The Dark Halo, page 15
“Cameras?”
Lass shook his head.
“I’ll get what they have sent over to you, but it’s worthless, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Most of these systems are. How many times did we close a case based on security footage?”
“Not once.”
Coombes turned and looked out the glassless window frame. Air came in through the opening, moving his hair around. It was a fantastic view. He leaned over and looked down onto Vine and saw close to 500 people looking back up at him. Among the crowd now, news crews.
He directed his attention to where Ellis lay on the sidewalk. To the left were some trees, to the right, a longer angle to the sidewalk. The Ferryman craved publicity. If Lass was right about the Hollywood Walk of Fame, then this would be the only office capable of hitting it.
“I assume those are for you?”
Coombes looked where Lass was pointing.
Two silver dollars, one on top of the other.
When they got back outside, four men were gathered around Ellis’ body wearing coveralls and full-face biological masks. One of them appeared to be holding a snow shovel, no doubt to help scoop up loose globules of fat, brain, and other material scattered across the sidewalk. They had a public health hazard on their hands, and from the way they were standing, none of them knew quite where to begin.
Coombes and Sato gave them a wide berth, heads turned away. They’d seen all they wanted when they’d arrived. He glanced across at his partner and saw her face was frozen and pinched. The sun had got to work on Ellis’ remains and the smell pushed past the hand he held over his nose and mouth.
The old rock star was slowly cooking.
About the only way to survive some of the things you saw in homicide, was to start thinking about victims as evidence, not people. Steve Ellis might’ve walked into the Capitol Records Building a happy family man, but Coombes couldn’t think of the mess on the sidewalk in the same way. It wouldn’t help his investigation to get immersed in Ellis’s final moments and what was left of him. Bringing his killer to justice wouldn’t undo what happened but it would give him some satisfaction, he’d give himself that.
“Your old partner is something else.”
He shot a look at Grace.
“That’s a generous way of putting it.”
“It’s the best I can do.”
A position he could understand.
Billy Lass wasn’t for everyone. When he thought about Lass, it was like thinking about a version of himself that had taken a left turn when he’d taken a right. They’d got to about the same destination, but Lass’s route had taken something from him. His partner had become both bitter and political, and it seemed to him like Lass was never happier than when he was complaining about something.
The world was against him, and that was just how he liked it.
They reached the car and climbed in. He’d parked in full sunlight and the interior was like an oven. Coombes started the engine and kicked the AC up to max, his hands resting on top of the wheel, fingers spread open so that the chilled air blew between them.
The crowd had turned to watch them leave and he returned their interest. The Ferryman might be right in front of him. Killers were often thought to stand in the crowd, watching the police process their kills, getting a second high from it. To be seen, and not seen.
The killer knows who I am, he thought.
Perhaps, where I live.
He’d been in the media spotlight before, but never a serial case. If it looked like they were making too much progress, the killer might see them as a threat.
“I’ve been thinking about Sutton,” he said.
“How so?”
“I think he’s another victim.”
He turned to Grace, to see her reaction. She was frowning.
“Didn’t we discount that? There were no coins.”
“I know, but a killer’s M.O. changes and evolves over time. With every kill he gets better at it, adding little flourishes. An artist perfecting his craft. Perhaps the idea for the silver dollars came later, inspired by something random. A late-night TV show, his kid’s book report, it could be anything. If Sutton was a victim, then you’d have to conclude that there could be others. People that don’t match our original search parameters. Let’s face it, we only know about Sutton because he was our case, he didn’t come up in the computer results.”
She looked doubtful and he continued before she said anything.
“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking. The Ferryman hasn’t replicated a single kill method, right? Pills, exit bag, all the others. It’s like he’s checking them off a list. Isn’t it surprising that he hasn’t used hanging as a method if Sutton wasn’t one of his? Doesn’t that seem like a strange omission? It has to be one of the simplest ways possible.”
“All right, say we discover this dirtbag killed another ten or twenty people before we thought he started, what does that get us in terms of getting closer to catching him?”
“Maybe nowhere, Grace, but a lot of these guys start close to home, people with a direct connection. The first victim was real, these others are just because he likes it. Celebrities, the rich. There’s going to be no connection, that’s what I think. We’re pissing into the wind looking for something that just isn’t there. All that links the victims so far, is that they’re rich and powerful. The top of the food chain. It’s no sport hunting bums sheltering under a bridge, that’s too easy. You could do it without getting out of your car. Taking out these Alpha predators, making it look like they did it themselves, that’s a challenge. A sport.”
They were silent for a moment, thinking it over.
“If we looked at all suicides,” she said, “we’d drown in cases. This is a hard town and it breaks a lot of people. Depending on the time frame and search radius, we could potentially be looking at hundreds of cases. You’re also looking at limited evidence collection. You know the drill; if it’s not murder it’s not our problem.”
