Grant of Immunity (5 page)

Release. He climaxed.

The radio of his patrol car squawked. “Two-L-Fourteen. Code Three. Ten-ninety-nine. Officer in trouble.”

Shit. He’d have to finish later. “You can go,” he said to Erin. Hastily, he zipped up and hurried to his vehicle. As he drove away he kept an eye on her in his rearview mirror. Still on her knees, she hadn’t moved.

Except that her head was in her hands.

D
etective William Fitzgerald Jr.
sat at his desk on the third floor of Parker Center and compared two autopsy reports: one, a recent unsolved murder he’d been working on; the other, an open Lancaster Sheriff’s case. He studied the included photos, shook his head, and sighed. He’d been an LAPD cop for twenty-five years, assigned to Robbery-Homicide for the last twenty. He’d earned every gray hair on his head.

He still hadn’t received the results of the various DNA requests he’d made during the last six months. He punched in the phone number for Rich Grabowski, the Crime Lab DNA coordinator, and asked what was going on.

“Backlog.” Grabowski replied. “We’re about six months behind on trial stuff. Your cold-case comparisons are at the bottom of the heap—maybe a year. Couldn’t get to your prostitute murders either. Don’t feel bad, no one’s doing any better.”

“You’ve got to move my stuff ahead. I got trials coming up.”

“You and everyone else. Want better service? Send it to a private lab.” He laughed. “Won’t break my heart.”

“At five thousand a pop, that’ll happen,” Fitz said. “Thanks”—he slammed down the phone—“for nothing.” He’d have to get Becker to light a fire under this guy.

Fitz returned to his reports, but then realized that someone was standing at the doorway of his office enclosure. Without looking up, he knew it was Hardy. The thick smell of Old Spice cologne always announced him, and lingered after he left. “What do you need, Lieutenant?” Fitz said, still looking at his reports.

“Got a minute?” Hardy said. Then without waiting for an answer, sat in the steel chair next to Fitz’s desk. The lieutenant was a short, muscular man who spent every spare minute pumping iron.

“Not really,” Fitz replied.

Hardy eyed the documents on Fitz’s desk and frowned. “What are you doing with a Sheriff’s case?”

“Both victims were young female prostitutes.” Fitz said. “Both stabbed numerous times. And—very unusual—both had bruises to their wrists, and lacked defensive wounds to both the hands and arms.

“Okay,” Hardy said in an exasperated tone. “And this proves what?”

Isn’t it obvious, you pompous moron?
“That there’s a possibility the same perp did both. That’s why I’ve ordered our crime lab to do a DNA comparison from the two victims.”

Hardy scowled and shook his head. “Based on three common factors? Bullshit. Let the sheriff worry about their cases and pay for their own comparisons. If they’re not willing to pay, why should we? You’re wasting the city’s money. For some fucking Lancaster Sheriff’s case not assigned to you.” Hardy brushed a piece of lint off his tailored suit jacket. “Cancel the request.”

Fitz felt a flash of rage deep inside. “The hell I will. And what if it is the same offender? What do I tell the next victim’s family? That my lieutenant thought it wasn’t worth it to save another life?”

Hardy leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, flexing his biceps and glaring. “That makes five DNA comparisons you’ve ordered in the last six months.” The lieutenant’s tiny eyes flashed. “Thousands of bucks and you haven’t solved shit. What the fuck is going on with you?”

Fitz glared back at Hardy. “Those were authorized by the captain. There’s a serial killer out there—possibly the same perp as in the Collins murder.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? The Collins victim wasn’t a prostitute.”

“But the rest of the signature is identical, Lieutenant. We just need a little luck.”

“Luck? Jesus, Fitzgerald.” Hardy sighed, and squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. “That’s the reason I’m here.” Hardy poked his finger in the air at Fitz. “Captain Becker and I agree on this. As of now, Collins is transferred to the Cold Case Unit. Send the murder book, with all its photos and autopsy and crime reports—everything—to the unit ASAP. Understood?” Hardy got up to leave.

Fitzgerald jumped up, furious. “You talked to Becker about my case without checking with me?”

