Authors: Dianne Emley
Vining knew that Early was trying to soften the blow by not calling the case “cold.”
“This is hard for me to say, Nan, and I hate saying it, but unless your guy kills again, or makes a barroom or jail-cell confession, or does something else stupid, or a witness comes forward, we might not ever get him. Those are the cruel facts of our profession. Sometimes the bad guy gets away.”
Vining nodded as if she agreed, but she did not. Intellectually, she saw the logic of Early’s argument, but her bond with T. B. Mann went beyond logic. It was something she felt beneath her flesh and even beneath her bones. It lived in the marrow of her bones and the cells of her blood. Sometimes she felt it had burrowed even deeper than that, that it had infiltrated and mutated her DNA. It had certainly infiltrated her soul. It surpassed all attempts at reason.
Sergeant Early’s eyes were careworn yet sympathetic when she looked at Vining. “Now that Jim’s back, he can work the Scrappy Espinoza—”
Early was distracted by the appearance of one of the PPD cadets, Allison Moricz, hesitantly hovering outside her door. She was carrying a portable DVD player.
“Yes, Allison,” Early said.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Sergeant, but I found the video showing the guy who spray-painted the Vining one-eight-seven tag.”
THIRTY-SIX
A
LLISON MORICZ FOLLOWED EARLY’S INSTRUCTIONS TO SET THE
DVD player on a bookcase so they could watch it at eye level. Moricz was nineteen years old and a student at Pasadena City College, like most of the PPD’s cadets. Her thick, naturally curly blond hair was pulled back from her face and pinned into a tight bun. Her pretty face was marred by a struggle with acne but she was cute and had a whole-someness about her that Vining found rarer than perfect skin.
The DVD was on pause, but in the image on the screen, Vining recognized the plank fence surrounding the backyard of the house across the alley. She recalled the children’s toys she’d seen in the yard when she’d looked through a hole formed by a missing plank.
She turned when Caspers entered the office.
Sergeant Early gave him a questioning look. “I don’t need a team for this job, Caspers.”
“I know, Sarge.” He grinned winningly The tactic occasionally worked with Sarge. “I’d like to see this tagger. Maybe I know him.”
Early muttered a dubious “Uh-huh,” and looked at Caspers glancing at Allison, which she suspected was the real reason he had found an excuse to be there. She didn’t order him to leave.
“I backed it up to just before he enters the scene.” Allison pressed Play.
A date and time display in white at the bottom of the screen counted the passing seconds as nothing changed in the dimly lit alley Then someone entered the frame, walking down the alley in the direction of the camera. The figure was dark and fuzzy. Taggers were nearly always men, but this individual’s sex, race, and age were impossible to determine. His pace and slender physique suggested a young man. He appeared to be wearing a black, short-sleeved T-shirt.
An attribute of the tagger that could be determined was his height. “He’s tall,” Early said. “His head tops that fence, which I assume is six feet.”
“We could have it enhanced,” Kissick said, “but I don’t know if it would do us any good.”
Vining couldn’t tear her eyes from the shadowy figure. Something about him spoke to her. Something was familiar.
“Okay, Bozo,” Caspers said. “Show us what you got. Get busy.”
He disappeared from view for a while, probably walking toward the tire store wall, and then moved back into the frame.
“What’s he doing?” Kissick asked. “Is he holding a can of spray paint?”
“He’s doing a sketch of the tag before he starts painting,” Vining said. “I saw pencil marks on the wall.”
“I’ve never known a tagger to be so fastidious,” Caspers said.
“He does this for about fifteen minutes,” Allison said. “I can fast forward it.”
She did, returning to normal speed when the tagger began jerking his arm back and forth beside his head. His arm looked spindly, matching his legs.
“Shaking the spray paint,” Kissick said.
Holding up the can of paint, he moved toward the wall. After a minute, they glimpsed him briefly when he stepped back, his right hand holding the paint, before moving forward again.
“Allison, fast-forward,” Early said.
They watched the jerky, speeded-up images on the screen as the DVD player raced through the tagger’s art project. The others grew restless. Vining, however, was transfixed. She couldn’t shake that disorienting feeling of déjà vu. There was almost a tinkling feeling in her
head, as if her thoughts were steel shavings, pinging and scraping as they drifted into each other. She was waiting for a moment, a sign that would confirm what she felt in her gut.
