Bleeding Out (11 page)

Frank made a chicken sandwich and took the arrest printout into the living room. Listening absently to the news, she scribbled notes in the margins, brushing crumbs away while she worked. A handful of records fit the time frame she was looking for, and three of the perps had priors for assault and/or rape. Between the rape victims, the murder books she’d yet to read, and this list of possible suspects, she had wiggled out a few more leads. Frank yawned widely. She and Noah could start on them in the morning. She hoped like hell they wouldn’t fizzle on her.

But Frank’s plans to follow up on the Agoura/Peterson leads got shelved, and she spent all the next day working a drowning with Diego. By six that evening, they had a suspect in the locker downtown. Frank celebrated, leaving the office in time to catch all of the Monday night game. She even managed another good night’s sleep. Tuesday she was in meetings and at court, but late in the afternoon she finally was able to dig into the rec area murder books. They were cold cases, and Frank had borrowed them from the Culver City PD and LASD without anyone breathing down her neck to get them back. In fact, both agencies had been surprisingly cooperative.

She picked up the first binder and pulled out the pictures and the coroner’s report. A handful of scene sketches corresponded to the photos, and Frank spread those in front of her. They were the next best thing to being on scene. She studied them, formulating her own ideas before she was prejudiced by the investigating detective’s report.

Jane Doe, fifteen or sixteen years old, Hispanic. Her body was on its stomach in a ditch. She was missing footwear, pants, and underwear. She still had on a white bra and T-shirt, but they’d been pushed up around her collarbone. She showed bruises, too, but they seemed more evenly distributed around her body, especially around the arms and breasts where the perp had grabbed her. The coroner’s report indicated anal as well as vaginal rape. She was asphyxiated, but manually. The bruising was obvious on her neck.

Frank closed the file. It was too inconsistent with the profile she was expecting. The same for the second report, a sixteen-year-old Korean girl who’d been found off the 405 near Huntley. The third case was Cassandra Nichols.

A twelve-year-old black girl. The first picture caught her spread-eagled near a dumpster in an empty parking lot. Pink skirt bunched up around her waist, underwear around her knees, blood stains and bruises on her legs. Her bra was pushed above tiny breasts.

Frank’s first impression was that this case was also unrelated, but she kept circling around, making notes on a legal pad. The coroner’s photos showed consistent bruising. Ligature marks around the neck indicated asphyxiation. Frank held one of the pictures up, squinting into it. It was a morgue shot emphasizing scattered posterior bruising. She searched it carefully, then restudied the photo of Nichols in the lot. Frank unconsciously stroked the empty spot on her ring finger.

The coroner’s report told her that Nichols was found shortly after she’d died, roughly 7:00 p.m. The autopsy revealed anal assault and significant contusion of the dorsal region. Cause of death was asphyxiation; the manner was strangulation by ligature with an object similar to a leather belt. The internal exam discovered nothing unusual.

Frank sat back and pulled her Ray Bans off, nibbling on one of the ear stems. This had a lot of similarities to their boy, but it might just be coincidental. Frank kept trolling through the photos. She stopped when she distinguished a thin line under Cassandra Nichols’ breasts. Pulling the picture closer to her face, she focused on the strap mark from Nichols’ bra. She must have been wearing it throughout the assault. When he raped her, the perp hadn’t even displaced her bra.
That
was consistent with the rape profile Frank had compiled. All of the victims on her list had been raped while fully clothed, and the type of sexual molestation was exclusively anal intercourse.

Frank scrutinized the pictures even more closely. Nichols had bloody abrasions on her knees and thighs. Frank guessed she’d been on her stomach while she was being raped, and that the scratches came from being thrust against whatever surface she was lying on. Frank noted there were no abrasions on her upper thighs, which could have been protected by her skirt.

If she was right, the abrasions might have trapped particles of the surface she was raped on, indicating whether Nichols was raped indoors or outdoors, and on what type of ground. Asphalt? Dirt? Grass? Nothing in the coroner’s report described more than the presence of the abrasions, nor was there any evidence from forensics. Frank found the property sheet and was pleased to see that Culver City had at least retained Nichols’ clothing as evidence. She scrolled methodically through the investigator’s notes and reports.