“Damn straight I did. Someone needs to pound sense into you. You haven’t solved the case after nineteen years. I don’t see the point in continuing. Any of my other detectives would have archived that case years ago—or at least turned it over to a cold-case specialist. Obviously a fresh point of view is needed.”

“We’ll see about that,” Fitz said.

Hardy’s face reddened. “I’ve had enough of your insubordination, Fitzgerald. You think because you and the captain were partners years ago, you’re entitled to special treatment? Well, here’s a flash: The next screwup, the next wisecrack, and I’m writing you up. Remember that.”

“Yes,” Fitzgerald said, then added, “sir.”

Hardy turned and left.

Fitz watched him walk away, then scooped up his files and headed to Captain Becker’s office.

The door was open, but Fitz stood in the doorway and waited for the captain to acknowledge him. Behind his desk, Becker was studying a computer screen. Without turning his head, he said, “Sit down, Fitz. I’ll be with you in a moment.” Fitz sat in one of the seats in front of Becker’s desk. Becker typed something on his keyboard, and then turned toward him.

Fitz put the prostitute autopsy and crime reports on Becker’s desk and brought the captain up to date on the two murders. “I need the comparisons. Hardy ordered me to cancel the request.”

“He’s your lieutenant, Fitz.”

“The man has his head up his ass. I’d bet my badge the same perpetrator killed both women.”

“Did you check the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System?”

“Yeah. No match on CODIS. Same with the state DOJ. I’m checking other open prostitute cases—maybe we’ll get lucky.”

The captain ran his hand through what was left of his hair, but said nothing in reply. His lined face seemed deep in thought. He inhaled sharply. “I’ve been asked to head up the Internal Affairs Division. It’s a lateral move, but it could lead to something more.”

Fitz was surprised, but tried not to show it. “Congratulations.”

“Fitz,” Becker said, “I’d like you to come with me to IAD.”

Fitzgerald shifted in his chair and looked away, out the window of Becker’s office. From where he sat, Fitz could see both the Criminal Courts Building and the old Hall of Justice, damaged and shut down after last year’s Northridge earthquake and now permanently closed. He’d heard they were planning to tear it down.
Too bad
, he thought.
So much history in that old building, but its time to retire had come. Maybe the same was true for him.

“What do you say?” Becker asked.

“May I speak freely, Captain?”

“Of course,” Becker said, then added, “Christ, after all those years you watched my back, you don’t even need to ask.”

Fitz took a breath before speaking. He needed to say this the right way. “Investigating cops is not my style, Captain. For me, being a cop is tough enough. I don’t think I’d be any good snooping—sorry—prying into the way some cop does his job. Besides, I’ve always planned to stay in Robbery-Homicide until I retire.”

“That’s a long time. You’re still a young man.”

“Anything else, Captain?”

“I could have you reassigned without your consent.”

“You’re the captain,” Fitz replied.

Becker picked up the autopsy reports, started to look through them, then put them down. He looked at Fitz. “Damn it, Fitz. I need you. You’re the best detective-three in the division. I knew you’d be when I brought you in as a D1 all those years ago.”

Fitzgerald looked at Becker. “I need you to rescind Hardy’s order. DNA comparison between the two cases is essential. They occurred less than four months apart and have the identical signatures. If it’s the same DNA profile, we’re dealing with a serial killer.”

“I can’t set aside Hardy’s order. Sorry,” Becker said dryly.

“And something else, Captain. Both cases have the same signature as the Sarah Collins case.”

“At least think about it, Fitz. As a favor to me for all the years we’ve worked together.”

Becker was damn persistent, but Fitz had no intention of reconsidering. He respected the man. Truth be told, Becker was the best captain in the department to work for. Fitz realized he had to give the captain something, if only the courtesy of seriously considering the offer. “What about my cases?” Fitz asked.

“You’d have to give them up—other than those already cleared and filed, requiring your testimony and the like.”

“I’d have to keep the Collins case,” Fitz said. “She left two kids. I owe it to them.”

“Can’t do that,” Becker said. “It belongs in the Cold Case Unit, and that’s where I’m sending it, whether you join IA or not.” Becker’s expression softened. “Come with me, Fitz. There’s a lieutenant’s spot opening up next year when O’Grady retires. You’d be perfect for it.”