At one point, the tagger stepped back and appeared to be admiring his work.
There was a flash of car headlights coming from the opposite end of the alley. They grew brighter.
Flailing his arms, the tagger scampered away, looking like a daddy longlegs spider. Reaching the fence, he dropped to the ground where he remained huddled until the car had passed.
Vining felt as if a flare had been fired inside her head. “It’s Nitro.”
“Nitro?” Kissick said with disbelief.
“The guy who ran naked through Old Town and wouldn’t talk?” Caspers asked.
Vining ignored them. “Allison, could you play that again, please, from before the car passes through?”
Allison complied and they studied it once more.
Vining turned to confront their dubious faces. “It’s Nitro. I’m certain of it. That’s his body language. I’ve never known another person who moved like that.”
Early dispatched the cadet. “Allison, thank you very much. Good job. Leave the DVD player, please.”
Caspers chided, “Nan, you’re seeing these guys everywhere. You thought the guy who attacked you had been at Scrappy’s murder scene and now you think this joker is Nitro.”
“Caspers,” Early snapped. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Caspers slinked from the office.
Early closed the door.
Kissick raised an eyebrow. “Nan, I’m not saying it’s not Nitro, but I don’t see how you can be so sure from that dark video. I was with Nitro, too. I saw him.”
“Not like I saw him.” Vining felt them studying her. Not wanting to be insubordinate, she directed her venom toward Kissick. “Jim, you’re looking at me like I’m nuts and I’m not. There is no doubt in my mind that that tagger is Nitro.”
One of the detective sergeants who shared the office with Early came to the closed door. Through the window, Early signaled that she needed five minutes.
Vining replayed the sequence with the tagger while Kissick and Early watched. “This explains why that tag doesn’t look like any we’ve seen before. Think about it. The style of that tag is similar to the artwork in the drawing book we found on Nitro. He painted that tag, so he must have made those drawings, too.”
“Why did he turn into a tagger?”
“Why did he run naked through the streets of Pasadena with drawings of four murdered policewomen in his backpack?”
“Three,” Kissick said. “Three murdered policewomen. You’re still with us, Nan.”
“Right,” Vining conceded. She looked at Sergeant Early who was quietly watching the exchange. Vining sensed she was waiting to say something, so she fell silent.
“Nan, you’ve been juggling a lot of balls lately and doing a great job at it. It was your instinct to follow the Asian gang thread in the Es-pinoza case, and it looks like it’s going to pay off.”
Vining waited for the other shoe to drop.
“But all those long hours are taking a toll on you. Frankly, you look exhausted. I wonder how you do it, with that guy who attacked you still out there, playing sick games, and that Nitro character on the loose. It would get under anyone’s skin. Jim can take the Espinoza case from here. Your scheduled days off start tomorrow, anyway. Take the rest of this afternoon off and get a good rest. Spend time on your family situation.”
Vining wasn’t planning on taking any days off until she broke the Espinoza murder. She felt it would happen soon. She smiled without amusement. “Do I look that bad?”
Early responded without hesitation. “Frankly, Nan, you do. You look worn out. I can’t have an overtired cop out there.”
Kissick, to his credit, didn’t chime in.
“You’re taking the Espinoza case away from me? What about Marvin Li sitting in a cell downstairs?”
“I’m not taking the case from you,” Early said. “You’re taking your scheduled days off. We’ll see what next week brings.” Vining knew better than to argue. “Thanks, Sarge.”
AS SHE WAS GATHERING HER THINGS INTO HER LEATHER CASE AND STRAIGHTENING
her desk, Kissick came by.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Getting her purse from her desk drawer, she said, “I’m fine.” She tugged one of her earlobes, showing the earrings he’d given her. She said softly, “I love them. Thanks.”
At the In/Out board, she picked up a magnetic tab that said “EOW” for End of Watch, and put it beside her name.
After the initial wave of vanity and ego had passed, she felt relieved to dump the whole Scrappy Espinoza mess into Kissick’s lap. She had other work to do.
