Justice

I slammed down the receiver, then took it off the hook. At sunrise, I went to sleep.

10

Stepping across the door’s threshold, Decker caught the photographer’s flash. Swell. Just when he needed his eyesight for detail, he’d be seeing a dancing moon for the next few minutes. Officer Russ Miller was trying to get his attention. Taking his notepad from his jacket, Decker detached the pen from the cover and clicked the nub at the end, bringing up the ballpoint.

“Backtrack for me, Russ.”

Someone shouted, “Anyone in fucking charge here?”

Decker looked up. Benny, the lab man, was irritated, sweat dripping from his forehead. Swaddled in his white lab coat, he swiped at his face with his arm, making sure not to contaminate his latex-covered hands. He caught Decker’s eye.

“Sergeant, I can’t do a goddamn thing with all these feet and hands flying in the air.”

“I just walked through the door, Ben. Let me get my bearings, okay?”

“It’s in your best interest to clear the bodies out.” Benny paused. “The live ones.”

The flash went off again. Decker shielded his eyes. Sticky moisture was coating his armpits. He took off his jacket and draped it over his shoulder. Then he did a head count. Ten officers—way too many people crammed into the double-occupancy hotel room.

Aloud he said, “Everybody freeze for a second. Who was first on the scene?”

“Crock and me,” Miller said.

“Then you two stay here.” Decker started pointing. “Howard and Black, you two canvass rooms on floors one and two. Wilson and Packard, this floor and the one upstairs. Be polite and be careful. Also, do a little crowd control. There’s a group of looky-loos that’s a potential fire hazard. Officers Bailey, Nelson, Gomez, and Estrella, back in the field. Go.”

As the room emptied, clearing the area around the bed, the victim came into Decker’s view. He started making notes—not much more than first impressions but sometimes they were valuable.

Nude, white female—late teens/early twenties.

He stopped.

Cindy’s age. And the bastard was still at large.

No, don’t even think about it, Deck. Because once personal crap starts interfering with work, you’re a goner.

He shook away his daughter’s image and went back to the victim. Her head was slumped to the side, her hands had been bound to the headboard by a bow tie and a stocking, her feet were untethered but crossed at the ankles. No visible gunshot or stab wounds, but fresh, deep bruises colored her neck. No distinct ligature marks: She’d probably been strangled by someone’s hands. Decker took in the silky ashen face, the silvery gray skin, the full but cyanotic lips. A pretty girl—a Picasso painting in his blue period. Her eyes were closed. Made it easier to digest the horror.

She was so damn young!

His eyes traveled to her hands dangling in the constraints. Graceful hands with long, tapered fingers. He wondered if she had ever played an instrument—piano or maybe violin. The nails were bright red as were the fingertips. Lividity. Blood pools to the low spots.

“I got room!” Benny, the lab man, stretched. “You want me to bag the hands and feet first, Sergeant? Or do you want to wait until the coroner cuts her down?”

“Do the bagging first,” Decker said. “Don’t want to lose any nail scrapings. Coroner will work around you. Lynne, you almost done?”

The police photographer looked up. “Just a few more snapshots and I’m out of here.”

Decker returned his attention to the lone pair of uniforms still in the room. Russ Miller was tall with broad features. His partner, Billy Crock, was a recent southern transplant who’d joined the force a week before the earthquake. His apartment building was now a vacant lot. Everything he owned had been buried under rubble. Crock had shrugged it off. Decker figured this was a guy with a future.

His eyes went back to his notepad. “Shoot, Russ.”

Miller cleared his throat. “Call came through dispatch at eight-oh-eight; Crock and I arrived on the scene at eight-twelve. First one we talked to was Dave Forrester, the front-desk clerk. He directed us to the room, and to Adela Alvera, the maid who found the body. She discovered it around eight this morning, doing routine cleaning.”

“Opened the door and wham.” Crock slammed his fist into his palm. “First thing the lady did was throw up. Then she called the front desk. Forrester called nine-one-one.”

Decker scribbled notes as he looked around the room. Typical cheap hotel room—a queen bed, a TV equipped with pay-per-view channels resting in a particle board dresser stained to look like wood, a small writing table and chair, two flimsy nightstands and a house phone that charged an arm and a leg for a local call. There was a menu on one of the nightstands. The place had a coffee shop downstairs. Evidently it provided room service.