“Since you’re leaving, Captain, why not let your replacement make the cold-case decision?”

Becker stiffened. “I’m not going to put this on someone else. Besides, Hardy’s in favor of it, and I’m not going to overrule him. If you change your mind about IA, I’ll need your answer by Monday morning. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Fitz left Becker’s office, went back to his desk, and took a sip of his cold coffee. It was stale and bitter, but he swallowed it anyway. Fitzgerald took a breath and stared out of his office enclosure into the office bullpen, at the two rows of gray steel desks lined up like so many gravestones in a military cemetery. Where had the years gone?

Fitz pondered Becker’s invitation to join IA.
No. Impossible.

Sitting at his desk, he looked at the two small photos he kept under the plastic of his desk blotter: a fading sepia ID shot of his father, the late Police Captain William Fitzgerald Sr. in full uniform, and a color picture of his wife, Elizabeth, who died of breast cancer ten years ago. He removed her photo and gently brushed a speck from its surface with his thumb. It was his favorite picture, a close-up shot he’d taken when her dark eyes were deep in thought.

Like his father, Fitz had been a cop all of his adult life, assigned for the most part to the Robbery-Homicide Division. What would the old man have said if Fitz actually moved to IA?

And how could he tell Sean and Erin Collins that he was going to turn over the case of their mother’s murder to unknown hands?

The ringing of the phone on his desk interrupted Fitzgerald’s thoughts. It usually meant business, since he had very few non-cop friends.

He picked up the phone. “Robbery-homicide, Fitzgerald.”

“Fitz?”

The detective smiled, recognizing the voice. “Hello, Sean. What’s up?”

Fitzgerald had known Sean Collins since he was a little boy, since right after his mom’s murder. He could still picture five-year-old Sean and his two-year-old sister as they looked when he arrived at the foster home that morning nineteen years ago. Fitz had remained close with Sean and Erin, and had watched them grow up. He’d encouraged Sean to go to law school and written letters of recommendation. He’d even assisted Sean in finding a family in Westwood, near UCLA, that would trade housework and babysitting chores for room and board. Fitz could not have been prouder when Sean became a lawyer, although he’d wished that Sean had become a prosecutor instead of accepting a job with the public defender’s office.

“It’s Erin,” Sean said. She was assaulted last Monday night. Says it was by a cop.”

E
rin was terrified
of Babbage and the thought of going to court, no matter what Sean said. He’d assured her everything would be okay, and that Babbage, the bastard cop who had abused her, would go to prison where he belonged. Told her it was her duty to prevent another woman from being victimized. But inside, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she would regret reporting the incident.

The last few days had gone smoothly, and Erin was beginning to think everything might be all right, after all. She had no idea how to find the man who had abused her, but she’d remembered his sergeant stripes. It turned out there weren’t that many patrol sergeants at Rampart Division, and she’d picked him out from a photo lineup.

Now they wanted her to call Babbage while they recorded every word he said. Get a confession, and the man would have no choice but to plead guilty. It meant going to the Criminal Court’s Building in downtown L.A., to the seventeenth-floor District Attorney’s Office. No problem, Sean had said. He’d drive.

And he had. But now, waiting for the elevator with Sean and Fitz in the crowded lobby, Erin felt panic rising inside her, paralyzing her. Despite Fitz and Sean’s assurances that she was a victim and that Eric Lundy, an experienced deputy district attorney, would treat her with courtesy and respect, Erin couldn’t make herself believe it.

They squeezed into an elevator packed with shabby-looking people on their way to court. The first fifteen floors were courtrooms, and the elevator stopped at every floor.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered to Sean. “Let’s go home.”

Sean squeezed her hand. “You can do it,” he replied.

By the time they reached the seventeenth floor, they were alone in the elevator, but the sweet smell of cologne tinged with sweat remained. Erin’s throat tightened, and she thought she might vomit.

Fitz showed his badge to the guard, and they were buzzed into what looked like a doctor’s waiting room.

