When Levy finished the call, he offered his hand as he gestured at the files.
“Is that everything?”
“Yeah. I kept a copy for myself.”
“That’s fine. I just want to be sure we’re on firm legal ground before we hand them over. Here, let’s sit.”
He took the files and motioned me to a soft leather club chair on the other side of his office. He dropped onto the opposite chair, leaning forward like he was about to fly off a diving board.
I said, “You see the news?”
“I did. I also met with a representative of the DA’s office and Chief Marx this morning. Would you like coffee? Jacob could get you a coffee.”
“I’m fine. What are we going to do about this, Alan?”
The bulging eyes blinked.
“About what? I’m going to let them examine the files. I don’t see any reason not to cooperate.”
“Not the files. Byrd. He didn’t kill Yvonne Bennett.”
A line appeared between his eyebrows and he shook his head.
“There’s nothing to do, Elvis. Pinckert and Marx explained their investigation to me this morning. If I had this information three years ago, I would not have taken his case.”
I expected Levy to be angry, but he wasn’t. Alan Levy was never reversed. Levy was the guy who got the other guy reversed. Instead, he looked sad.
“Alan, we proved he could not have killed Yvonne Bennett. We proved it.”
Levy studied me for a moment, then spread his hands.
“I make up stories. That’s my job, Elvis. Making up stories within the defined parameters of an established structure. That’s what I do.”
Talking to a genius is hard work.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The law. I start with a list—names, dates, events, whatever—information on a page, facts without a narrative structure. My job is to frame those facts with a narrative, you see? A story. The opposing counsel, they have exactly the same facts, and they have to make up a story, too. The facts are the same, but the stories are always different. Same facts, two different stories, and whoever tells the best story convinces the jury. I am very good with my stories, Elvis. I can take a list of facts, any facts at all, and create the most wonderful stories. I do that better than almost anyone.”
I was growing impatient. He was giving a lecture in narrative theory, and I was the retard who couldn’t keep up.
“What does this have to do with Lionel Byrd?”
“I’m not saying I couldn’t prove it again. I’m telling you I wouldn’t take the case. Chief Marx and Ms. Pinckert were very open with me this morning. I wasn’t always polite, but they were patient. They convinced me.”
“They convinced you Byrd was good for the killings.”
“Yes.”
“Because he had these pictures.”
“They were thorough in their presentation. Tell you the truth, I was impressed.”
“I’ve seen scans of the album. I know how they broke it down and what they found with the camera and the film packs. Having this album doesn’t mean he killed them.”
Levy raised his eyebrows.
“I’m not the only one who’s had a meeting.”
“All the album means is Byrd and the person who took the pictures were somehow connected.”
“I made the same point. These people aren’t stupid, Elvis. They investigated the possibility of a second killer or some sort of an association, but found nothing to support that idea—no likely suspects were identified through his call register, nothing was found in his residence or vehicle, and no forensics belonging to anyone else was found on the album or pictures.”
“They couldn’t find Angel Tomaso, either. They’re right about this only if they ignore what Tomaso said in a sworn statement, and that’s what they’re doing. They’re assuming he made a mistake.”
“Maybe he did.”
“You thought he was right at the time.”
“If Tomaso was telling me the same thing today, I would still believe him, but I would discount his statement. A person can tell the truth as he knows it, but be mistaken in what he knows. That happens all the time.”
I expected Levy to come out swinging for having been cast in a role that potentially made him look like the villain in Marx’s Circus of Justice, but, instead, we were arguing.
“So what you’re saying is, three years ago when we proved this guy couldn’t have killed Yvonne Bennett, we were wrong.”
An embarrassed smile flickered at the corners of his mouth as if he couldn’t bring himself to admit it.
“No, we were right. We were right with the information we had at that time. There’s a difference.”
“Did they go over the other six victims with you?”
He nodded.
“Okay. Do you remember Lionel Byrd?”
Now he frowned, wondering where I was going.
“Of course I remember him.”
“I’ve only spent a few hours with this, Alan, but here’s what I found: None of these women were raped, bitten, or sexually abused. No contact means no DNA. The kill-zones were spread all over the city and the murder weapon changed with each killing. Six of the seven were murdered at the new moon—when there’s no moon at all.”
“I know what it means.”
“All of this makes it more difficult for the police to connect the crimes, which implies forethought and planning. Think about it, Alan—anyone can be a short-term spree killer, but it took an organized mind to hunt humans for seven years and get away with it. We’re talking about a top-of-the-food-chain predator. Byrd wasn’t up to it. He doesn’t fit the profile.”
Levy smiled as if he was proud of me.
“I like it. Same facts, different story. You’ve created a story you can live with.”
“This isn’t a story.”
“It’s too complex. See, that’s the problem. He had the pictures and the camera. He didn’t take hair or jewelry—he took the pictures. A simple story is always best. The truth lies in simplicity.”
“You think they’re right or they just have the best story?”