Decker rolled his tongue in his mouth. “Does the victim have a name yet?”

Crock said, “No personal belongings found in the room. So it looks like we got a robbery/murder.”

“What about registration cards at the front desk?”

“No cards, nothing on computer,” Crock answered. “Forrester doesn’t understand how that coulda happened.”

Decker wrote: No reg card or computer entry. Clerk took bribe? Why? Victim young girl—Affair? Prostitute? “Did Forrester work the desk last night?”

Crock shook his head. “No, that would be Henry Trupp. We’ve called him, Sarge. Guy isn’t home or isn’t answering.”

“Either of you pull the cards for the rooms adjacent to this one?”

“Sure did,” Crock said. “A Mr. and Mrs. Smith to the left. Mr. and Mrs. Jones on the right.”

“Terrific,” Decker said. “I’ll call Vice. Find out if this place is a hooker palace.”

He gave the room another sweep with his eyes. Something pink and shiny lay crumpled in the corner. He walked over, gloved his hand, and picked it up. A sequined party dress. He thought a moment.

First Saturday night in June.

Prom night.

Man, did that kick in a few buried memories. Especially since Saturday had ceased to be a day in his vocabulary. Saturday had turned into Shabbos. On his pad, Decker wrote down the names of the three local high schools—West Valley, North Valley, and Central West.

“Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones.” He raised his eyes. “I think we had some after-prom festivities here last night. Kids getting a head start on being sleazy adults. Something went awry. They all probably panicked and fled.”

“I’ll second that theory,” the lab man said. “Lookie what I found under the covers.” With a pair of pincers, Benny held a condom aloft, then slipped it into an evidence bag. “Guess she believed in safe sex.”

Decker regarded the body. “Up to a point.”

Crock drawled, “A lot different from my prom night back home.”

“Mine, too,” Decker said.

Not that he’d been a paragon of virtue. After the party, he and his buddies had taken their dates to an isolated park for a night of petting and binging bar vodka. Afterward, he had thought he’d been doing just fine! Then he had turned on the motor of his dad’s truck, smiled at his girl, and proceeded to heave his guts inside the cab. His date had joined him for the barfathon. Lyle Decker’s punishment had been simple but effective. Decker remembered all too well scrubbing tuck and roll with a toothbrush, cleaning scraps of detritus stuck in God-awful places.

He checked his watch. Eight-fifty-two. “Anyone check Missing Persons to see if a parent has called, wondering where the hell his or her daughter might be?”

Crock said, “I’ll call Devonshire.”

“Call Foothill, Van Nuys, and North Hollywood as well. And while you’re on the horn, Billy, find out the names of the principals and the girls’ vice principals of the three major high schools out here.”

“West Valley, Central West, and …”

“North Valley. Call them all up, tell them police need to meet them at their respective schools within the next hour, maybe two hours tops.” Decker turned to Miller. “You go back to the maid. Get her story again, along with her name, address, and phone number. And search her purse. She may have vomited initially, but after the shock wore off, she may have lifted something from the room.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, go down to the clerk and have him check the phone records. Maybe someone made calls from this room.”

“Got it,” Miller said. Then he and Crock left.

Decker ran his hand through thick, carrot-colored hair, stroked his chin and felt grizzle. Wakened from a rare morning of sleep, he hadn’t had a chance to shave. He had said a shortened version of his morning prayers, then rushed off to work, throwing a kiss to Rina and the boys. Hannah was still sleeping.

Little Hannah. At that age, they were easy because your eyes never let them out of your sight. Not so with the big one. Please God, just keep Cindy safe!

Again he studied the victim. The poor kid hadn’t had a chance to grow up. Decker felt low, wished Marge was here. But he was glad his partner finally had taken some time off. He hoped the Maui sun was being kind to her, hoped her new friend Roger was being kind as well.

The police photographer closed her camera case. “I’m all done, Sergeant. Meat wagon’s outside. You want me to call in the boys for you?”

Decker nodded. “Snap me a couple of Polaroids of the face, Lynne. We don’t have a name. I’ll need them for ID.”

“Certainly.” Lynne took out a camera and aimed. “Pretty thing, wasn’t she? Natural good looks, but not a natural blonde.”

Decker looked at the body, at a dark bush of pubic hair. He wrote: Condom in sheet. Sex. Good pubic comb.

