Redzone (20 page)

Jenkins paused to survey the faces in front of him. “Many of you are aware that certain aspects of this murder are reminiscent of the murders committed by an individual who calls him or herself ‘the Bonebreaker.' And while we acknowledge there are some similarities, we urge you not to make assumptions regarding this murder. It may or may
not be connected to the previous killings. Once an autopsy has been performed, and various test results are back, we'll let you know if we think there's a connection.

“Now I would like to introduce Lieutenant Brianna Wolfe, who is leading this investigation with assistance from Detective Cassandra Lee. They will answer your questions to the extent that they can—remembering that there are topics we can't discuss at this time.”

Lee had to give Wolfe credit. She handled the barrage of questions with considerable finesse. Yes, there were three black garbage bags. No, she wouldn't comment on the contents of the bags. Yes, there was a message from a person claiming to be the killer. No, she wouldn't say what was in the message, or whether it was from the Bonebreaker.

And so it went. In fact, the whole thing was so smooth that Lee thought she was going to skate until Carla Zumin called her name. “Detective Lee! You've been working on the Bonebreaker killings for a long time now—and he tried to kill you. Do you have a message for him?”

Lee felt a surge of anger, opened her mouth, and heard herself speak. “Yes, I have a message for the bastard . . . No matter where you are, no matter what hole you live in, we will find you.” And
that
, needless to say, was the sound pop that all of the TV stations led with.

*   *   *

The Bonebreaker's work was done for the day. The current task was to inscribe the words from Matthew 25:46 onto Chief McGinty's femur. After many hours of painstaking work using an air-powered engraving tool, the phrase, “Then they will go away to eternal punishment,” had been successfully inscribed onto the bone. He planned to finish the job soon. The
full
inscription, the one the Bonebreaker would send to McGinty's whore, was going to read: “Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.” The “righteous” being those who had suffered at McGinty's hands.

It was 10:42
P.M.
by then, although time had very little meaning in the ossuary, and the Bonebreaker was hungry. The camp stove was located on a counter next to an improvised sink. Fixing dinner was a simple matter of dumping a can of chicken noodle soup into a pan and lighting a burner. That, plus a piece of Melba toast, was the Bonebreaker's idea of a hearty meal.

Once the soup came to a boil, the Bonebreaker took it and the piece of toast over to the stainless-steel worktable, where he put both items down next to McGinty's femur. Having worked through the 5:00
P.M.
newscast, the Bonebreaker wanted to watch Channel 7's 11:00
P.M.
News-Wrap
while he ate.

He was slurping soup out of a large spoon as the anchors appeared. The Bonebreaker knew both of them well, or felt that he did, and liked square-jawed Weston Smiley the best. It was blue-eyed Mary Rollit who read the first story, however. “I'm sorry to say that another Los Angeles police officer has been murdered. And, based on preliminary evidence, the killing may be the work of the notorious Bonebreaker.”

The real Bonebreaker stopped eating as Rollit described the black trash bags, where they had been found, and the miles-long traffic jam that resulted from the discovery. The Bonebreaker felt a rising sense of rage. He was innocent! Of
that
murder anyway . . . And had never heard of Officer Vasquez before.

So he was already upset when the press-conference footage appeared. A police official was speaking, but the Bonebreaker had very little interest in what the man had to say. His eyes were on Cassandra Lee! The bitch had returned from wherever she'd been hiding. He called upon God to strike Lee dead.
No,
the voice in his head said.
You are my servant on Earth . . . It is your task to punish the evildoers.

Lee took a question from one of the reporters as the press conference began to wind down. “Detective Lee! You've been working on the Bonebreaker killings for a long time
now—and he tried to kill you. Do you have a message for him?”

“Yes,” Lee said. “I have a message for the bastard. No matter where you are, no matter what hole you live in, we will find you.”

The Bonebreaker uttered a scream of rage and threw his spoon at the TV set. It hit, bounced off, and clattered to the floor. “I didn't do it!” he shouted. But no one heard him other than a hungry rat—and it wasn't impressed.

