Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 (16 page)

Neither Stu nor Petra spoke.

“Don’t give me that surly shit,” said Schoelkopf. “This is insurance for you. ‘Yes, Mr. Pusswipe Defense Attorney, we looked into every goddamn nook and cranny before we busted Mr. Ramsey’s ass.’
Think—
about your faces on
Court TV,
old Mark Fuhrman sitting around in Idaho. Because you’re the ones on the line unless the case gets too big and we don’t produce and they kick it over to downtown Robbery-fucking-Homicide.”

“Which they could do anyway,” said Stu.

Schoelkopf’s grin was murderous. “Anything’s possible, Ken. That’s what makes this job so charming.” He began thumbing through the phone messages.

“What’s the procedure with Ramsey?” said Stu. “Do we wait to look into all those similars before approaching him, or are we allowed to start now?”

“
Allowed,
again? You two think this is being
imposed
on you?”

“Just trying to get the rules straight.”

Schoelkopf looked up. “The only rule is be smart. Goddamn yes, you talk to Ramsey. If you
don’t,
we’ll be in a sling over
that.
Just do the other stuff, too. That’s why God invented overtime.”

He picked up a message slip and the phone, but Stu remained seated and Petra followed his cue.

Stu said, “In terms of Ramsey’s background, I’ve got some sources at the studios—”

“I can see a problem there,” said Schoelkopf, looking up. “Movie people are loose-lipped assholes. The fact that your sources blab to you means they’re not real good at keeping their mouths shut, right?”

“That’s true of any case—”

“This isn’t any case.”

“What’s to stop them from talking to the press, anyway, Captain?” said Petra. “What if the tabloids start throwing around money and a real feeding frenzy develops? Do we keep bird-dogging the nightly news?”

Schoelkopf’s top teeth gnashed his bottom lip. “Okay, pick one or two sources, Ken,” he said, as if Petra hadn’t spoken. “But know this: You
will
be graded. Talk to that black guy, see what he’s all about. Sooner rather than later. Have a nice day.”

CHAPTER

My eyes are closed, and I’m thinking when I feel it.
Ants are crawling over me; they probably smelled the Honey Nuts. I jump to my feet and slap them off, stomp as many as I can. Someone watching me would think I’m crazy.

After what I saw, I don’t feel great even being in the park, but what’s my choice? For a second I imagine him finding me, chasing me, cornering me. He’s got the knife, the same one, grabs me and stabs down. My heart jumps up to meet the blade.

Why would I think that?

It’s 11:34
A.M.,
have to take my mind off it. I open the algebra book, do equations in my head. I’ll try to eat—maybe a piece of beef jerky—and at 1:00
P.M.,
I’ll go down to that place along the fence, see if the lock’s still off.

Made it. Super-quiet up in Africa. Five dollars in my pocket; the rest of my money’s wrapped up and buried.

Hot—summer’s coming early. Lots of sleepy animals, most of them hiding in their caves. Not a lot of people—some tourists, mostly Japanese, and young moms with babies in strollers. I’ve got a notebook with me and a pencil, to make it look like some kind of school assignment. My smell isn’t too bad out in the open. No one’s looking at me weird, and someone actually smiled—a couple of tourists—a man and a woman, Americans, old, kind of geeky, with lots of cameras and this zoo map they can’t seem to figure out. I probably remind them of their grandson or something.

I keep going to the top of Africa. Most of the animals are sleeping, but I don’t care, it feels good to walk without having to. One rhino is out, but she just gives me a dirty look, so I head for the gorillas.

When I get there, it’s a scene.

Two of the young moms are there, freaking out; one of them’s brushing off her blouse and screaming, “Oh God, gross!” and the other’s wheeling her stroller backward fast. Then they both race away toward North America.

I see why right away.

Shit. All over the ground near the fence that blocks off the gorilla exhibit.

Five gorillas are out, four sitting around and scratching and sleeping and one standing the way they do, bent over with his hands almost reaching the ground. A girl. The males have humongous heads and a silver stripe down their backs.

She starts walking around, stops to check out the other gorillas, scratches, walks some more. Then she bends and picks up a giant piece of shit.

And throws it.