Lynne handed him four photographs. “Is this enough?”

“Great. Thanks, Lynne.”

“Tell the boys to come in?”

“Please.”

She gave a wave and left. Again, Decker studied the surroundings. The room was on the third floor, the window barred, the escape lever untouched. Whoever did this walked in and out the door. He tore out a clean sheet of paper, dividing the space into four sections. Later he’d add the furniture.

Benny took out a fingerprint kit. “I can’t dust until the stiff’s out of here. Powder’ll screw up the autopsy. Where’s the men from the coroner’s office?”

“Lynne went to get them.” Decker frowned and went over to the bed. “I can’t stand it. I’m going to take her down.”

He gloved up, then slowly undid the knots on the bow tie and stocking that bound the victim’s wrists to the headboard. Her arms remained extended, as stiff as a cardboard cutout. He lowered the T-shaped girl to the bed, then dropped the bow tie into one plastic bag, set the stocking in another. He examined the neck.

A voice behind him said, “Rather large bruises. I’d say our perpetrator had large hands.”

Decker looked up. ME office had sent Jay Craine. He was a thin, good-looking man in his mid-thirties. Heavy with the affectations but a good coroner. Today, his face looked exceptionally drawn. His nose was Rudolph red.

Decker asked, “Allergies or a cold?”

Craine sneezed, then slipped on a mask. “A tad of both, I’m afraid. Oh my. Terrible. Was she tied to the headboard?”

“Yeah.” Decker made room for Craine to work. “I couldn’t look at her anymore like that. I took her down.”

“Obviously rigor has started.” Craine leaned over and started examining the body. “She’s not ice-cold. I’ll take a rectal temperature as soon as I’ve checked out her anus for sexual penetration.”

He attempted to flex her arms, then bent her legs at the knee.

“Rigor’s not totally set. Lividity’s evident.” He looked at Decker. “Perhaps we’re working within a range of three to eight hours. When was the body discovered?”

“Eight in the morning.”

“So that’s more or less between the hours of twelve and eight. Rigor is somewhat advanced although physical exertion prior to death can speed it up.” Craine opened his leather bag, took out a swab kit. He snorted, coughed, sneezed, then began his examination. “Semen in her vagina.”

Decker paused. “Are you sure? Ben found a condom in the bed sheets.”

“And another in the garbage can,” Ben broke in. “Someone was having a good time.”

Decker regarded the rigor-laden girl. “And someone wasn’t. Why would she have semen in her vagina if her partner was using a condom?”

“Perhaps he ran out and they got careless,” Craine postulated. “Or she had more than one partner.”

“What about her anus?”

Craine examined her rectum with watery eyes. “Appears clean from a visual.” He took several swabs and sealed them in vials. He sneezed ferociously. “But one cannot tell …” Another sneeze. “Until one puts it under a microscope.”

Craine continued on. “First impression, Sergeant …” A pause, then a sneeze. “The girl might be pregnant … thickening of the vaginal tissue, vascularization. Either pregnant or it’s her period. But I don’t see any menstrual blood.”

Decker ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, then wrote down the word—pregnant. “How far along?”

“Early. I’ll tell you more specifics when I get her on the table.”

“Now there’s a switch,” Benny said. “Someone was using a condom even though the girl had been knocked up. The power of the virus.”

“But she had semen in her,” Decker said. “Maybe Doctor C. is right. We’re working with more than one man.”

“We’ll know for certain once the tests come in.” Craine stood, then sneezed so hard he rocked on his feet.

Decker said, “You sure you should be working, Doctor?”

“On the contrary, it’s the best time to work,” Craine sniffed. “The nasal mucosa is so inflamed, it virtually blocks out all odious olfactory sensations. I can’t smell a thing. Shall I remove her so Ben can dust thoroughly?”

“Great idea,” Ben said.

Decker said, “Take care of yourself, Doc.”

“Oh, yes, indeed. Rhinoviruses are persistent little creatures. Bed rest is essential.”

As soon as Craine left, Officers Crock and Miller walked back into the room. Crock said, “Got hold of the principal at Central West Valley and West Valley. They’ll call the girls’ veeps and meet you down at the schools whenever you come. I haven’t hooked up with anyone from North Valley yet. Also, no frantic parents have called any of the station houses.”

Decker nodded, then turned to Officer Miller. “What about you, Russ?”

