“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.”
Neither Stu nor Petra spoke.
“Don't give me that surly shit,” said Schoelkopf. “This is insurance for you. ‘Yes, Mr. Pusswipe Defense Attorney, we looked into every goddamn nook and cranny before we busted Mr. Ramsey's ass.' Think-about your faces on Court TV, old Mark Fuhrman sitting around in Idaho. Because you're the ones on the line unless the case gets too big and we don't produce and they kick it over to downtown Robbery-fucking-Homicide.”
“Which they could do anyway,” said Stu.
Schoelkopf's grin was murderous. “Anything's possible, Ken. That's what makes this job so charming.” He began thumbing through the phone messages.
“What's the procedure with Ramsey?” said Stu. “Do we wait to look into all those similars before approaching him, or are we allowed to start now?”
“Allowed, again? You two think this is being imposed on you?”
“Just trying to get the rules straight.”
Schoelkopf looked up. “The only rule is be smart. Goddamn yes, you talk to Ramsey. If you don't, we'll be in a sling over that. Just do the other stuff, too. That's why God invented overtime.”
He picked up a message slip and the phone, but Stu remained seated and Petra followed his cue.
Stu said, “In terms of Ramsey's background, I've got some sources at the studios-”
“I can see a problem there,” said Schoelkopf, looking up. “Movie people are loose-lipped assholes. The fact that your sources blab to you means they're not real good at keeping their mouths shut, right?”
“That's true of any case-”
“This isn't any case.”
“What's to stop them from talking to the press, anyway, Captain?” said Petra. “What if the tabloids start throwing around money and a real feeding frenzy develops? Do we keep bird-dogging the nightly news?”
Schoelkopf's top teeth gnashed his bottom lip. “Okay, pick one or two sources, Ken,” he said, as if Petra hadn't spoken. “But know this: You will be graded. Talk to that black guy, see what he's all about. Sooner rather than later. Have a nice day.”
16
My eyes are closed, and I'm thinking when I feel it. Ants are crawling over me; they probably smelled the Honey Nuts. I jump to my feet and slap them off, stomp as many as I can. Someone watching me would think I'm crazy.
After what I saw, I don't feel great even being in the park, but what's my choice? For a second I imagine him finding me, chasing me, cornering me. He's got the knife, the same one, grabs me and stabs down. My heart jumps up to meet the blade.
Why would I think that?
It's 11:34 A.M., have to take my mind off it. I open the algebra book, do equations in my head. I'll try to eat- maybe a piece of beef jerky- and at 1:00 P.M., I'll go down to that place along the fence, see if the lock's still off.
Made it. Super-quiet up in Africa. Five dollars in my pocket; the rest of my money's wrapped up and buried.
Hot- summer's coming early. Lots of sleepy animals, most of them hiding in their caves. Not a lot of people- some tourists, mostly Japanese, and young moms with babies in strollers. I've got a notebook with me and a pencil, to make it look like some kind of school assignment. My smell isn't too bad out in the open. No one's looking at me weird, and someone actually smiled- a couple of tourists- a man and a woman, Americans, old, kind of geeky, with lots of cameras and this zoo map they can't seem to figure out. I probably remind them of their grandson or something.
I keep going to the top of Africa. Most of the animals are sleeping, but I don't care, it feels good to walk without having to. One rhino is out, but she just gives me a dirty look, so I head for the gorillas.