Nichols had never made it home from summer school that day. The last time her father had seen her he had handed his daughter a lunch bag. The case detective had felt it important to note that the lunch consisted of a bologna and cheese sandwich, chips, and an apple, which corresponded with the protocol notes on her stomach contents. That lunch sounded pretty good to Frank and she remembered she hadn’t eaten all day except for two jelly donuts on her way in to work at 5:00 a.m.

She leaned back in her old chair, wondering if she’d found another connection to their perp. It seemed possible, but Frank had learned never to view anything as a certainty except for the fact that there would always be dead bodies. Her eye once again caught the picture of Cassandra Nichols splayed on the ground. This time Frank studied it with a prejudiced eye.

She’d been a beautiful little girl, a good girl, the notes indicated. No trouble. Her mother was dead; her father, still widowed, was a high school teacher. That he had packed his daughter a lunch indicated she was a cared-for little girl. Frank was far too familiar with the anguish of loss, yet she still couldn’t imagine losing a child. Telling parents their children were dead was almost the hardest thing about being a homicide detective. Not being able to tell them who killed their son or daughter was the worst.

Who did this to you? she wondered, staring at a smiling, gap-toothed school photo.

That Nichols was black was inconsistent, but because their perp intermingled whites with Hispanics, it wasn’t a gross anomaly in his choice of victims. And it was a similar MO in the right geographic area. Nichols had been dead for three months. She was a Frigidaire by homicide standards. To her father, she was still his baby. To her killer, if it was the same man, she was an ecstatic memory whose thrill had no doubt faded. Frank fingered the photo, considering the ramifications.

It was tempting to think they might have another link to their perp, but Frank was cautious about attributing this to him yet. And while she wanted the same man to be responsible for all the assaults and all the homicides, the possibility was daunting. If it was true, there was a very dangerous man out there who was able to rape and kill at will. He was smart, and no doubt getting smarter with each successful crime, his intensity level escalating. And it was Frank’s job to apprehend him. The immensity of that caught up with her as she stared at Cassandra Nichols.

A rumbling in Frank’s gut broke her concentration. Reluctantly, she put the photo away. She massaged her face for a moment, reorienting herself to the world beyond three-ring binders. She stuffed the last one into her briefcase and walked downstairs, out to the parking garage. Traffic on Figueroa was stop-and-go, and Frank let the chill air blow the cobwebs out of her brain.

It was warm and lively at the Alibi as she walked around the tables, dipping her head in rough greetings. Frank raised a hand, caught Deirdre’s eye, and settled into one of the small booths. Deirdre delivered drinks to a nearby table, asking Frank over her shoulder, “Stout?”

“Double Dewar’s, no ice.”

Frank waited until the drink came before she opened the remaining murder book. She was beat, but she was almost through the daunting pile. Besides, under the tiredness she had to admit to curiosity. Sipping her drink, she held up a crime scene photograph, not wanting to lay it out for public display.

This girl was white, blonde/blue, a Jane Doe, fifteen to seventeen years old, and the picture made Frank put her drink down. The vie was lying on her side, eyes open to a concrete sidewalk. She was dressed in tattered blue jeans, a T-shirt, open wool shirt, worn Doc Marten-style shoes. The top of her pants was pulled down around her thighs and soaked with blood. A stick projected from between the cheeks of her ass. The lack of blood at the scene indicated she’d probably been dumped there.

Frank stared at the bloodied girl, the bruised face. She didn’t bother with the rest of the photographs but quickly read the autopsy protocol. Cause of death, massive internal hemorrhage. Manner, rupture of internal organs by tree branch inserted through anus. The investigative reports confirmed the Doe had been dumped.

Cursing silently, Frank drained the Scotch. Black electricity was zinging through her. What if the rapes had never stopped? What if they’d turned into homicides instead?