“Maid seems on the level as far as I can tell. So does the desk clerk, Forrester. You want to interview them?”

“I’ll introduce myself before I leave for the high schools. What time did the maid go on shift?”

“Six.”

“And the desk clerk?”

“Six, also.”

“So at six, we had a changing of the guard at the desk—Forrester came in and …” Decker rotated his shoulders as he checked through his notes. “And Henry Trupp went off duty. Phone calls from the room, Russ?”

“Two calls to room service downstairs. One at twelve-oh-six, another at two-fifty-six.” Miller rubbed his hands against his pants. “That should help narrow down the time frame.”

“If she was alive when the calls were made. Who was on duty in the coffee shop last night?”

Miller cleared his throat. “Seems room service is brought up by the busboys. They come and go … paid in cash. Everything is off the books.”

“Illegals?”

“Probably.”

Decker said, “I’ll take it from here. Thank you. You two can go back in the field now.”

He looked at his room map and started on the first quadrant. After an hour search, Decker had a collection of carefully marked plastic bags containing hairs, buttons, two beer-bottle caps, a butt of marijuana, specks of white powder, three bathroom towels, all the bed linens, discarded underclothes, a pair of pink sequined shoes that matched the dress, and one wilted orchid corsage that said it all.

He pocketed his survey notes and left the room, yielding the final check to Benny and his lab men.

A brief talk with the maid and Forrester revealed no new information. Neither one saw or heard anything. He used the lobby phone and dialed Henry Trupp’s phone number. It rang and rang and Decker hung up. He found Officer Mike Wilson, who had just finished canvassing the first floor. Decker called him over.

“Anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Decker shook his head. “Mike, go into the coffee shop. I want a list of everyone who was working last night. If they hassle you about giving names of cash-only employees, tell them we’re not interested in calling either the INS or the IRS. But we’ll call both if we have to.”

“I understand, Sergeant.”

“Yeah, make sure they understand as well. Be back soon.”

Decker slipped on his jacket and headed for high school.

11

North valley was a bust.

Central West was a different story. Decker took out the Polaroids and laid them on the principal’s desk. The rotund black man winced distastefully, but there were no sparks of recognition in his eyes.

Not the case for the girls’ vice principal, Kathy Portafino. One glance turned her a putrid shade of olive. She was about Marge’s age and height—early thirties, around five ten and hefty, with a square jaw and a no-nonsense face that said, “I’ve seen it all.” But there was something uniquely ugly about postmortem photos. A cold finality combined with clinical sterility brought out emotions in even the most jaded.

“Who is she?” Decker asked.

The woman covered her mouth. “I think it’s Cheryl Diggs.”

“You think?”

“No, it’s her. She just looks so … different.” She wiped her forehead and swallowed weakly. “Excuse me, but I’m not feeling—”

“Go,” Decker said.

The woman fled the room. Decker turned his attention to the principal. He was staring at the top of his paper-piled desk.

Decker said, “Do you know this girl, Mr. Gordon?”

The principal ran his hand over his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “Now that Kathy has identified her, I know who she is.” He sat down in his chair. “This is just … terrible.”

Decker took out his notepad. “Did the school hold its senior prom last night?”

The man nodded, rubbed his forehead. “All of a sudden that seems like years ago.”

“And Cheryl Diggs was there?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you know who she went with?”

“No, I couldn’t tell you that.”

“Then tell me about Cheryl.”

“Ms. Portafino would know more.”

“What do you know, Mr. Gordon?”

“What do I know?” His pause told Decker he didn’t know much. “Cheryl ran with the wild crowd. Wild over here doesn’t mean homeboys mowing each other down. This is still a predominantly white, middle-class, gang-less school. But we have guns here.” He took a deep breath. “We have guns, we have knives, we have drugs, we have pregnancies, we have diseases, we have suicides and overdoses. We have every urban problem you can think of, including violent crime—theft, robbery, rapes, assaults. But this?”

“Never any murders before?”

“One in the five years I’ve been here. Two boys fighting over a parking space. One of them just pulled out a thirty-two and shot the other in the head. You don’t recall that?”

“I wasn’t in Devonshire five years ago,” Decker said.

“I thought we’d hit rock bottom then.” Gordon sighed. “Even though we beefed up our security afterward, it took a long time to calm jittery nerves. Lord only knows what this is going to do.”