*   *   *

Lee had no difficulty waking up on the morning after the press conference. That had a lot to do with the fact that there were cameras in her home including the bedroom.

The first thing Lee did as she rolled out of bed was to give the people who were watching her the finger as she left for the bathroom. The one place where she could be sure of some privacy. After completing her morning routines Lee left the apartment, went down to the street, and performed a 360 on the sedan. The lack of response from the handheld detector suggested that the vehicle was clean, except for the police department's tracker, that is.

Rather than head downtown for roll call, Lee chose to check in with Wolfe by phone. “I'm going to visit the Vasquez family,” she said. “And Yanty is hard at work trying to get access to Vasquez's phone records, e-mails, and online activity.”

“Sounds good,” Wolfe said. “What about Prospo?”

“He's working on a search warrant for Vasquez's apartment,” Lee replied.

“Roger that,” Wolfe said. “Keep me informed.”

Lee promised to do so, broke the connection, and pulled into a strip mall. Ten minutes later, she emerged from the local coffee shop with a grande mocha and a blueberry scone in hand. In a clear violation of departmental policy and a couple of laws, Lee ate breakfast while she drove.

The working-class community of Glendale was north of
where she lived, had taken a heavy hit during the plague, and was still on the long road to recovery. But it looked like roughly two-thirds of the houses were occupied. And, judging from the numerous neighborhood-watch signs, the local homeowners were doing their part to keep crime under control.

After a wrong turn, Lee got back on track, and had to wind her way through an old subdivision before arriving in front of the Vasquez house. She couldn't park there however since the driveway was full of cars—and at least a dozen vehicles were parked on the street. Friends and relatives? Probably. And based on previous experience, Lee knew that the presence of so many mourners could make her job more difficult.

Lee parked the creeper half a block away and walked back. The Vasquez residence was a ranch-style home with a brick façade and a raised planter that ran along the front. Judging from the profusion of flowers someone had a green thumb.

Lee rang the bell and heard a distant chime, followed by the sound of footsteps. The door opened to reveal a pleasant-looking woman with carefully arranged black hair. Her eyes were red as if from crying. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“I'm Detective Lee,” Lee said, as she opened her ID up for the woman to look at. “I called last night. Are you Mrs. Vasquez?”

“Yes,” the woman replied. “Please come in. My husband and I have visitors, but we can talk in the kitchen.”

In order to reach the kitchen it was necessary to pass through a living room packed with people, including a Catholic priest, who nodded to Lee as she passed by. Halfway to the kitchen a man whom Lee took to be Mr. Vasquez got up off a chair and fell in behind her.

The house had been built back before open interiors became popular and had never been remodeled. So, with the exception of a pass-through, the kitchen was partitioned off
from the dining area. Three children were seated at a table playing a board game—but left when Mrs. Vasquez ordered them into the backyard. “Please,” Mrs. Vasquez said. “Have a seat. This is my husband, Jorge. And this is Detective Lee . . . Would you like something to drink? Coffee perhaps?”

The words had a robotic quality—as if Mrs. Vasquez was going through the motions. “No, thank you,” Lee replied. “I'm sorry to intrude. I know this is a very difficult time for you and your family. But the department wants to apprehend the person or persons who murdered your son and bring them to justice as quickly as possible. And that's why I'm here . . . to collect any information that might help us solve the case.”

Mr. Vasquez was sitting across from her. He was small, wiry, and starting to go bald. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “But I'm not sure that we'll be of much help.”

“You never know,” Lee said, as she placed a small recorder on the table between them. “Let's start with the last time you spoke with Rudy.”

Mrs. Vasquez started to cry at that point and began to snatch tissues out of a box. So it was up to Jorge to field Lee's questions. It seemed that Mrs. Vasquez had spoken to their son on the phone about a week prior to his disappearance. It had been a routine call, the kind young men make to keep their mothers happy, and lasted about ten minutes.