THIRTY-SEVEN
A
FTER WALKING OUT THE FRONT ENTRANCE OF THE PPD, VINING
jaywalked across Garfield. Navigating the lunchtime crowd on the sidewalk in front of the Superior Courthouse, she crossed Walnut with the light. She jogged up the steps of the main branch of the Pasadena Library. Beyond the lacy iron scrollwork screen was a courtyard with a fountain in the middle and stone benches. She heard jazz music coming from the café on the right where people were sitting at small tables, reading and drinking coffee beneath market umbrellas. Normal people, she thought, although she of all people should know that appearances were deceiving.
This pretty spot was across the street from the PPD, but she never came here. Even today, she didn’t linger, but kept moving past three-story-tall palm trees, opening one of the library’s tall doors, and entering the soaring lobby.
She crossed the fired-tile lobby floor and asked a young man at the information desk where she would find archived newspapers. He directed her to the lower level reference area. She walked through the periodicals room where rows of leather, Mission-style easy chairs were occupied as was each computer workstation tucked into partitioned desks. Some of the people finding respite there looked homeless and some were asleep.
Vining descended a wide staircase with dark wood banisters. The reference area was more austere, filled with microfilm scanners, photocopy machines, and steel cabinets with short drawers that held spools of microfilm. Only one other person was there, a young woman who looked like a student.
Colina Vista did not have its own newspaper, so Vining looked for editions of the
Pasadena Star News
from September, ten years ago. She also grabbed boxes of microfilm of the
Los Angeles Times
from the same period. She sat down at a reader and began to go through them.
Cookie’s murder had briefly caught the attention of the
Los Angeles Times.
It was initially front-page news and then got bumped to the second section that covered local news, but interest quickly faded. In contrast, the
Star News
obsessively followed the investigation, arrest, and trial with feature articles on the front page. Photos of then-deputy chief Betsy Gilroy were second only to those of Cookie Silva. The grisly murder of a police officer was sufficient to propel the story into the papers, but perky Cookie, tough yet cute, was the reason it stayed there.
Axel Holcomb was taken into custody the morning the murder was discovered. Photos showed him handcuffed in plaid pajamas on which bloodstains were visible as he was led by Gilroy and Sergeant Mike Iverson from the rustic Foothill Museum. Holcomb was a big man, head-and-shoulders taller and twice as broad as Betsy Gilroy.
In Holcomb’s mug shot, his long hair was rumpled, as if he’d been asleep. He was wearing the same plaid pajamas and looked as sleepy, confused, and dull as in the photos from when he’d been pulled out of bed. The more notorious among his various scrapes with the law were recounted. Unnamed “friends and neighbors” were quoted.
After Holcomb was questioned by the police, he was released. Betsy Gilroy issued a statement saying there was insufficient evidence to arrest him. A week later, he was questioned again. That time, he confessed and was put away for good.
As Vining reviewed the articles, she learned a surprising fact that made her sit upright from where she’d been leaning toward the screen. Holcomb’s I.Q. was 78, indicating well-below-average intelligence.
Why hadn’t Kissick mentioned that Holcomb was mentally slow? She felt certain he would have mentioned it if Gilroy had brought it
up. Gilroy had found it important to describe to Kissick an old incident about Holcomb roughhousing at a public pool, but had neglected to reveal a detail as germane as his mental capacity. A mentally slow person confessing to murder can’t help but raise suspicions that the suspect was railroaded by cagey police and prosecutors. Maybe Gilroy had taken enough heat because of the confession and simply wanted to let sleeping dogs lie.
A public defender had represented Holcomb. Vining didn’t recognize the attorney’s name. While she knew many fine public defenders, many were too overworked to do a thorough job. There were bad apples, as in any profession.
Vining was familiar with the prosecutor. She was tough and had sent lots of people to prison, but she had integrity. Vining didn’t believe that she’d have knowingly sent an innocent man to death row. Yet, the prosecutor had since moved up the ranks in the D.A.’s office. Having won big trials had helped her career, just as having snapped the cuffs on a monster had helped Betsy Gilroy’s.
Both the prosecution and defense had agreed on certain details. Around eleven o’clock on a September night, Cookie Silva had left her friends on the street in front of the bar in Arcadia, had driven up the lonely road to the Foothill Museum, and had parked her Nissan Sen-tra in the gravel parking lot.