“Tell me about Cheryl’s crowd.”

“Cheryl’s crowd …” He hesitated, trying to formulate his thoughts. Just then, Kathy returned to the room. Her face had been splashed with water. She was pale but no longer green. Gordon turned to his ally. “Kathy, who were Cheryl’s friends?”

“Lisa Chapman, Trish Manning, Jo Benderhoff—”

“Boyfriends,” Decker interrupted.

“She hopped around.” Kathy sat down. “Steven Anderson, Blake Adonetti, Tom Baylor, Christopher Whit—” She stopped talking. “I think she went to the prom with Chris Whitman. At least I saw them there together. I remember them because they made such a beautiful couple.” The VP tapped her foot. “You know, I think something was wrong. Cheryl looked upset.”

Decker wrote as he spoke. “Is that hindsight talking or was there some definite incident you remember?”

“Nothing precise. She just looked … sad. I noticed it because it marred her otherwise stunning appearance.”

“Did the boyfriend seem upset?” Decker asked.

She shrugged. “Chris is always hard to read. Also I’m more tuned in to the girls. All I remember about Chris is that he looked great. He always looks great.”

“He’s a handsome boy,” Gordon added. “A gifted cellist.”

“More than gifted,” Kathy added. “He was professional quality.”

“He didn’t belong here,” Gordon continued. “He should have been in Juilliard.”

“Then why was he here?” Decker asked.

Both Gordon and Kathy shrugged ignorance.

“Don’t tell me,” Decker said. “He’s a quiet boy. A loner with social problems.”

“Not at all,” Kathy said. “He has friends. As a matter of fact, he’s quite popular. Very well liked with the boys as well as the girls.”

An ember ignited in Decker’s brain—a familiar profile. He said, “You said he was hard to read. What did you mean by that?”

Kathy thought a moment. “Chris is very … even-tempered. A trait like that stands out when you’re dealing with a thousand hormonally imbalanced adolescents.”

Decker said, “More adult than the rest of the kids?”

Kathy nodded. “Yes.”

Gordon suddenly spoke up. “Kathy, isn’t Christopher an emancipated minor?”

“I think he’s eighteen now, Sheldon.”

“But he came in as an emancipated minor,” Gordon said. “I remember that clearly. Despite all the divorce and broken homes, very few kids have their own apartments.”

Bingo! In his notepad, Decker wrote: WHITMAN, CHRIS. NARC? CALL VICE. “So Christopher Whitman has his own place?”

“I believe he does,” Gordon said.

“Is he a druggie?” Decker asked.

Gordon looked at Kathy. She said, “I don’t recall him ever getting busted, but he hangs out in the druggie crowd.”

“But as far as you know, he isn’t a user.”

“As far as I know, yes.”

“And you saw him with Cheryl at the prom last night,” Decker said.

“Yes. I couldn’t swear he came with her. But he and Cheryl were hanging out together.”

“And she looked sad. Any idea why?”

Kathy shook her head no.

Decker was quiet. According to Jay Craine, the coroner, Cheryl was probably pregnant. If Chris Whitman, her supposed boyfriend, was a narcotics officer and knocked her up, he’d be finished as a cop.

Talk about motivation for murder.

“I’ll need Chris Whitman’s address,” he said. “Cheryl’s address as well. I’ll also want all the addresses of her friends—male and female.”

Gordon looked at Kathy. She stood up. “I’ll pull those for you right now.”

“I’d like to come with you,” Decker said. “Take a look at Whitman’s transcript.”

Kathy eyed Gordon. He waved his hand. “Let him see it.”

Decker followed Kathy into the registration room—a long, cavernous hall filled with banks of metal files. She went to an area marked CURRENTS, sifted through the ws and pulled out Whitman’s file.

“Here you go.”

Decker studied the particulars. According to the files, Whitman was almost nineteen—old for a high school student. He had transferred as a junior from St. Matthews High in Long Island, New York. All that was listed from his prior education was about a year’s worth of mediocre grades. Nothing written in the space reserved for PARENT OR GUARDIAN. Though he had provided the school with his current address and phone number, there was no emergency listing. He showed the papers to the girls’ vice principal.

“The vitals are incomplete.”

Kathy took the transcript. “He came as a junior, mid-semester. Sometimes the schools just send a partial. The rest of the transcripts usually follow.”