform in a gym bag and his handgun in a lockbox in the trunk. He dropped off the freeway on First Street, and changed in the Boat’s parking garage. He expected more than a few detectives to give him the glare because of his scene with Melon. Scott didn’t give a rat’s ass, either way. He wanted to remind them he was a police officer.

Scott showed his badge and LAPD ID card to the lobby receptionist, and told her he was there to see Orso. She made a brief call, then gave Scott a different ID card to clip to his shirt.

“He’s expecting you. You know where they are?”

“I know.”

Scott tried not to limp as he crossed the lobby, which wasn’t so easy with all the steel in his leg. The night they wheeled him into the Good Samaritan emergency room, Scott had surgeries on his thigh, shoulder, and lower chest. Three more surgeries followed later that same week, with two additional surgeries six weeks later. The leg wound cost him three pounds of muscle tissue, needed a steel rod and six screws to rebuild his femur, and left him with nerve damage. The shoulder reconstruction required three plates, eight screws, and also left him with nerve damage. The PT after the multiple surgeries had been painful, but he was doing okay. You just had to be tougher than the pain, and eat a few painkillers.

Bud Orso was in his early forties, with a chubby scoutmaster’s face topped by a crown of short black hair. He was waiting when Scott stepped off the elevator, which Scott had not expected.

“Bud Orso. Pleasure to meet you, though I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

Orso had a surprisingly strong grip, but released Scott quickly and led him toward the Homicide Special offices.

“I’ve been living with this file since they handed me the case. Horrible, what happened that night. How long have you been back on the job?”

“Eleven weeks.”

Polite conversation. Scott was already irritated, and wondered what was waiting for him in the Homicide Special squad room.

“I’m surprised they let you.”

“Let me what?”

“Come back. You were squared up for a medical.”

Scott didn’t respond. He was already tired of talking, and sorry he came.

Orso noted the K-9 patch on Scott’s shoulder as they walked.

“K-9. That should be interesting.”

“Better. They do what you say, don’t talk back, and it’s only a dog.”

Orso finally took the hint and fell silent as he led Scott into Homicide Special. Scott felt himself tense when he stepped through the door, but only five detectives were scattered about the room, and none glanced over or acknowledged him in any way. He followed Orso into a small conference room with a rectangular table and five chairs. A large black file box was on the floor at the head of the table. Scott saw his transcribed statements spread across the table, and statements made by the friends and families of the two men who had been inside the Bentley, a real estate developer named Eric Pahlasian, the driver, who had been shot sixteen times, and his cousin from France, a real estate attorney named Georges Beloit, who had been shot eleven times.

Orso went to the head of the table, and told Scott to sit wherever he liked.

Scott braced himself, then averted his face when he sat so Orso couldn’t see his grimace. Taking a seat always caused a painful jolt in his side.

“Want a coffee or some water?”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

A large drawing of the crime scene leaned against the wall on the floor. Someone had sketched in the Kenworth, the Bentley, the Gran Torino, and the Adam car. Someone had sketched in Stephanie and Scott. A manila envelope lay on the floor by the poster board. Scott guessed crime scene photos were in the envelope, and glanced away. When he looked up, Orso was watching, and now Orso didn’t look like a scoutmaster. There was a focus to his eyes that hardened them to points.

“I understand talking about this might be difficult.”

“No sweat. What did you want to know?”

Orso studied him for a moment, then gave him the question.

“Why didn’t the big man finish you?”

Scott had asked himself this ten thousand times, but could only guess at the answer.

“Paramedics, is my guess. The sirens were getting closer.”

“Did you see him leave?”

If Orso read the interviews, he already knew the answer.

“No. I saw him lift the rifle. The gun came up, I laid back, and maybe I passed out. I don’t know.”

Later, in the hospital, they told him he had passed out from blood loss.

“Did you hear them leave?”

“No.”

“Doors closing?”

“No.”

“Were you awake when the paramedics arrived?”

“What did they say?”

“I’m asking you.”

“The rifle came up, I put my head back, and then I was in the hospital.”

Scott’s shoulder was killing him. A deep ache, as if his muscles were turning to stone. The ache spread across his back as if the scar tissue was splitting apart.

Orso slowly nodded, then made a crooked shrug.

“The sirens are a good bet, but you never know. When you slumped back, maybe he thought you were dead. Maybe he was out of ammo. Gun might have jammed. One day we’ll ask him.”

Orso picked up a slender report, and leaned back.

“Point is, you were hearing just fine until you passed out. Here in your statements, you mentioned you and Officer Anders were talking about how quiet it was. You stated she turned off the car so you could hear the silence.”

Scott felt his face flush, and a stab of guilt up through the center of his chest.

“Yes, sir. That was on me. I asked her to turn off the vehicle.”

“You hear anything?”

“It was quiet.”

“I get it was quiet, but how quiet? Were there background sounds?”

“I dunno. Maybe the freeway.”

“Don’t guess. Voices on the next block? Barking? A noise that stood out?”

Scott wondered what Orso was going for. Neither Melon nor Stengler had asked him about background sounds.

“Nothing I recall.”

“A door closing? An engine starting?”

“It was quiet. What are you digging at?”

Orso swiveled toward the crime scene poster. He leaned toward it and touched the side street from which the Kenworth had come. A blue X had been drawn on a storefront three doors from the intersection.

“A store here was burglarized the night you were shot. The owner says it happened after eight, which was when he locked up, but before seven the next morning. We have no reason to think the burglary occurred when you and Anders were at the scene, but you never know. I’ve been wondering about it.”

Scott didn’t recall Melon or Stengler mentioning the burglary, which would have been a major element in their investigation.

“Melon never asked me about this.”

“Melon didn’t know. The place is owned by a Nelson Shin. You know that name?”

“No, sir.”

“He distributes candy and herbs and crap he imports from Asia—some of which isn’t legal to bring into the U.S. He’s been ripped off so many times, he didn’t bother to file a report. He went shopping for a weapon instead, and got named in an ATF sting six weeks ago. He shit out when the ATF scooped him, and claimed he needed a full-auto M4 because he’s been burglarized so many times. He gave the ATF a list of dates to show how many times his store was cracked. Six times in the past year, if you’re curious. One of those dates matched with your shooting.”

Scott stared at the blue X that marked the store. When Stephanie shut off the engine, they listened to the silence for only ten or fifteen seconds, then began talking. Then the Bentley appeared, but the Bentley was so quiet he remembered thinking it moved like it was floating.