“I know it.”
“How’s your friend doing anyway? Nicolas, right?”
He felt his face color. He didn’t know if she was asking out of interest, or to highlight the personal connection between him and the Sutton family, it didn’t matter.
“Honestly, I’ve not been in contact since the memorial. If I reached out to Nicky now, he’d assume I had something new to tell him and I don’t. The death is filed as a suicide and the city wants to keep it that way. In any case, I’m not sure he’d welcome the news his father might be the victim of a serial killer. Who wants to hear that?”
Sato said nothing.
When it came to Theodore Sutton, he couldn’t think in the same detached manner he could for other murder victims. Sutton’s death bothered him on an emotional level. Even though he hadn’t seen him in a long time, Coombes’ memory of him was clear and detailed. Sutton had a dirty joke for every occasion, and what he remembered most about him was the times they had all spent together laughing. The man had given him his first Scotch, his first cigar, and his first paying job. He owed him, and his son had basically said as much the last time they’d met.
This debt was a blind spot he couldn’t see past.
He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.
Time to get back and write up Ellis while the details were still fresh. They approached the police tape and he slowed to allow a uni to lift the tape and let him drive out. He saw two Hollywood detectives he recognized canvassing the crowd. Richter and Williams. They’d been partners for close to twenty years and, for most of those years, they’d hated each other.
As he drove away, Richter turned toward him and held his hands palms-up, the universal sign for what the hell? Coombes shrugged and shook his head. There were no words for what had happened and he shared the other detective’s dismay.
After a hundred feet they came to a red traffic light.
He slowed to a stop, the only car in line. A man in his thirties walked out into the street, lifted a camera and stood there taking pictures of them through the windshield. Coombes sighed. If the light didn’t change soon, he knew others would join this bozo. They were part of the story and everyone wanted a piece. His partner turned to him.
“What do you suppose it means that the killer didn’t hide how he killed Ellis?”
He thought about it for a second. The answer was obvious.
“I think it means he’s finished.”
“I agree.”
Coombes said nothing.
“Like he had a list of people he was working through and he reached the end.”
He glared at the man taking their photograph.
“Even Santa’s got a list,” he said.
“Have you ever made a list of unrelated things?”
His breath caught in his throat and he turned to Sato.
“Say it.”
“If there’s a list of names, there’s a link between them.”
And for the first time, he believed it.
22
Coombes studied the list of victims he’d started on the second day of the investigation. Their name, the way they died, followed by the date. It helped to give him an overview. Not trying to assess each crime, but rather to see where they fitted together as part of a whole. He had chosen to start with Theodore Sutton, despite the fact that he didn’t fit the pattern. If Sutton was the first, it made sense that he didn’t fit the pattern. The killer had perfected things as he went on, that’s what you did when you did anything again and again. If Sutton’s death had matched up perfectly, he’d want to look further back, to find the one with the rough edges.
Nobody was perfect first time.
And yet, he reflected, each kill was a first time.
The Ferryman used a different method every time, no duplication. The killer could take little experience from one kill to the next. Changing the cause of death was a huge risk for the killer, as it increased the level of exposure and the chance of something going wrong. Sutton had been found hanging by his own belt from a steel beam in his house. As methods went, it was straightforward and required little in the way of advanced planning. Compared to later kills, it was a walk in the park.
Why not keep it simple?
At the beginning, the change in m.o. hid the fact that the deaths were kills at all, rather than suicides. Despite that, the killer had felt compelled to apply his signature, the two silver dollars. To Coombes, this seemed like a desire by the killer to take credit, and that couldn’t happen until the deaths were seen for what they were. The mistakes, as he’d perceived them, might turn out to be no more than breadcrumbs left on purpose.
His telephone rang.
“Coombes.”
“This is Dennis Chen at the crime lab. I’ve processed your fingerprint evidence on a keycard box, a computer mouse, and films lifted from a door.”
His trace evidence from the hotel.
“That was fast, normally it takes two or three weeks.”
“Chief Jackson told us to move your case into the priority line. Unfortunately, the only prints on the keycard box matched those provided for elimination by Bret Lawson. The mouse gave us nothing but partials, all Lawson’s.”
“Shit. And the door films?”
“I ran them through AFIS and got four hits, I’ll email their details.”
The technician’s voice wasn’t hard to read.
“Honest opinion?”
“I don’t have access to the NCIC database, Detective, but my read of the IDs is that we’re looking at hotel staff with plenty reason to be going in and out of that office.”
He caught a floral scent and saw Gantz standing next to him.
“All right, Chen, thanks anyway.”
Coombes hung up.
“My office, John. You too, Grace.”
He followed the lieutenant and braced himself for what was certain to be a tide of harassment. Gantz sat behind her desk and waited for Sato to close the door. She didn’t ask them to sit down, so he remained standing.