“The right story is always the best story.”
Levy frowned at the pictures of his wife and children. They wore white in almost all of the pictures. I hadn’t noticed their clothes before. Behind him, downtown Los Angeles spread to the east, swept clean by the hot desert winds.
“I understand you’re upset, Elvis. I am, too. I fought for Mr. Byrd three years ago, and won, but this time it’s not my game.”
“You fought because you thought you would get another State Supreme Court argument out of it.”
“Well, yes, but nevertheless. Last time we were right, but this time they’re right. The facts change, the story changes. It has to.”
I stood, and went to the door.
“Tell you what, Alan, after I talk to Tomaso, maybe the story will change again.”
He gave me the same frown he had been giving the pictures.
“Well, do what you want, but you’re only going to end up embarrassing yourself. You’ll look like a sore loser.”
Alan Levy, with his ninety-eight percent acquittal rate and seven appearances before the California Supreme Court, worried about being a sore loser.
“Alan, did you make a deal with Marx to keep your mouth shut?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Marx and Wilts were screaming the charges against Byrd should never have been dropped, but they never brought up your name.”
Levy’s face darkened.
“Don’t forget to have your parking validated on the way out.”
John Chen called as I was leaving the building. He was even more paranoid than before.
10
CHEN TOLD me to meet him under the Fourth Street Bridge. It was a desolate, industrial part of Los Angeles, where the river was framed by concrete and warehouses, and was mostly known for the cardboard encampments under th
e bridge. Twenty minutes later I was watching the homeless people when Chen pulled up in an SID wagon. Chen was tall and skinny, and watching him get out of the wagon was like watching a question mark unfold. He studied the surrounding buildings as if he were checking for spies, then hurried to my car.
I said, “There are maybe ten thousand places easier to meet than here.”
“And ten thousand places we could be seen. I’m on my way out to a hatchet murder in El Monte.”
He shoved a manila envelope into my lap, but suddenly pulled it back, his oversize glasses making him look like a suspicious parrot.
“Did you tell anyone you were calling me?”
“Of course not. Did someone say something?”
“Ten minutes after we talked, Harriet pulled me into the hall. She warned me not to talk to you.”
“She used my name? Me, specifically?”
“Not you specifically, but who else would she be talking about? It’s been like that all week. Everything top secret and way off the weird meter.”
He looked around again, and I caught myself looking, too.
I said, “How is Repko being handled differently?”
“I worked her case six weeks ago when she was first murdered—before this stuff with Byrd came up.”
“Okay.”
“Then we get the book, right? There isn’t going to be anything new—I did the full workup and analysis when she was murdered. But last week Harriet tells me they want me to pull more samples from her clothes.”
“You had to exhume her?”
Chen looked annoyed.
“No, man, her old clothes. Her furniture. They found this girl dead in an alley, and now they wanted me to go to her house. I’m, like, why would something from Lionel Byrd turn up where she lived? Harriet says, just go vac the goddamned clothes.”
“So?”
“This girl was murdered almost two months ago. New people are living in her apartment. Her parents cleaned out the place and brought her effects home with them. It’s a forensic nightmare, dude, but there I am with these poor people, the mother crying, her fucking brothers looking like they want to kick my ass, vaccing her clothes.”
“You find anything to connect her to Byrd?”
“I don’t know. You know what a blind test is?”
“No.”
“They gave us samples to compare with the samples I vacced from her clothes, but the comparison samples didn’t come with a name—only a number. Blind. We asked why we were running blind tests, Harriet told us don’t ask. She said if we told anyone we were cooking blinds, she would have our asses in the can. I don’t know if we got any hits or not. Everything went to Harriet, and Harriet made the comparisons.”
Like Marx ordering Poitras to seal Byrd’s home.
“What were you testing?”
“Hair, fiber, the usual stuff.”
“What did the homicide cops say?”
Chen made a derisive snort.
“They wouldn’t discuss the case with us, either. We gave our reports to Harriet, and Harriet did whatever she did with them. I guess she passed them up to the task force. Those task force guys wouldn’t even talk about what they were doing with the divisional dicks, and those guys are pissed.”
Chen was describing a major departure from protocol. Detectives worked closely with criminalists as their cases evolved, and task force detectives almost always worked with divisional detectives because the divisional dicks had relationships with witnesses and the victims.
I thought about what he was saying and what it might mean.
“Did Byrd kill these people?”
Chen looked surprised.
“Well, yeah. Nothing we found suggests or supports anything else. Here, check it out—”
He finally handed me the envelope. Chen had copied the SID work product on Repko and Byrd along with the CI’s crime scene descriptions and the medical examiner’s autopsy protocols.
I skimmed the reports about Debra Repko first. Her condition as described was in keeping with everything I had been told or read on the Internet, and only served to underline how little I knew about the victim. Blood tests showed a .02 alcohol level, which indicated she had consumed at least one but not more than two drinks in the hours preceding her death. This suggested a social drink or glass of wine with dinner, but I had no way of knowing. Unlike the police, I knew absolutely nothing about Debra Repko and her life, which made my guesses meaningless.