As the interview continued Mr. Vasquez said that no, they didn't know of anyone who would want to harm their son, nor were they aware of any problems in his personal life. “He was a good boy,” Mrs. Vasquez insisted, as she blotted her eyes. “He liked to listen to music, ride his bike, and play baseball. But most of all he loved his job. He was five when he told me that he was going to be a policeman.”

There were more tears after that—and Lee figured that she had what there was to get. Many eyes followed her progress as Mr. Vasquez led her through the living room and out onto the front porch. Once there he looked around as if to ensure that no one else could hear. “I know you,” he said
solemnly. “You're the cop that killed those bank robbers. Promise me this . . . When you find the people who killed my son, shoot them. “Do you hear me?” he demanded, as the tenor of his voice rose. “Kill the bastards.”

And with that, he turned around and went back into the house. The door clicked as it closed. The interview was over.

After leaving the Vasquez residence Lee pointed the car downtown. There was a ton of administrative crap waiting for her with more coming in all the time. Her phone rang. “This is Lee.”

“It's Prospo,” the voice on the other end of the call said. “I have the warrant.”

“Outstanding . . . Give me the address. I'll meet you there.”

Lee pulled over to jot the address down, and saw that it was in West Hollywood, an area sometimes referred to as WeHo. A place where a lot of gay people had chosen to live. Did that mean Vasquez was gay? No, but it raised the possibility. And his sex life might or might not be relevant to the case. “Thanks,” Lee said, as she pulled away from the curb. “I'm on the way.”

Lee took Hyperion Avenue to Santa Monica Boulevard, which led straight to West Hollywood. The four-story apartment house was on the east side of Martel Avenue and looked like thousands of other flat-topped white stucco buildings.

Prospo was there, along with a slightly overweight, middle-aged crime-scene investigator whom everyone called “Moms.” Having already obtained a key from the on-site property manager, they were ready to enter the apartment that Vasquez had occupied for most of the last two years. It was on the second floor, facing out onto a shared walkway and the street beyond. What could have been his bike was chained to the metal railing.

Prospo opened the door and pushed it back out of the way so that he could eyeball the interior. Then, confident that they weren't about to step on any evidence, he let the others in.

Moms had something like a thousand investigations
under her belt and didn't need any instructions. Her camera whirred, and light strobed the walls, as the detectives gave themselves a tour of the one-bedroom apartment. It was decorated man-style, with leather-covered furniture and a couple of dying plants. Sports stuff, including free weights, were scattered about. An old surfboard had been hung over the couch, which sat across from a huge flat-screen TV.

There was some cop memorabilia too . . . including a class photo from the academy on one wall and a framed lifesaving medal on another. All of which was consistent with Lee's expectations, and sadly enough, not that different from her apartment.
I need to move,
Lee thought to herself for the second time in twenty-four hours.
I need a fresh start. I need to call Lawrence.

As for Vasquez's sex life, that wasn't clear. Snapshots of men
and
women were pinned to the refrigerator with magnets so it could go either way.

“I don't see any signs of violence,” Prospo said. “Nothing that would suggest that Vasquez was abducted from the apartment. And that's consistent with the Bonebreaker's MO. None of his victims were taken from their homes. Not so far.”

“I agree,” Lee replied. “I think we should talk to his partner next.”

“She's scheduled to meet with us at 2:00
P.M.
,” Prospo said. “Back at the cop shop.”

“Nice work,” Lee said. “Come on . . . I'll take you to lunch. Maybe we can find a Mexican restaurant that serves meat loaf and mashed potatoes.”

*   *   *

Lee was sitting at her desk, working her way through 247 e-mails, when Officer Syndy Seko appeared. She was dressed in her blue uniform and looked like a recruiting poster. A black band was wrapped around her badge to symbolize the loss of a fellow officer. “Detective Lee? I'm Syndy Seko. I was told to report to you at two o'clock.”

“Thanks for coming,” Lee replied as she stood up. “Come on . . . We'll grab Detective Prospo and find a place to talk.”