Frantically, she pulled notes out of her briefcase and followed the progression of assaults. The first one on her list was in December, and they occurred on a regular basis after that—January, March, April, May, June—then the rapes ended. But Nichols was killed in August, this girl in September, Agoura in October, and Peterson just weeks ago. Like clockwork. The son of a bitch had never stopped, just progressed. She reviewed the assaults, fully aware of their escalating brutality. As his skills had increased, so had his satisfaction threshold. It made sense. With each subsequent attack the perp had raised his bar a little higher. Murder would be a logical, inevitable benchmark. Meaning there would be more and their horror would increase. And he was almost due.

“Need a refill?”

Frank jerked her head up at Deirdre.

“Geez, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Yeah, maybe I have. How about another double. And something to go, uh, a BLT.”

“Toasted?”

“What?”

“Do you want your bread toasted or not?”

Frank was so preoccupied she had trouble understanding the simple question.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Frank felt in way over her head for the second time that night. When the sandwich came she jogged out of the Alibi and drove back to the brightly lit station. Taking the steps to the second floor three at a time, she once again pulled her Quantico books, the BLT slowly congealing in its styrofoam box.

After that night at Gil’s, it was common for them to cruise the red light strips. The father would drive, they’d both look. When he found a hooker he liked, usually a young girl, the father would make her get in the car. The hookers hated that, but they were usually hungry enough to go for it. If one refused, they’d find another, then park in a secluded lot. The first couple of times the father had gone first, taking the girl in the ass. Then he’d jerked off while he watched his son with her. Soon he stopped fucking the whores and just got off on watching. The rougher his son was, the more he liked it. If the girl complained too much, the boy tightened his shirt around her throat until she shut up. Then he’d bang into her as hard as he wanted. It felt like flying.

When Noah walked into the squad room next morning, Frank was waiting impatiently for him at the coffee pot, eating last night’s french fries and sandwich. Her hair was slicked back, dripping occasionally against her burgundy turtleneck, and Noah greeted, “Dudess. Another all-nighter?”

Frank tilted her head toward the office. Noah followed in the wake of her coffee steam.

“Close the door.”

“Oh, a good one.”

She indicated a city map she’d pinned to the wall above the couch.

“Red pins are rapes, green pins are homicides. I finally got to those murder books yesterday. Here. Take a look at this, too.”

She handed him a copy of the report she’d made of the pertinent rape and murder cases.

“Wow.”

“No shit.”

“So you think he never went underground, just switched to murder.”

“Yeah.”

“But if it’s the same perp, how do you explain this sudden switch from rape to sticks up the ass? Isn’t that kinda drastic? I mean we didn’t see anything like that with the assaults.”

Frank shook her head excitedly, water falling off in fat drops. Her color was high and she was animated, not her regular laconic self.

“Easy. Let’s start at the beginning. Look at the ages of these girls. Let’s say he’s never committed a rape before December, or at least not one he’s planned out and thought about. He’s out there trolling and wants someone easy. So he picks a little girl. The first one, Aguilar, was only ten. How hard can it be to handle a ten-year old? We know he’s a big man. It would be easy to overpower her.

And a little girl’s not threatening, you know? She’s not street smart, she’s not tough, she’s an easy mark.

“So Aguilar goes down easy, and he does another little girl in January. That’d be Menendez. She’s thirteen, right?”

Noah nodded at the paper in his hand.

“Okay, so she’s easy too, and he’s getting the hang of this thing. It’s simple. He’s feeling confident, feeling good. In March he does an eleven-year old. Then in April he graduates to a fourteen-year old, Troupe. That goes down easy too. He’s a master now. For the rest of these rapes he stays consistent with fourteen to sixteen-year olds.”

“But this Nichols girl is only twelve.”

“You’re right. But look where she lives…,” Frank pointed to an area near a cluster of red pins, “…and where she’s found.”

She tapped a green pin just above the red ones, saying, “Two blocks from Baldwin Hills Elementary.”

Frank pawed through an assortment of notes.

“Look at how he’s alternating here,” she said, indicating the red pins. “Girls one, two, and four are done at or around Culver City Park. Girls three, five, and six, at or around Kenneth Hahn. With six under his belt he must be feeling pretty confident, and he’s smart, too. He must know he can’t keep doing this in the same spots and not get caught. So on number seven he goes out of his territory and over to Crenshaw. Number eight is still about as equidistant as seven, but it’s west, over at CC High. Do you see?”