We were quiet for a moment, probably both of us thinking about the deal. I didn’t tell Patrick that he might end up helping me more than I would help him. In the past forty-eight hours, the pressure of the new caseload had begun to weigh on me. I could feel myself being pulled back, feel the desire to go to the cotton-wrapped world the pills could give me. The pills opened the space between where I was and the brick wall of reality. I was beginning to crave that distance.
Up front and deep down I knew I didn’t want that again, and maybe Patrick could help me avoid it.
“Thanks, Mr. Haller.”
I looked up at him from my thoughts.
“Call me Mickey,” I said. “And I should be the one saying thanks.”
“Why are you doing all of this for me?”
I looked at the big fish on the wall behind him for a moment, then back at him.
“I’m not sure, Patrick. But I’m hoping that if I help you, then I’ll be helping myself.”
Patrick nodded like he knew what I was talking about. That was strange because I wasn’t sure myself what I had meant.
“Go get your board, Patrick,” I said. “I’ll see you at the house. And make sure you remember to call your mother.”
Thirty
After I was finally alone in the office, I started the process the way I always do, with clean pages and sharp points. From the supply closet I retrieved two fresh legal pads and four Black Warrior pencils. I sharpened their points and got down to work.
Vincent had broken the Elliot case into two files. One file contained the state’s case, and the second, thinner file contained the defense case. The weight of the defense file was not of concern to me. The defense played by the same rules of discovery as the prosecution. Anything that went into the second file went to the prosecutor. A seasoned defense attorney knew to keep the file thin. Keep the rest in your head, or hidden on a micro-chip in your computer if it is safe. I had neither Vincent’s head nor his laptop. But I was sure the secrets Jerry Vincent kept were hidden somewhere in the hard copy. The magic bullet was there. I just had to find it.
I began with the thicker file, the prosecution’s case. I read straight through, every page and every word. I took notes on one legal pad and drew a time-and-action flowchart on the other. I studied the crime scene photographs with a magnifying glass I took from the desk drawer. I drew up a list of every single name I encountered in the file.
From there, I moved on to the defense file and again read every word on every page. The phone rang two different times but I didn’t even look up to see what name was on the screen. I didn’t care. I was in relentless pursuit and cared about only one thing. Finding the magic bullet.
When I was finished with the Elliot files, I opened the Wyms case and read every document and report it contained, a time-consuming process. Because Wyms was arrested following a public incident that had drawn several uniform and SWAT deputies, this file was thick with reports from the various units involved and personnel at the scene. It was stuffed with transcriptions of the conversations with Wyms, as well as weapons and ballistics reports, a lengthy evidence inventory, witness statements, dispatch records, and patrol deployment reports.
There were a lot of names in the file and I checked every one of them against the list of names from the Elliot files. I also cross-referenced every address.
I had this client once. I don’t even know her name because I was sure that the name she was under in the system was not her own. She was in on a first offense but she knew the system too well to be a virgin. In fact, she knew everything too well. Whatever her name was, she had somehow rigged the system and it had her down as someone she wasn’t.
The charge was burglary of an occupied dwelling. But there was so much more than that behind the one charge. This woman liked to target hotel rooms where men with large amounts of money slept. She knew how to pick them, follow them, then finesse the door locks and the room safes while they slept. In one candid moment—probably the only one in our relationship—she told me of the white-hot adrenaline high she got every time the last digit fell into place and she heard the electronic gears of the hotel safe start to move and unlock. Opening the safe and finding what was inside was never as good as that magic moment when the gears began to grind and she felt the velocity of her blood moving in her veins. Nothing before or after was as good as that moment. The jobs weren’t about the money. They were about the velocity of blood.
I nodded when she told me all of this. I had never broken into a hotel room while some guy was snoring on the bed. But I knew about the moment when the gears began to grind. I knew about the velocity.
I found what I was looking for an hour into my second run at the files. It had been there in front of me the whole time. First in Elliot’s arrest report and then on the time-and-action chart I had drawn myself. I called the chart the Christmas tree. It always started basic and unadorned. Just the bare-bones facts of the case. Then, as I continued to study and make the case my own, I started hanging lights and ornaments on it. Details and witness statements, evidence and lab results. Soon the tree was lit up and bright. Everything about the case was there for me to see in the context of time and action.
I had paid particular attention to Walter Elliot as I had drawn the Christmas tree. He was the tree trunk and all branches came from him. I had his movements, statements, and actions noted by time.
12:40 p.m.—WE arrives at beach house
12:50 p.m.—WE discovers bodies
1:05 p.m.—WE calls 911
1:24 p.m.—WE calls 911 again
1:28 p.m.—Deputies arrive on scene
1:30 p.m.—WE secured
2:15 p.m.—Homicide arrives
2:40 p.m.—WE taken to Malibu station
4:55 p.m.—WE interviewed, advised
5:40 p.m.—WE transported to Whittier
7:00 p.m.—GSR testing
8:00 p.m.—Second interview attempt, declined, arrested
8:40 p.m.—WE transported to Men’s Central
Some of the times I estimated but most came directly from the arrest report and other documents in the file. Law enforcement in this country is as much about the paperwork as anything else. I could always count on the prosecution file for reconstructing a time line.