It misses my head, and lands on the ground right next to me, exploding into nasty-smelling dust. Some of it gets on my shoes. I try to kick it loose and another chunk flies by me. And another.

“You idiot!” I hear myself scream. No one’s around.

The gorilla folds her arms across her chest and just looks at me and I swear she’s smiling, like this is some terrific gorilla joke.

Then she points at me. Then she picks up another hunk.

I get out of there. The whole world has gotten crazy.

I buy a lemonade from a vending machine and walk around drinking, hoping all the shit dust comes off, because I’m really tired of gross things.

Maybe I’ll visit the reptile house; it’s cool and shaded and seeing another two-headed king snake would be cool.

On the way in, I meet those same two grandparent tourists coming out and they smile again, still looking confused. I cruise by the boas and the anaconda, adders and lizards, rattlesnakes, vipers, and cobras. Spend some time looking at an albino python, huge and fat, with pink-white scales and weird red eyes.

Will its ugly pale face get into my dreams tonight?

That wouldn’t be bad if I could get it to eat
PLYR 1.

I stand there thinking of myself as the Snakemaster, communicating with reptiles through mental power. Calling the albino python to wrap itself around
PLYR 1,
crushing him, squeezing him like a juice orange.

Knowing what’s happening to him. That’s worse than just dying. Knowing.

A little while later, near the edge of the zoo, next to a playground that I guess they keep for little kids who get bored with the animals, is a vegetable patch with a rope around it.

Corn and beans and tomatoes and peppers. The sign says it’s for the animals, so they’ll have fresh food. I’ve seen chimps eating corn, so gorillas probably do, too, and that gets me thinking.

I also love corn, steamed sweet, but we never had it at home. Once, when I was in sixth grade, the school threw a Thanksgiving brunch out in the play yard—turkey and corn and sweet potatoes with marshmallows for anyone who paid. Everything piled high on long tables, moms in aprons spooning it out. I went into town to have a look, even though I had no money to buy anything. I hung around till the end, found a couple of loose quarters and played some ski-bowl, but lunch was out of the question—five dollars.

But one of the PTA ladies saw me looking at the corn and gave me a whole ear, daisy-yellow and shiny with butter, along with a turkey leg big enough for a family. I took it under a tree and ate, and that was the best Thanksgiving I ever had.

Now I move closer to the vegetable patch and look around.

Clear.

Quickly, I hop over the rope, go straight to the corn, break off three ears, and stuff them in my pockets. They stick out, so I tuck them under my T-shirt, hop back over like nothing happened, and walk slowly till I find a bathroom.

I go into one of the stalls, close the door, sit on the toilet lid, and take out one of the corns, peeling off the leaves and that hairy stuff and wondering what it’ll taste like raw.

It’s pretty good. Hard, crunchy, not nearly as delicious as steamed corn with butter, but it does have a sweet corn taste. I eat two ears quickly, the third more slowly, chewing hard and getting every bit down while reading the cuss-word graffiti all over the walls. When I’m finished, I lick all the corn taste from the cobs, toss them into the corner of the stall, take a leak, and use the bathroom sink to wash my face and hands. Then I roll up my jeans and wash the sides of my legs, too.

My stomach hurts, but differently.

Too full. I pigged out.

Your lunch is now mine, gorilla.

Revenge is as sweet as corn!

CHAPTER

Walking back to the squad room, Stu said, “He
only beat her once. What a guy.”

“Going over us, to Schoelkopf,” said Petra. “Manipulative.” Being collegial, then telling herself to hell with it. Say what was really on her mind.

She stopped and leaned against a locker. “Why’d you bring up the book?”

Stu leaned, too. “It was something tangible, and I didn’t want one of his lectures on wishful thinking versus evidence.”

“We got a lecture anyway.”

He shrugged.

She said, “He thinks the book’s bull. You agree with him, don’t you?”

He straightened and, with one hand, pinched the knot of his tie. “Do I think it’s thunder and lightning? No, but the lab will run prints on the book, and if it’s a homeless guy, there’s a chance he’s got a file somewhere so maybe we can locate him. If it turns out to be nothing, we’re no worse off.”

She didn’t answer.

He said, “What’s the matter?”

“It threw me, your bringing it up like that.”