“This is where cops come to present police reports and file their cases,” Fitz said. They sat down. “Detectives wait here until they’re called into one of the filing prosecutor’s offices,” Fitz added. “Lundy is a prosecutor in the Special Investigation’s Division, SID—that’s the section that prosecutes cops.”

After about ten minutes, Lundy appeared. He looked to be mid-forties. His round face was topped with thick brown hair. He had a high-blood-pressure flush, was close-shaven with no sideburns, and wore a short-sleeved, white shirt with a plaid bow tie. “Detective Fitzgerald, nice to see you again,” he said. Then to Erin: “Ms. Collins, I’ll be handling your case.” He looked at Sean. “I presume this is your brother, Mr. Collins?”

She nodded.

“We’ll talk more in my office,” Lundy said. He ushered them down a hallway to a medium-sized office with light-gray walls and dark-gray vinyl-tile floor. He motioned them to hardwood chairs and sat down behind his desk.

Erin glanced at the rear wall, at the awards, plaques, and diplomas. On the credenza behind Lundy were framed photos—a young girl in a soccer uniform, the same girl older and at Disneyland, and as a young woman, smiling in cap and gown.

Lundy explained that a DA investigator was going to place a recorded call to the suspect she’d identified, a police sergeant named Jake Babbage. He picked up his telephone, told the investigator to begin the call, and then handed Erin the telephone handset.

Erin listened to the phone ring. “Babbage here,” the voice she’d recognize anywhere answered.

“Officer Babbage?” Erin said. She tried to sound friendly, but her mouth was so dry she had to swallow before speaking.

“Can I help you?”

“It’s Erin.” She hoped her voice didn’t shake.

“Who?”

“From the Traffic Stop,” She said.

At first Babbage did not reply and Erin feared he’d just hang up. But then he spoke. “What do you want?”

Now was the critical part. The words she had carefully rehearsed with Sean and Fitz. “I need to see you,” she said. “Tonight. After work.”

“You know I can’t take personal calls,” Babbage said evenly. “As a supervisor, I’ve got to set an example for my officers.”

Erin tried to sound seductive. “It’ll be worth your while.” But her voice cracked.
Shit, shit, shit.

“Didn’t you hear what I just told you?” Babbage snapped. “No personal calls. I’ve got to hang up now.”

“Wait,” she blurted. “Don’t you want to see me? Don’t you want more of what you got Monday night?”

“What are you talking about? Is this some kind of shakedown? If so, you’ve picked the wrong guy to mess with!”

“You bastard!” she shouted. “You threatened to arrest me unless I … unless I gave you a … blowjob. Don’t try to deny it.”

Babbage shouted back. “I don’t know what your game is, but I’m going to find out, and when I do, there’ll be some justice done. You can count on it.” The phone went dead with a loud click.

“Now what?” Erin said, hanging up.

Lundy took the handset back, listened, and nodded, confirming that everything had been recorded as planned.

“We still file the case,” Lundy said, putting down his earphone. “It’s not going to be a problem. Thankfully we have the DNA on your blouse, so it won’t just be your word against his. It would have been good if you’d come in immediately afterwards; we could also have prepared a sexual assault kit and might have gotten hair or semen samples.”

“I know,” Erin said. “That’s the first thing Sean said when I called him, but by then I’d taken my shower. I was going to trash my blouse—no way I’d ever wear it again without remembering what happened to me. Luckily I talked to Sean first.”

Sean handed Fitzgerald a plastic bag. “The blouse is inside,” Sean said. “I hope the lab finds something. If only—”

“What’s done is done,” Lundy interrupted. “We’re okay with the corroboration we’ve developed. Your six-pack photo lineup identification; the fact that he’s a sergeant, on duty and unaccounted for during the incident; and, very important, his knowing your first name and acknowledging that he’d talked to you. With all that, it’s an automatic conviction. In fact, I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t plead guilty to get a lighter sentence rather than face a trial he’s sure to lose.”

“I hope so,” Sean said. He picked up the six-pack Erin had looked at. “Which photo?”

“Number three,” Fitz said.

Sean frowned and studied the photo. “There’s something vaguely familiar about him. Something about the eyes.”