On the second go-round I used both the pencil point and eraser and started adding decorations to the tree.
12:40 p.m.—WE arrives at beach house front door unlocked
12:50 p.m.—WE discovers bodies balcony door open
1:05 p.m.—WE calls 911 waits outside
1:24 p.m.—WE calls 911 again what’s the holdup?
1:28 p.m.—Deputies arrive on scene Murray ( 4-alpha-1) and Harber ( 4-alpha-2)
1:30 p.m.—WE secured placed in patrol car Murray/Harber search house
2:15 p.m.—Homicide arrives first team: Kinder (#14492) and Ericsson (#21101) second team: Joshua (#22234) and Toles (#15154)
2:30 p.m.—WE taken inside house, describes discovery
2:40 p.m.—WE taken to Malibu station Joshua and Toles transport
4:55 p.m.—WE interviewed, advised Kinder takes lead in interview
5:40 p.m.—WE transported to Whittier Joshua/Toles
7:00 p.m.—GSR testing F.T. Anita Sherman Lab Transport, Sherman
8:00 p.m.—Second interview, Ericsson in lead, WE declines got smart
8:40 p.m.—WE transported to Men’s Central
Joshua/Toles
As I had constructed the Christmas tree, I kept a separate list on another page of every human being mentioned in the sheriff’s reports. I knew this would become the witness list I would turn over to the prosecution the following week. As a rule I blanket the case, subpoenaing anybody mentioned in the investigative record just to be safe. You can always cut down a witness list at trial. Sometimes adding to it can be a problem.
From the witness list and the Christmas tree, I would be able to infer how the prosecution would roll out its case. I would also be able to dete
rmine which witnesses the prosecution team was avoiding and possibly why. It was while I was studying my work and thinking in these terms that I felt the gears begin to grind and the cold finger of revelation went down my spine. Everything became clear and bright and I found Jerry Vincent’s magic bullet.
Walter Elliot had been taken from the crime scene to the Malibu station so that he would be out of the way and secured while the lead detectives continued their on-site investigation. One short interview was conducted at the station before Elliot ended it. He was then transported to sheriff’s headquarters in Whittier, where a gunshot residue test was conducted and his hands tested positive for nitrates associated with gunpowder. Afterward, Kinder and Ericsson took another stab at interviewing their suspect but he wisely declined. He was then formally placed under arrest and booked into county jail.
It was standard procedure and the arrest report documented the chain of Elliot’s custody. He was handled solely by the homicide detectives as he was moved from crime scene to substation to headquarters to jail. But it was how he was handled previous to their arrival that caught my eye. It was here that I saw something I had missed earlier. Something as simple as the designations of the uniform deputies who first responded to the call. According to the records, deputies Murray and Harber had the designations 4-alpha-1 and 4-alpha-2 after their names. And I had seen at least one of those designations in the Wyms file.
Jumping from case to case and from file to file, I found the Wyms arrest report and quickly scanned the narrative, not stopping until my eyes came to the first reference to the 4-alpha-1 designation.
Deputy Todd Stallworth had the designation written after his name. He was the deputy originally called to investigate the report of gunfire at Malibu Creek State Park. He was the deputy driving the car Wyms fired upon, and at the end of the standoff he was the deputy who formally placed Wyms under arrest and took him to jail.
I realized that 4-alpha-1 did not refer to a specific deputy but to a specific patrol zone or responsibility. The Malibu district covered the huge unincorporated areas of the west county, from the beaches of Malibu up over the mountains and into the communities of Thousand Oaks and Calabasas. I assumed that this was the fourth district and alpha was the specific designation for a patrol unit—a specific car. It seemed to be the only way to explain why deputies who worked different shifts would share the same designation on different arrest reports.
Adrenaline crashed into my veins and my blood took off running as everything came together. All in a moment I realized what Vincent had been up to and what he had been planning. I didn’t need his laptop or his legal pads anymore. I didn’t need his investigator. I knew exactly what the defense strategy was.
At least I thought I did.
I pulled my cell phone and called Cisco. I skipped the pleasantries.
“Cisco, it’s me. Do you know any sheriff’s deputies?”
“Uh, a few. Why?”
“Any of them work out of the Malibu station?”
“I know one guy who used to. He’s in Lynwood now. Malibu was too boring.”
“Can you call him tonight?”
“Tonight? Sure, I guess. What’s up?”
“I need to know what the patrol designation four-alpha-one means. Can you get that?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call you back. But hold on a sec for Lorna. She wants to talk to you.”
I waited while she was given the phone. I could hear TV noise in the background. I had interrupted a scene of domestic bliss.
“Mickey, are you still there at the office?”
“I’m here.”
“It’s eight-thirty. I think you should go home.”
“I think I should, too. I’m going to wait to hear back from Cisco—he’s checking something out for me—and then I think I’m going over to Dan Tana’s to have steak and spaghetti.”
She knew I went to Dan Tana’s when I had something to celebrate. Usually a good verdict.
