“I can understand that. But as detective in charge, you are the best man for the job.”
“What about Pincus in Community Relations? It is his job...”
“No one believes Pincus,” Hannover said glumly. The Community Relations Office had been his idea, a “liaison between the department and the community it serves.” But the recently hired Pincus had turned out to be lazy, happy, and deeply indecisive, turning calls over to the chief rather than fending for himself. “The Times won’t even talk to him anymore. So it’s your show, Shephard. I know the press kicked you around a little up in L.A., but I’ll tell you right now that the Orange County press is a different animal. Not so... carnivorous,” he said, pleased with his word choice. He smiled at Shephard briefly. “I want to give you some basic parameters between which you should stay.”
While Hannover talked about parameters, Shephard’s mind wandered back to reporter Daniel Pedroza of the Times, who had hounded him so thoroughly after the shooting. He had become like a shadow, waiting for Shephard outside the station when he arrived at work, lingering in the parking lot at quitting time, tying up his phone line with innumerable calls, filing a mountain of stories. The stories called the integrity of Shephard and of the entire department into question. When Shephard quit returning the calls and refused further interviews, Pedroza had even showed up at his house one night. In fact, the night after Louise had said she was leaving him, and Pedroza had asked if they might talk about some “more personal aspects” of his post-shooting trauma. Shephard had hurled a near-empty wine bottle at the reporter, then read the next day of his “violently irrational” behavior. Pedroza hadn’t mentioned the wine bottle.
Even Daniel Pedroza, however, was no match for the ACLU lawyer who had grilled Shephard at the inquest. The attorney had implied that the murder of Shephard’s mother had stamped upon him a deep and malevolent hatred for “alleged criminal types.” Deep in the bowels of L.A.’s City Hall, sweltering in the late September heat, Shephard’s heart had pounded with such anger that he was sure it was being picked up by the reporters’ tape recorders.
“Are we clear on those?” Hannover was asking. “Play them back, Shephard. It’s important we present a united front at this point in time.”
“Stress that the killings of Algernon and Creeley may be connected, or may not be. We don’t want to arouse any more fears than we have to. Don’t mention the threats, the eyelids, or the voice on the answering machine because we need something to use on a suspect. Stress again that the force has redoubled its efforts, and that a task force is working around the clock to bring a suspect under arrest. Remain calm, polite, and assured at all times. Pass out the Identikit sketches in case any of the local papers haven’t seen them. And insist on makeup for my forehead because I’m sure to sweat under the lights.”
Hannover nodded with approval throughout the litany, then smiled and leaned back again in his chair.
“You’ve got a mind like a steel trap, young man,” he said finally. “And remember you’re representing the city of Laguna Beach, home of the Festival of Arts. The conference is set for four, so you’ve got about five minutes to get handsome. Just like your father, Shephard, you’re going to be a TV star.”
The conference room was already steaming in the raw glare of the television lights when Shephard walked in. He sat down at the end of a long table, declined makeup, and broke into a sweat. Danny Pedroza sat down next to him.
“Thought I left you in L.A.,” Shephard said.
“I thought I’d left you there, too.” Pedroza looked at Shephard’s head. “Somebody hit you with a wine bottle?”
“Just a hangover.”
“I’ve been trying to get a job in Orange County for three years. You know, sun and waves and pretty girls on every corner. None of this kind of crap.”
Shephard studied Pedroza’s smooth, youthful face, the short black hair, the pearly grin. “Me, too. But people keep killing each other and reporters keep asking questions. No end to it, I guess.”
One of the young cadettes walked into the conference room, drawing stares and a cumbersome silence as she came to Shephard and plopped a stack of Identikit sketches down on the table. When she left, Pedroza leaned closer. “What’s this about the eyelids being snipped?” he asked in a whisper.
“News to me,” Shephard said out loud, looking straight ahead. Where do they find out this stuff, he wondered.
“You denying it?”
“I never said it.”
“Is it true?”
Shephard considered his response as Hannover’s parameters dissolved in his mind. “What if it were?”
“Then I’d like us to print it.”
“The chief wouldn’t, Danny. We need something for the suspects to choke on.”
“I can respect that.”
“Would you?”
“I respected that wine bottle.” Pedroza paused, then leaned closer again. “Both off?”
The NBC director was motioning for Shephard to stand, snapping his fingers and checking his light meter. Shephard nodded to Pedroza, returned the glare of the lights as best he could, then stood.
Looking out at the conference room, he saw only the blizzard of lights, hot and relentless, and heard the clicking of tape recorders, the shuffle of pens and pads. Shephard began his briefing, talking to the faceless crowd before him.
“Monday at six A.M. a routine Laguna police patrol discovered the body of Tim Algernon outside his home on Laguna Canyon Road,” he heard himself drone. Good, he thought, maybe they’ll all fall asleep. “The Orange County Coroner’s office reported later that day that Mr. Algernon had expired from severe hemorrhaging in the skull caused by trauma. The trauma was caused by a rock.” Shephard continued to stare into the camera, careful not to wipe his face with his hand, as he was tempted. “The body was then doused with common turpentine and set on fire. Three days later, on Thursday at approximately three P.M., the body of Mrs. Hope Creeley, age sixty-three, was discovered in her Laguna Beach home. Mrs. Creeley was pronounced dead by reason of severe burns early the next day by the coroner. Certain similarities that have occurred in the two cases open up the possibility that the murders may have been the act of one man.” Hannover’s absurd “parameter” rang somewhere in the back of Shephard’s echoing brain. “But it is not our opinion at this time that the murders are definitely connected.” He heard a low groan issue from the glare to his right, followed by a grumble from the other side of the table.
“Investigation has led us to believe that the suspect is a white male, age sixty, medium height and slight build. Eyes are blue and hair is gray, worn longish, and a beard. He may be driving a 1964 Cadillac Coupe de Ville, convertible, red. The plates are one-five-six DSN. At this point we have not established a motive. Questions?”
The voices blasted at him chaotically, like leaves blown by wind. They tangled all at once, repeated, dissipated to a few, then singled to one that issued from just behind the camera.
“Do you believe the same person is responsible for both murders?”
“We’re not sure. There is a possibility.”
The same voice: “How good is that possibility?”
“There are indications for and against. Speculation would be premature.”
Then a woman’s voice, harsh and hurried: “Then it’s possible that there are two maniacs running around this town burning people to death?”
“We haven’t ruled that out,” Shephard said, nearly choking on the idea.
A new voice: “Was Mrs. Creeley sexually assaulted?”
“No.”