“Hey, even I can be full of surprises.” His eyes didn’t yield. He walked away, not looking back to see if she’d followed.

Petra stood there, hands clenched. She recalled Kathy’s curtness last night on the phone. If it was a marital thing, she couldn’t expect him to let it ride. Okay, cool down, concentrate on the job. But she hated surprises.

Of the twenty-five other Hollywood detectives on the morning roster, six were at their desks, sorting mug shots, typing at newly donated and still-baffling computers, muttering into phones, reading murder books. All looked up as Petra and Stu entered, and shot sympathetic looks.

Any detective who loved mysteries going into the job had a quick change of heart. The Ramsey case was the worse kind of whodunit. The room smelled exactly like what it was: a windowless space seasoned by mostly male frustration.

A black D-II named Wilson Fournier said, “Knew you were gonna have fun when the boss came in early chewing gum but with no gum in his mouth.”

Petra smiled at him, and he resumed scanning gangbanger photos. Stu was at his desk facing hers, at the rear. She sat down and waited.

Stu said, “What do you want to do about looking for similars?”

“Not much.”

He hooked his thumbs under his suspender straps. His 9mm was nestled in a high shoulder holster. Petra was wearing hers the same way. It hurt her arm, and she removed it.

“The way I see it,” said Stu, “we’ve got two choices. Go over to Parker and pull microfiche all week, then we’d still have to get on the horn in order to check out Burbank and Atwater and Glendale or any county district. Or do it all telephonically with every homicide D we can find. Schoelkopf said two or three years; let’s do two. We could get lucky and move through it within the week. Personally, I’d rather talk to real people than deal with the files downtown, but it’s up to you.”

“The realer the better,” said Petra. “How do we prioritize? Do I call around first or try to reach this Darrell?”

“Let’s devote mornings to the scut, do real work in the afternoon.” He glanced at his watch. “You check out Darrell, and I’ll start nosing around the studios.”

Petra stared down the length of the room. “Speaking of real people, we can start with our colleagues here. It’s a waste of time, but so’s the rest of it.”

“Charity begins at home. Go for it.”

She stood up, pushed hair back from her face, cleared her throat dramatically. Three of the six detectives looked up.

“Gentlemen,” she announced, and the remaining three stopped what they were doing.

“As you know, Detective Bishop and I have been assigned a fascinating case, one
so
fascinating that word has come from above to be extra thorough. In order to establish the proper
context.
” Snickers. “Because we will—quote unquote—be graded.”

Grim looks all around.

“Detective Bishop and I desire a good grade, and so we request your help in locating the unknown perpetrator of this nefarious crime—who, of course, is totally unknown and must be sought out with the utmost care so as not to prejudice the investigation.”

Knowing smiles. She described the crime scene, Lisa’s wounds, and said, “Any 187’s within the last two years bear any resemblance?”

Head shakes.

A detective named Markus said, “Where was O.J. at the time?”

Laughter.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” She sat down to light applause.

Stu was clapping, too. He looked fine now, the blue eyes warm again. Maybe he was just sleep-deprived.

“Six down,” he said. “A few hundred to go—how about we divide up the districts on the vertical. I take east of here and you take west?”

There was lots more crime east of Hollywood—more detectives, more files. He was giving himself the lion’s share of the scut. Feeling guilty? Petra said, “You’ve got all the studios; I’ve only got Darrell. I’ll take east.”

“No, it’s okay,” he said. “I told Kathy not to expect me soon.” He blinked rapidly, as if his eyes hurt, and picked up the phone.

A divorce after all this time? Petra wanted to reach out to him. She said, “Noon break before we go our separate ways? Musso and Frank?”

He hesitated. Then: “Sure, we deserve it.” Starting to punch numbers, he stopped himself. “Someone should also call those sheriff’s guys—De la Torre and Banks—find out if they learned anything about Lisa’s DV complaint.”

“The news broadcast said she never filed a formal complaint.”

“There you go,” said Stu. “The news broadcast always tells the truth.”

She called Downtown Sheriff’s Homicide and asked for Hector De la Torre or Detective Banks, not remembering—or knowing—the younger one’s first name. Banks came on the line, greeting her with surprising warmth. “Thought you might call.”