The realization only made the gray day darker. When Foubarelle arrived, Frank didn't mention anything about a serial perp. She listened to the SID techs scream at him for being called out on a case with no evidence. They hated Frank but she didn't care; they were the evidence experts, not her. A lot of cops liked to hot-dog a scene, but Frank wasn't about to lose a case because of an evidentiary oversight on her part. If there was nothing there, she wanted to hear it from SID.
On the other hand, she and her squad had the rare respect of the coroner's personnel. Detectives were always pushing their vies to the front of the coroner's to-do list, but Frank rarely allowed her cops to do that. The morgue had enough work to handle without every homicide detective in the LAPD trying to get their victims cut first. Frank saved her requests for true emergencies, like today. As Handley made an incision over the liver, ready to insert the thermometer that would help determine the time of death, Frank said quietly, "Jack, I know you've got at least a dozen bodies in line before this one, but it would really help if you could push this ahead."
She tipped her head toward Foubarelle. "And it'll save Crotchety from having to deal with him because I can guarantee that's his next stop."
Jack frowned, playing with the power he had on the street. He knew it ended with a sharp command from his boss once they got back to the morgue.
"I'll see what I can do," he said pompously.
"I'd appreciate it."
Frank turned to deal with Foubarelle just as the first news van showed up.
The next time his father took him into the office with a magazine tucked under his arm, the boy knew what to do. He responded to his father's touch, feigned interest in the pictures, kept shoving his hand against himself like his father was doing, first as he was beginning to think it wouldn't happen this time, his father ordered him breathlessly to get down and accompanied him quickly onto the bright green rug. He tried to pretend it was grass and that he was outside playing. Soon his mother would call him in for dinner and his father wouldn't hurt him with anything more than a hearty slap on the shoulder.
After his father got off, he told the boy to leave. He walked painfully up the stairs and quietly closed his bedroom door behind him. Curling into a ball under the covers, he reasoned that at least this time it hadn't taken very long. He slipped into a nap, comforted by a familiar image of himself straddling the stuffed bear he kept under his pillow.
7
Squad 93 spent the day canvassing the area. A janitor had found the body on the sidewalk in front of the school. Dispatch received his call at 0613 hours. It had been cold last night. Not a lot of people had been out, and parked cars obscured the body from the street. The victim was found on her back, but lividity indicated she'd been dead for at least ten hours. She'd been left on her stomach—whoever killed her hadn't moved her until her blood had settled anteriorly. She had to have been dumped sometime before dawn, which also explained why she hadn't been discovered earlier. Frank had SID print the cars on the school side of the street. Maybe their guy had bumped into one and steadied himself with a bare hand. She copied the license numbers and makes. Flanking the school were a shoe repair shop and a taqueria. Two vacant buildings, a styling salon, a mom-and-pop burger stand, a Frostee Freeze, and an Assembly of God church were across the street. They were all covered with sprawling gang tags. A boarded and crumbling building in a large, weedy lot looked like a shooting gallery, and Frank had uniforms bagging matchbooks and cigarette packs, torn soda cans, used hypos, potato chip bags—all the trash in there. She wanted everything printed. A pile of old clothes and rags looked like a makeshift bed. If somebody'd been in here last night she wanted to know who.
The church had had a service the day before but it had finished by 8:00 p.m. and there wasn't another scheduled until noon today. No one opened when they knocked, no lights were on. They talked to people at the food joints, which all closed at 11:00 or midnight. The salon was open 9:00-6:00, shoe repair 8:00-5:00. No one was around at the time they believed the body was dumped.
The detectives spent the morning showing Polaroids of the girl's face to everyone at the school, but they didn't get one good hit. She was pretty battered, though, so chances were they wouldn't have gotten an ID anyway. Missing Persons records were no help this time. They broke for lunch around one o'clock, ordering gorditas and tacos at the taqueria next to the school. The school kids didn't like all the heat around; they ate across the street at the burger place. Frank was feeling human again. She munched on fried pork between two soft corn tortillas, wondering why these girls were being dumped in front of schools. If it was the same guy, she reminded herself. So far they had nothing but speculation to go on. Frank glanced at her watch. She was waiting for Crocetti's call. His prelim would tell them more about any similarities between this case and Agoura's.
She was anxious for the ID on the vie, too. Handley had rolled her fingers, promising to have Frank paged as soon as the prints were run. She was wadding up the paper her tacos came in when her pager went off. She nudged her jacket aside with an elbow and glanced at the number. It was the coroner's office. She returned the call.
"Hey, Lieutenant," Handley bragged, "I've got a name for your girl."
"Tell me."
"Jennifer Peterson. DOB: 1/5/82." Handley paused.
Frank asked, "Address?"
Handley gave it to her. She thanked him tersely and hung up. She called the operator and referenced the phone number. When Frank tried it, all she got was the answering machine. She identified herself and told the machine she had some information about Jennifer Peterson that she needed to discuss with her parents. No one picked up.
Frank grabbed Noah. "Let's go for a drive."
She filled him in as they drove west on Manchester Boulevard to Sepulveda. The address took them to a tired house in Culver City bordered by frayed banana trees and overgrown bougainvillea. It looked tropical despite the spitting sky and sixty-degree weather. When their knock went unanswered, they split up to talk to the neighbors. Two houses down, the harassed mother of three preschoolers told Noah that Jennifer Peterson babysat for her. Her mother's name wasn't Peterson, it was Wyche, Delia Wyche, and she was a nurse at Brotman Memorial. She wasn't sure where the husband worked, but he was home a lot. Jennifer called him the grease monkey and didn't care much for him.
Noah thanked the woman, then flagged Frank back to the car. At Brotman, a meticulously dressed man in personnel confirmed there was a Delia Wyche, R.N., on staff. Frank asked him to page Wyche's supervisor, and he balked that it wasn't his job. Noah grinned as Frank leaned within inches of the fey young man and asked, "Have you ever had a nine-millimeter revolver shoved up your ass?"
Maybe because he saw Noah grinning, maybe because he was suicidal, maybe because he was more ballsy than smart, he swallowed hard and retorted, "No, but I think I'd like it."
That was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Before the clerk could even flinch Frank had his perfect Windsor knot clenched in her bad hand and twisted tight under his Adam's apple. Noah's smile had faded, and suddenly the clerk didn't feel so brave.
He tried to squeak "police brutality," but Frank tightened her grip, her blazing eyes still only inches from his. Blood started oozing through her bandage.
"Okay, funny boy. Are you going to call Mrs. Wyche's supervisor or do I charge you with refusing to cooperate with a peace officer and obstructing justice?"