“Damn,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Okay, back on track… one way or the other Doebbler read about Retzak and Retzak’s first murder stuck in his head: a common-law wife who ticked the guy off. Suddenly, Doebbler finds himself to be a ticked-off husband and Retzak’s adventures take on a whole new meaning. That turned killing Marta into more than revenge. He was reliving history, assuming the persona of a big-time monster…” She shook her head. “Doebbler wanted to be Otto the Second, so seven innocent people died. It’s beyond twisted but it makes sense… feels right.”
“Victims with no apparent link gave him confidence,” said Isaac. “Why would he even imagine getting caught?”
Petra smiled. “He wasn’t figuring on you.”
“I was lucky.” Eyes back to the floor. Blushing. Cute, when he did that. She wished she could find him a genius girlfriend.
Seven innocent people.
She sat back down and reread the booklet. Despite Superintendent Teller’s delicacy in dancing around the details, Maria Giacometti’s murder was stomach-churning.
Retzak had been found sitting under a California oak, not far from the Elysian Park sanitarium, with the young woman’s entrails around his neck. Peaceful expression on his face, knees crossed, like some homicidal yogi. Humming softly, seemingly entranced.
A hobo crossing the park spotted the horror and ran terrified to the nearest police officer. No big detective work necessary; Retzak had left a blood trail snaking from the playground kill-spot to his tree.
“Sounds like he lost it,” said Petra.
“Thank God,” said Isaac. “Can you imagine the next one?”
She put the booklet aside. Her head felt swollen and her heart raced.
“Seven for Mr. Retzak. Six, so far, for Mr. Doebbler,” she said. “And we’re going to make sure it stays that way.”
She fixed coffee for both of them, gave the booklet’s final chapter yet another scan. Otto Retzak’s final days; his arrest, trial, and execution had taken all of three weeks. The good old days.
Retzak had gone defiantly to the gallows. Proclaiming his hatred for God, humanity, and “all that you brainless sheep deem sacred. Give me a chance to leave this room and I’ll brain every one of you, chew on your guts, have myself a blood and gelatin party.”
Petra said, “I wonder how many Italian-American pediatric nurses are out there.”
“If Doebbler’s really a stickler,” said Isaac, “we should be looking at an Italian-American pediatric nurse who takes care of respiratory patients.”
“That would narrow it down. Not that it matters. Prevention’s worth a whole lot of cure. We’re going to be surveilling Doebbler starting tomorrow morning. He’s not going to get close to number seven.”
“Just tell me what you want me to do.”
He’d scooted forward on the couch. All eagerness, misinterpreting “we.”
Uh-oh.
She said, “By ‘we,’ I meant police officers. I can’t afford to involve you in this, Isaac.”
His face fell. He tried to recover with a confident nod. “Oh. Sure, I can see that. No active involvement, I’ll just ride along and observe. In case you need a free set of hands or there’s some function I can fill.”
She shook her head. “Sorry. You’re absolutely the hero of this story, without you nothing would’ve happened. But having civilians along on high-risk operations is a big-time no-no. Especially now. I’m in enough trouble, can’t afford more.”
“It’s beyond absurd,” he said, with sudden adamance. “Your suspension, I mean. Selden slaughters all those kids and the department’s worried about picayune procedure.”
“The department is a paramilitary organization. I obey, therefore I am.” Putting on the calm, wise mentor persona while her mind raced: Who did I mean by “we”?
It would have to be her and Eric. Sorry Reverend Bob and Mary, right now I need your son more than you do.
Eric would be a major asset. He was great on surveillance, had the patience, the low resting heart rate. But a two-person surveillance was bare-bones, fine for a low-stakes, stationary watch. What if Doebbler’s house provided some kind of rear escape? Or the bastard took a complicated route and they got snarled in heavy traffic?
Losing him was out of the question. No way, it just couldn’t happen.
Three would be a whole lot better than two. Three pros…
She glanced over at Isaac. Crestfallen and trying to hide it. Could she risk it? No way. Especially not with Gang Control surveilling him.
Maybe she should break that wide open.
No, not a good idea.
Why not?
She said, “So, how’s Flaco Jaramillo?”
He turned white. Nearly fell off the couch.
Several moments passed. “Why do you ask?”
“You tell me, Isaac.”
“Tell you what?”
“Your connection to Flaco Jaramillo.”
He stayed calm but his face got hard. Hawkish, a little scary. His hands tightened into fists and as he rolled them, forearms bunched, veins popping like miniature pylons. Thick arms. Some serious muscles she’d never noticed. All that brain power had made her forget this was a healthy, young man in his prime.
Now she’d tapped into something that evoked his physicality. She wondered how much of himself he’d kept from her.
“So that’s it,” he said.
“That’s what?”
“Someone from the department’s been asking about me over on campus. Some detective named Lucido.”
“Bobby Lucido. He and his partner spoke to me a few days ago.”
Isaac’s eyes flashed with anger. “You didn’t think to tell me.”
“I didn’t even consider it, my friend. Because I didn’t know what you were up to. Still don’t.”
“Idiots,” he mumbled. His laughter was coarse, staccato, free of amusement. “Not you. But you work with a bunch of really stupid people.”
“We can’t all be geniuses.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Jesus.” He knuckled the spot between his eyebrows, raised a rosy spot.
“They’ve got pictures, Isaac.”
His shoulders stiffened. “Of what?”
Now I’ve buried myself. “Of you and a low-life dope dealer slash possible triggerman shmoozing it up in a low-life bar.”
She folded her arms across her chest.
He tried to force relaxation.
His body cooperated but his eyes were way too jumpy. Just like a suspect. The kid had broken the case and now she was breaking him. Did life have to be this hard?
He said, “I can see why that might lead to a mistaken impression.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” she said.
He blinked hard. No more hard guy, scared kid. What was real, what wasn’t?
“I’m not bullshitting you,” he insisted. “But there’s nothing ominous going on. Flaco and I go back. We grew up together, I tutored him in grade school. In public school, before I got into Burton. We run into each other from time to time. I know he’s been in trouble, but I’ve never been involved in any of that. A few days ago, he called me up and asked me to meet him. To help him out with a family matter.”
“What kind of family matter?”
“His mother’s sick. Cancer. She’s illegal, can’t qualify for Medi-Cal. He was under the impression I was already in medical school, figured I could help her get free medical care. He’s always about that, getting an angle. I went to see him because he used to stick up for me when we were kids. I explained that I wasn’t in the system. He didn’t want to hear that, got persistent. I told him I’d look into it. When I got back to campus, I made a few calls. Couldn’t do a thing. Told him. That’s it.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, dammit.”
“You’re not a dope courier?”