I moved on to the reports about Lionel Byrd. Everything confirmed what I had already been told by Starkey and Lindo until I read the list of items documented when Byrd’s body was recovered. A single tablet identified as oxycodone was found beneath his chair.
“Was he taking oxys?”
“He had three in his system along with the booze. He wasn’t incapacitated, if that’s what you’re thinking. He was just numb.”
“He have a scrip?”
“Street buy. The tab we found was a Mexican import. The M.E. figures he used because of the foot. That foot was a mess.”
“So he was in a lot of pain with the foot?”
“Yeah.”
“Bad enough to keep him from driving?”
He would have to leave his house for street drugs or someone would have to deliver them.
“I’m just telling you what the M.E. said. I didn’t examine his foot.”
I got lost in the pages. Most of them were just numbers and charts, so I stopped looking at them.
“Did you find anything that directly connects Byrd to Repko?”
“No.”
“Any of the other victims?”
“Uh-uh, but I don’t know what the blind samples were. I don’t know if they got any hits on those or not.”
The two of us stared at each other until Chen’s pager buzzed. He frowned when he glanced at it.
“Crap. I gotta get going. They’re looking for me.”
Chen opened the door but hesitated before he got out.
“You know what I think? They closed the case, but the case isn’t really closed.”
“You think?”
“What else, bro? You think this girl had Lionel Byrd over for dinner?”
Chen hurried back to his car, and I watched him drive away.
11
I WANTED to read Chen’s reports more carefully, and opted to read them at Philippe, a cafeteria-style sandwich shop nearby in Chinatown. I could have read them under the bridge or anywhere else, but even world-class detectives get hungry. Philippe claims they invented the French dip sandwich in 1908, and maybe they did, but either way they have been serving the same killer sandwiches ever since. The double-dip turkey is my fare of choice.
I never got to the reports. I had just mounted a stool at one of the long family-style tables when Jack Eisley returned my call about Angel Tomaso. Eisley remembered me, though we had only met the one time I interviewed Tomaso at Eisley’s apartment.
He said, “I saw the thing on the news and thought, hey, that’s Angel’s dude. Talk about blast from the past. And then you call.”
Philippe was so noisy with the lunch-hour crush, I took the phone and the sandwich outside. The double-dip jus ran down my arm.
“I need to speak with him. It’s pretty important.”
“About this?”
“Yeah.”
“Angel moved back to Texas. He got really down on the whole acting thing and went back to Austin. Had to crash with his aunt. I’m, like, dude, are you sure?”
Eisley wanted to chat.
“Great. You have a number in Austin?”
“I called last night after the news, but his aunt said he came back to L.A. a few months ago. It’s the actor thing, man. If you’re an actor, you’re an actor, you know? It was only a matter of time.”
“Even better. So what’s his number here in L.A.?”
“She wouldn’t give it to me. She said she’d pass on my message, but she doesn’t give out numbers without permission. This was only last nig
ht. I’ll probably hear from him today.”
If she passed on the request.
If Angel called.
If Eisley phoned back with the number.
“Jack, have the police contacted you about Angel?”
“No, uh-uh. Why would they do that?”
“Listen, I know his aunt is supposed to give him your message, but you mind letting me have her number? I’d like to talk to her.”
Unlike Angel’s aunt, Eisley didn’t mind giving out information. I scratched out her number while turkey jus stained my pad, then drove to my office to make the call. With any luck, I would find Angel Tomaso before the end of the day and crack the case by sundown.
When I reached my building, I left my car in the parking garage and walked up the four flights to my floor.
I liked the building and my office, and had been there for many years. The office next to mine was occupied by an attractive woman who sold wholesale beauty supplies and sunned herself on the adjoining balcony. Across the hall was an insurance agent I rarely saw, though the two women who worked for him showed up every day like clockwork.
Everything about the building was normal until I reached my office and saw the doorjamb was split near the knob. Jambs do not split by themselves.
I leaned close to the door, but heard nothing.
I stepped across the hall and looked at my door from a different angle. A woman’s voice came from the insurance office, but it sounded normal. No one was screaming for help. No one was talking about the terrible noise she had heard from the private eye’s office across the hall.
I went back to my door, listened again, then pushed the door open.
Papers, files, and office supplies were scattered over the floor like trash blown by the wind. The couch was slashed along its length. My desk chair and the director’s chairs were upended, and the glass in both French doors had been kicked out, leaving jagged teeth in the frame. My computer, answering machine, and Mickey Mouse phone were part of the debris. Mickey’s left ear was broken. Everything that was on my desk the night before had been swept to the floor.
I started at the mess until I heard tocking. The Pinocchio clock was still on the wall, smiling its oblivious smile. His eyes tocked side to side, sightless, but reassuring.