The final two articles were about the most recent victim, Debra Repko.
Like the first victim, Repko was white, educated, and professional. She had recently earned an MA in political science from USC, after which she was hired by a downtown political consulting firm called Leverage Associates. Sometime between eleven P.M. and two A.M. thirty-six days before Lionel Byrd’s body was discovered, she was struck from behind and suffocated by having a plastic garbage bag held over her head. This event occurred behind a strip mall two blocks from her apartment on the outskirts of Hancock Park, just south of Melrose Avenue. She was survived by her parents and three brothers, all of whom were heartbroken by the news of her death.
I pushed the articles aside, got a bottle of water, and went out onto my deck. The wind had died sometime during the night, and now two red-tailed hawks floated overhead. They had been down with the wind, but now they were up. They appeared to be hunting, but maybe they just enjoyed being in the sky. Maybe, for them, there was no difference.
Thirty yards away, my neighbors were out on their own deck, reading the morning paper. They waved when they saw me and I waved back. I wondered if they were reading about Byrd.
I drank some of the water, then stretched through the traditional twelve sun salutes from the hatha yoga. My neighbor Grace shouted across the hillside.
“Do it naked!”
Her husband laughed.
The yoga flowed into a tae kwon do kata. I kicked and punched with focus from one side of the deck to the other, running one kata into the next, not the classic Korean forms, but combinations I had created: a little wing chun, a little krav maga, a little shen chuan. I moved through all three planes of space, working with greater intensity until sweat splattered the boards like rain and the pictures of dead people had faded. When I finished, Grace jumped to her feet and applauded.
I shouted, “Your turn. Naked.”
She lifted her T-shirt, flashing her breasts. Her husband laughed again.
These neighbors are something.
I drank the rest of the water, then went back inside as the phone rang. It was Alan Levy’s assistant.
“Mr. Cole?”
“Did Alan see the news about Lionel Byrd?”
“Yes, sir. He’d like you to bring by your file at ten if that time works for you.”
I told him the time worked fine, then returned to my notes. I combined the information I learned from Lindo and the Times with the facts I found online, then organized it into a chart:
1-Frostokovich-wht-10/2-strngld-dwntn-(Marx!)
2-Evansfield-blk-9/28-stab-Brtwd-jog-(?)
3-Morrow-blk-10/7-blntfc-Hywd-pros-(?)
4-Trinh-asn-9/23-stab-Slvrlk-pros-(?)
5-Bennett-wht-10/3-blntfc-Slvrlk-pros-(Crimmens)
6- Escondido -lat-10/9-fire-StCty-hmls-(?)
7-Repko-wht-7/26-suff-HanPk-conslt.-(?)
When you study these things you look for patterns, but patterns were in short supply.
The victims were of diverse ethnic and economic backgrounds, and none had been raped, bitten, chewed, or sexually abused. Two of the murders occurred in Silver Lake, but the others were scattered throughout the city. The only common elements seemed to be that all of the victims were women and six of the seven murders had occurred in the fall.
The most recent murder was different. Where the first six victims had all been murdered in the fall, Debra Repko had died in the early summer, almost three months ahead of the others.
I was wondering why when I had a notion about the dates and went back to my computer. You hear about killers being triggered by astrological events or the zodiac, so I googled an astronomy almanac and entered the dates.
I didn’t learn anything about astrology, but the first six murders had all taken place within two days either way of the new moon-the darkest nights of the month. Repko had been murdered when the moon was nearing its three-quarter phase. After six consecutive murders in darkness, Debra Repko had been killed when the night sky was brilliantly lit.
I checked the time. It was after nine, but I dug out Bastilla’s card and called. She was clipped and abrupt when she answered.
“Bastilla.”
“It’s Elvis Cole. You have a minute?”
“Can I pick up the files?”
“I’m seeing Levy at ten. Christ, Bastilla, can’t you ride a different horse?”
“I have a lot to do, Cole. What do you want?”
“How did you guys explain the differences in the Repko murder?”
Bastilla didn’t speak for a moment. I heard noises in her background, but couldn’t tell if she was at her office or in her car.
“What are you talking about?”
“Debra Repko was murdered three months out of sync with the others.”
“Thank you. We know.”
“She was killed on a night with a three-quarter moon. The first six were killed under a new moon. That’s a major change in method.”
“Believe it or not, we know our business here. If you expect me to review our investigation with you, you’re out of your mind.”
“Your asshole partner Crimmens telling me I got two women killed makes it my business, too.”
“Good-bye, Cole. We’re done.”
The line went dead in my ear, but I grinned hard at the phone.
“Bastilla, I’m just getting started.”
I showered, dressed, then packed up the copy of my files and went to see Alan Levy.
Finding my own evidence.
9
PICTURE THE detective swinging into action. I picked up the freeway at the bottom of the Cahuenga Pass and called John Chen as I headed downtown. Chen was a senior criminalist with LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division, and one of the greediest people I knew. He was also a total paranoid.
Chen answered so softly I could barely hear him.
“I can’t talk. They’re watching me.”
You see?
“I’m calling about Lionel Byrd. You have a minute?”
Lindo mentioned Chen had worked on the case.
“What’s in this for me?”
The greed.
“I’m not convinced Byrd killed Yvonne Bennett. I have questions about the most recent victim, too. She doesn’t match up with the others.”
“You’re talking about Repko?”
“That’s right.”
Chen lowered his voice even more.
“It’s weird you’re asking about her.”
“Why weird? Is she different from the others?”
“Not so much, but the way they’re handling her is different. Shit-Harriet’s coming. I gotta go.”
Harriet was his boss.
“Call me, John. Repko and Byrd. I need your work, the CI, the medical examiner-whatever you can get. I’m heading downtown now.”
“This is going to cost you.”
Twenty minutes later I pulled into the parking garage beneath Barshop, Barshop & Alter, and brought the copy of my file upstairs to a lobby rich with travertine, cobalt glass, and African teak. Low-life criminals like Lionel Byrd could never hope to hire them, much less afford their fee, but Levy saw Byrd’s trumped-up confession as a ticket to argue before the California Supreme Court. After twenty years of practicing criminal law, Levy boasted a ninety-eight-percent acquittal rate and seven arguments before the California Supreme Court. Six of the seven were decided in Levy’s favor and resulted in precedent-setting case law. It was for this opportunity that Levy agreed to represent Lionel Byrd pro bono-for free. Levy’s firm even threw in my fee.
Levy’s assistant was waiting when the elevator opened.
“Mr. Cole? I’m Jacob. If you’ll come with me, please.”
Alan was on the phone when we reached his office, seated behind a desk that probably cost a hundred thousand dollars. He raised a finger, indicating he would be with me in a minute, then made a brushing gesture, the brush telling Jacob to leave.
Levy was a large man in his late forties with a wide head, bulging eyes, and poorly fitting clothes. He carried himself as if he was embarrassed by his appearance, but juries probably related to the sloppy clothes and awkward manner. I figured he was faking it. The first thing you noticed when you stepped into his office were the pictures of his family. Framed photographs of his wife and two little girls smiled down from the walls.