“You had steak for breakfast.”
“Then I guess this will make it a perfect day.”
“Things went well tonight?”
“I think so. Real well.”
“You’re going alone?”
She said it with sympathy in her voice, like now that she had hooked up with Cisco, she was starting to feel sorry for me, alone out there in the big bad world.
“Craig or Christian will keep me company.”
Craig and Christian worked the door at Dan Tana’s. They took care of me whether I came in alone or not.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Lorna.”
“Okay, Mickey. Have fun.”
“I already am.”
I hung up and waited, pacing in the room and thinking it all through again. The dominoes went down one after the other. It felt good and it all fit. Vincent had not taken on the Wyms case out of any obligation to the law or the poor or the disenfranchised. He was using Wyms as camouflage. Rather than move the case toward the obvious plea agreement, he had stashed Wyms out at Camarillo for three months, thereby keeping the case alive and active. Meantime, he gathered information under the flag of the Wyms defense that he would use in the Elliot case, thereby hiding his moves and strategy from the prosecution.
Technically, he was probably acting within bounds, but ethically it was underhanded. Eli Wyms had spent ninety days in a state facility so Vincent could build a defense for Elliot. Elliot got the magic bullet while Wyms got the zombie cocktail.
The good thing was, I didn’t have to worry about the sins of my predecessor. Wyms was out of Camarillo, and besides, they weren’t my sins. I could just take the benefit of Vincent’s discoveries and go to trial.
It didn’t take too long before Cisco called back.
“I talked to my guy in Lynwood. Four-alpha is Malibu’s lead car. The four is for the Malibu station and the alpha is for… alpha. Like the alpha dog. The leader of the pack. Hot shots—the priority calls—usually go to the alpha car. Four-alpha-one would be the driver, and if he’s riding with a partner, then the partner would be four-alpha-two.”
“So the alpha car covers the whole fourth district?”
“That’s what he told me. Four-alpha is free to roam the district and scoop the cream off the top.”
“What do you mean?”
“The best calls. The hot shots.”
“Got it.”
My theory was confirmed. A double murder and shots fired near a residential neighborhood would certainly be alpha-car calls. One designation but different deputies responding. Different deputies responding but one car. The dominoes clicked and fell.
“Does that help, Mick?”
“It does, Cisco. But it also means more work for you.”
“On the Elliot case?”
“No, not Elliot. I want you to work on the Eli Wyms case. Find out everything you can about the night he was arrested. Get me details.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Thirty-one
The night’s discovery pushed the case off the paper and into my imagination. I was starting to get courtroom images in my head. Scenes of examinations and cross-examinations. I was laying out the suits I would wear to court and the postures I would take in front of the jury. The case was coming alive inside and this was always a good thing. It was a momentum thing. You time it right and you go into trial with the inescapable conviction that you will not lose. I didn’t know what had happened to Jerry Vincent, how his actions might have brought about his demise, or whether his death was linked at all to the Elliot case, but I felt as though I had a bead on things. I had velocity and I was getting battle ready.
My plan was to sit in a corner booth at Dan Tana’s and sketch out some of the key witness examinations, listing the baseline questions and probable answers for each. I was excited about getting to it, and Lorna need not have worried about me. I wouldn’t be alone. I would have my case with me. Not Jerry Vincent’s case. Mine.
After quickly repacking the files
and adding fresh pencils and legal pads, I killed the lights and locked the office door. I headed down the hallway and then across the bridge to the parking garage. Just as I was entering the garage, I saw a man walking up the ramp from the first floor. He was fifty yards away and it was only a few moments and a few strides before I recognized him as the man in the photograph Bosch had shown me that morning.
My blood froze in my heart. The fight-or-flight instinct stabbed into my brain. The rest of the world didn’t matter. There was just this moment and I had to make a choice. My brain assessed the situation faster than any computer IBM ever made. And the result of the computation was that I knew the man coming toward me was the killer and that he had a gun.
I swung around and started to run.
“Hey!” a voice called from behind me.
I kept running. I moved back across the bridge to the glass doors leading back into the building. One clear, single thought fired through every synapse in my brain. I had to get inside and get to Cisco’s gun. I had to kill or be killed.
But it was after hours and the doors had locked behind me as I had left the building. I shot my hand into my pocket in search of the key, then jerked it out, bills, coins and wallet flying out with it.
As I jammed the key into the lock, I could hear running steps coming up quickly behind me. The gun! Get the gun!
I finally yanked the door open and bolted down the hallway toward the office. I glanced behind me and saw the man catch the door just before it closed and locked. He was still coming.
Key still in my hand, I reached the office door and fumbled the key while getting it into the lock. I could feel the killer closing in. Finally getting the door open, I entered, slammed it shut, and threw the lock. I hit the light switch, then crossed the reception area and charged into Vincent’s office.
The gun Cisco left for me was there in the drawer. I grabbed it, yanked it out of its holster, and went back out to the reception area. Across the room I could see the killer’s shape through the frosted glass. He was trying to open the door. I raised the gun and pointed at the blurred image.