“Your face doesn’t look like it’s going to tell me good news any time soon.”
“I just need more time, we’re close.”
Gantz’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Because my reading of the situation is that you’re no further forward than you were when you started. What have you got so far?”
Inwardly, Coombes sighed. When the pronoun shifted from we to you, things never took a good turn. The message was clear; this is your neck, not mine.
“He’s white. Dark hair. Tall, between six one and six three. Athletic. 180 pounds. We have a partial fingerprint, which we believe is from a right middle finger-”
Gantz laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“Oh, I’m quite certain that it is the middle finger, John.”
He shifted uncomfortably and she continued.
“So, a white athletic man, around six feet, and one eighty pounds. This description hardly narrows it down, does it? I’m looking at a perfect match right now. Do you have anything to say before I book you?”
He felt his face become hot.
“We’re still pursuing active leads. I’d like to reinterview the witness who saw a man running along the sidewalk a block from Haylee Jordan’s apartment. I’m going to get Becker and Gonzalez to take a copy of the artist’s sketch and show it to people in the area see if they get a hit. Staff in convenience stores, gas stations, the whole works. I’m also waiting for Detective Lass at Hollywood to send over security footage from the Capitol Records Building, but I’m not hopeful. Looks like there’s nothing there. This guy’s a step ahead of us, he always knows where cameras are located, so we get nothing.”
“Back up, Coombes. Did you just say Lass?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Billy Lass?”
Gantz was looking at him in a strange way. Around ten thousand people worked for the LAPD, he was surprised she’d even heard of Lass.
“Yeah, Billy. He and I worked together down there.”
“Lass hasn’t worked for six months, he’s suspended.”
“Well, he’s working now.”
Gantz shook her head.
“Not a chance. He kicked Captain Hurst in the balls at a charity function, then spat on his face while he writhed on the floor in agony. Jesus Christ couldn’t come back from that.”
“Lieutenant, I don’t know what to tell you, he was there. He showed us the crime scene, he gave us a walk-through. He knew everything about the case…”
His voice trailed off and it felt like the floor dropped away beneath his feet. Gantz sat back, fingers pressing together in front of her mouth as if in silent prayer.
Coombes pictured Lass as he’d first seen him, standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of Steve Ellis’s smashed body. Wearing the same old suit, the same cheesy smile. He’d looked up, and seen his old partner. It wasn’t a coincidence that Lass should be assigned to the case, Hollywood was his patch. There were no alarm bells at all.
There’d been something close to a twinkle in his eyes as he’d spoken to him, which he’d figured was because they hadn’t seen each other in such a long time. A reunion, two old buddies. He tried to remember the rest of it; the walk into the building, the elevator, the curved hallway, then, finally, the crime scene. Lass had never turned his gaze toward Sato, it had been fixed on him.
Gauging his reaction. Soaking it up.
I knew you’d like it.
I’m certain he was aiming at the Walk of Fame.
It’s a statement, isn’t it?
Coombes sat heavily in the seat behind him and let out a long sigh. Anthony Price had been restrained with handcuffs; a tool familiar to Lass.
Sato looked back and forth between them.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
Gantz looked at her. “You don’t?”
“No,” she said. “Not unless…oh.”
Not unless his old partner was the Ferryman.
It occurred to him that he and Lass had held numerous conversations over the years about the rich and famous. Notably, about how they were keeping all their wealth to themselves, and the crime they witnessed daily was the direct result. Hollywood rubbed your face in the divide between rich and poor, it was impossible not to have a position on the subject.
Coombes recalled his old partner’s position without any difficulty. Lass believed that at some future date, those with nothing to lose would rise up to take back the wealth, and as during the L.A. Riots, the LAPD would do nothing to stop them.
Gantz laid her hands flat on the table between them and stared straight up at the ceiling for a moment, before looking back down at him. She used this gesture frequently, to indicate she was thinking about the Chief of Police.
“Nothing would spoil solving this case more than finding out the killer is one of our own. We’re looking at a public relations black hole of gargantuan proportions. This would be ten times worse than Rodney King, and it took us over a decade to recover from that debacle. This? This would sink us.”
“I know it.”
“That being the case, I’d like you to be very careful. Do not bring Lass in for questioning under any circumstances. Is that understood? We can’t lose containment. Find a way to dig into his activities that won’t tip him off, can you do that for me?”
Coombes nodded.
“He told me he has a child now, a boy. I could use that as a pretext for getting back in touch with him. We used to be friends.” He paused for a beat, an awkward grimace forming on his face. “I think he named his son after me.”
Gantz looked at him, incredulous, her eyes piercing.
“Is this going to be a problem for you, John?”
“No, but I still hope it’s not him.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears. Okay, until I say otherwise, the three of us are the only ones with Lass’s identity. We can’t afford for it to get out, I don’t even want to hear we’ve got a suspect, are we clear?”
