Burning Man (33 page)

“I don’t know that story.”

“And you think I’m Hans Christian Andersen?” He mock-sighed and then said, “Supposedly God had named all the plants in the world except for one. He had overlooked a small flowering plant, and it cried out, ‘Oh, Lord, you have forgotten to give me a name.’ And so He called it ‘forget-me-not.’”

“That’s a good story.”

“It’s a legend. A good story is what I will need to take on this mission.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Before proceeding on this fool’s errand, you’ll need to tell me a good story about why I should spend my morning hunting down a weed that’s probably not even flowering this time of year.”

“I’m not rich. I’m a cop. But I’ll pay you for your time.”

“That’s not a good story unless I somehow missed a part about handcuffs. That’s like me telling you I am a florist and then asking you to fix a parking ticket for me for a fee. I’ll need a story from you to work on.”

“What the hell kind of florist shop do you run?”

“As you might have imagined, it’s a quirky one. But it’s also quite popular and customers are already waiting for me to open my doors. I chose my line of work because I like to be surrounded by beauty. And I like to be inspired in my work.”

“I called to get flowers, not psychotherapy.”

“I throw the therapy in for free.”

I considered hanging up, but then found myself talking. “My wife died three years ago. Two years ago I was burned in a fire. In some ways being burned was a relief because it gave me an excuse to not get on with my life. I could tell myself it was just enough to survive. But this week I asked a woman out, and for the first time since my wife died I began imagining a future with someone else. Yesterday, though, we had a spat. I don’t want us to be over before we’ve even begun. And that’s why I want forget-me-nots.”

“Now that’s a good story. And because it is, I will try and do the impossible to get you your forget-me-nots and have them delivered today.”

“I really appreciate that.”

“I’ll include some poem or lyrics with the plant so that she realizes the uninspiring potted plant you’ve sent her is a token of much more.”

“She’ll know the song. She’ll know what I was trying to say.”

“Yes, about that song. You do realize that for the rest of the day it will be cycling through my brain?”

“It could have been worse. It could have been ‘Disco Duck.’”

For the first time since our argument, I felt better. The condemned man had a pulse. Maybe my relationship with Lisbet still had a chance. It would be up to her to forgive or not, and to forget or not.

I picked up a large coffee at a drive-through and finished it over the course of my commute. There was no one in Robbery-Homicide, and I felt a bit like an interloper. I had a right to be
there, but I didn’t feel as if I belonged. I commandeered a conference room and spread out some papers. Gump and Martinez arrived a few minutes after I did, and we started comparing notes and divvying work.

“I’ve been going through the bully list,” Martinez said, “and checked out eight of the eleven names. Three of the names I wasn’t able to cross-index with school records.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “Jason Davis only knew Dinah Hakimi by the nickname the Agency gave her: Bugs.”

“What an embezzle,” Gump said in a Bugs Bunny Bronx accent. “What an ultramaroon.”

“Who do you still need to run down?” I asked.

Martinez handed me the list with Travis’s writing. Three of the names were circled: Sophie Gabor, Danny Marxmiller, and Laura Barrel.

“I’ll go back to Davis,” I said, “and tell him to do better with those three names.”

Martinez said, “I’ve talked to the other eight kids. They said that Klein and his group were annoying assholes.”

“What a news flash,” Gump said.

“I asked them for an accounting of their time from Monday afternoon to Monday evening. It seems as if they all have witnesses and alibis. I haven’t checked out their stories, but I’ll be doing that today.”

“While you work on your bully list, I’ll work on my bucket list,” Gump said. “How do you spell ‘ménage à trois’?”

“Even the Make a Wish Foundation couldn’t pull that one off,” Martinez said.

One of the Robbery-Homicide detectives was out on leave, so I commandeered her desk. I worked the phones all morning. Three of my calls were to Jason Davis’s cell phone. When it was apparent
he was ignoring my messages, I called a fourth time and said, “If I don’t hear from you within fifteen minutes, I’ll be contacting your parents so that they can arrange for a lawyer for you, and then I’ll be visiting you in one of your classrooms at Beverly to pick you up.”

He called back within five minutes.

“Some of the names on your victim list we haven’t been able to identify. I’m going to need you to get them right.”

“It’s not like I really know any of those people,” he said.

“You knew them well enough to hassle them.”

“That list goes back years. I haven’t seen some of those kids since forever. People have moved and graduated and stuff.”

“We’ve already identified most of the names but need clarification on three of them. We couldn’t find anything on Sophie Gabor, Danny Marxmiller, and Laura Barrel. I need you to get back to me on those three.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“You really want me to acquaint you with my job?”

Davis sighed and then said, “I’ll work on it.”

“I need to hear from you by the end of the school day. And make sure you spell the names right this time.”

“Maybe if you don’t call every five minutes, I might be able to do that.”

He ended the call, and I found myself glowering at my cell phone. The best of teens are adept at pushing adult buttons, and Davis and his spoiled brat pack were not the best of teens. Just as I was about to officially turn into a curmudgeon, my phone rang. At first I didn’t recognize the name of Dearly Departed on the readout, but then I made the connection with the business that ran the online obituary service and remembered their tribute wall to Paul Klein.

“Is this Detective Gideon?”

I confirmed my identity, but that wasn’t good enough for Mary Ann Wiggins. “Our counsel gave me permission to talk to you,
Detective,” she said, “but I’d be more comfortable going through an official switchboard instead of calling your cell phone directly.”

I gave her the LAPD number and the extension where I could be reached and then waited for her return call. Finally, the phone at my temporary cubicle rang.

“I am sorry I had to do that,” she said, “but my work has made me suspicious.”

“Identity theft is the new bubonic plague,” I said. “You can’t be too suspicious. But in my case, I yam what I yam.”

“I see,” Wiggins said, apparently not as impressed as Olive Oyl. “When we talked last week you asked if we could flag any negative comments or poison-pen letters directed at Paul Klein. Are you still interested in those things?”

“By all means.”

“In the last four days there have been seven attempted postings that we deemed inappropriate.”

“Can you forward those e-mails to me?”

Wiggins hesitated a moment before I added, “If you want, I can send you an e-mail with my official LAPD e-mail address, and then you can forward those letters to me.”

“I’ll respond directly after hearing from you. And when you receive the forwarded letters, don’t be fooled by the two notes with biblical quotes. You’ll find they are disingenuous.”

“In what way?”

“The same writer wrote both. He pretended sympathy for the victim and cited what you would imagine were inspirational biblical passages, but anyone referencing those chapters and verses would be in for a surprise. They are anything but sympathetic.”

“Clever.”

“We’re used to that. What is harder to pick out is a note like the one we received today on a matter unrelated to your case. The remembrance was written by a daughter to a father. That seemed well and good until we realized the deceased only had two sons.”

“Daddy, we hardly knew thee.”

I thanked her, took down her e-mail address, and then said I’d appreciate it if she could forward the letters as soon as possible. I sent off my e-mail information to her while Wiggins was promising that she would do just that.

“I might have something here,” I announced to Gump and Martinez.

The detectives walked back to my desk, and I told them about the toxic notes that had been written for Klein’s memorial wall.

“A high-profile murder always brings the crazies out,” a skeptical Martinez said.

“Yeah,” Gump added, “we’ve already had at least a dozen false confessions.”

“Maybe the memorial wall brought out someone besides the crazies,” I said. “Anyone that hated Klein enough to kill him would hate the idea of him getting what would be perceived as false praise.”

“Computer Crimes Unit can help us get the real names and addresses of the writers,” Gump said. “It’s been my experience that most killers don’t have helpful websites like www-dot-I-am-a-murderer-dot-com.”

I pulled up my e-mail, but there was nothing new in my inbox. A minute later I tried again, with the same result. It was like watching a pot waiting for water to boil. The two detectives continued to hover right behind me.

“Did you tell your contact that sometime this century would be nice, Gideon?” Martinez asked.

I didn’t answer but instead tried my mailbox again—still nothing.

“Pony Express would be faster,” Gump said.

I checked the time. Only ten minutes had passed since I’d talked with Wiggins. Once more I went to the e-mail well.

“Bingo,” I said and hit print.

We took the printouts to the conference room, and Gump and Martinez quickly leafed through the lot.

Gump didn’t hide his disappointment at what was there. “I don’t feel the hate,” he said. “And two of these are God-is-good notes that don’t even belong.”

“Hold that thought,” I said, writing down the biblical passages and then exiting the conference room. A minute later I returned with two more printouts.

One of the notes read, “Take solace in God’s plan: Isaiah 13:16.” As far as I could see, there wasn’t much solace to be gained from the cited biblical passage, which I showed to the two detectives: “Their children also shall be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses shall be spoiled, and their wives ravished.”

“What the hell?” Gump was suddenly interested.

The other note read, “Embrace the ways of the Lord: Ezekiel 9:6.” In this case, judging by that particular chapter and verse, the ways of the Lord included murder: “‘Kill them all—old and young, girls and women and little children. But do not touch anyone with the mark. Begin right here at the Temple.’ So they began by killing the seventy leaders.”

“I got dibs on God’s avenging angel,” Gump said. “You got to believe this is a guy that would love to carry out a crucifixion.”

We went through the other “tributes.” Even Gump seemed taken aback.

“These guys won’t be working at the Comedy Store any time soon,” he said.

We studied the words on the first note: “In this day and age it is hard to imagine someone being crucified. Paul Klein died in the City of Angels. When he was nailed to the tree, Klein looked down below and said, ‘Hey, I can see my house from here.’”

The second attempt at humor wasn’t any better: “This young man’s death was a tragedy. My condolences go out to his friends and family. When I heard how he died, I was quite cross.”

At first read, the third note seemed legitimate: “What a terrible, senseless death! My thoughts and prayers go out to those that knew and loved Paul. As most of you probably know, the
family has asked that all donations should go to the Arbor Day Foundation.”

The last attempt at comedy was a double entendre: “In the midst of the mourning woods, Paul Klein died. Last night I wept with the willows; at daybreak I contemplated my own morning wood.”

Not everyone was a comedian. Some writers were purely spiteful. One wrote, “Maybe his daddy will make a film on his son’s murder and call it
Jesus and Paul
.” Another tried to remember him with “All of Richie Rich’s money didn’t do him any good, did it?”

The poison-pen e-mail that interested me the most read, “Some say Paul Klein’s death was tragic. Those that knew him would say it is karma.” Unfortunately, I didn’t claim the note fast enough. Martinez grabbed it and said, “I want to talk with this guy.”

We divided up the work, and then Gump gathered all the printouts. Even though our case was a priority, it helped that he knew someone in Computer Crimes that he claimed owed him a favor. If we were lucky, by day’s end we would have the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of the writers.

I was talking on another line when Jason Davis rang my cell. Ten minutes later I listened to his message.

“This is Jason,” he said. “I’m assuming you still want those names so I went to the office. It wasn’t Sophie Gabor but Soshi Gabay, which is spelled g-a-b-a-y. If that’s not right, don’t blame me. I got it from the office secretary, so call her.

“And it’s not Laura Barrel, but Helena Beral. Her last name is b-e-r-a-l. And Danny wasn’t Marxmiller’s first name. The lady at the office said it was his middle name. His real first name was David.”