Robert Ellis - The Lost Witness

“We want reports,” he said. “The chief’s office is to be copied on everything. No one cares if it takes twice as long. Just do your job and do it by the book, Gamble. We’re your partner now. And we’re not a silent partner. You want to make a right turn, you ask before you make it. You want to go left, make sure you’ve got the order and it’s signed by a judge. We’re your shadow, is that clear? Please acknowledge that we have had this conversation and you understand what was just-”

Klinger suddenly became quiet. Everyone turned. Senator West was standing at the entrance, starring at them with a quizzical expression across his broad face.

“Sounds like a serious discussion, Chief. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Lena could tell in an instant that West wasn’t sorry at all. From the look he gave the chief and his adjutant, it seemed they probably didn’t get along. She remembered hearing a rumor that the chief’s appointment had not been a unanimous decision by the police commission. That the water had been cloudy, and one of the five members voted against his appointment. Lena wondered if the lone vote of dissension came from West. From the look on Chief Logan’s face, and Klinger’s, they had heard the rumor and come to the same conclusion.

“We’re finished here,” the chief said. “It’s no interruption at all, Senator.”

“I’m glad, because I’m a fan of Detective Gamble.”

West turned away from the chief and gazed at Lena. His eyes were clear and easy and filled with a certain wisdom.

“When Denny Ramira pointed you out,” he said, “I couldn’t believe that you were here. I followed the Romeo murders just like everybody else. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”

He smiled and reached for her hand. She could feel the tension in the room. But then Klinger turned away from the senator and stepped out of the alcove. As the chief began to follow his adjutant, he stopped at the entrance and shot Lena another look.

“There’s been a change, Detective. The autopsy’s scheduled for tomorrow morning-eight sharp-not sometime in the afternoon.”

“What about the pathologist?”

“We can’t waste time. I told Madina that if he needs to sleep, he’d better do it on the plane.”

The chief didn’t wait for a response from her. Instead, he marched through the meeting room and followed Klinger into the lobby. West watched them exit, then turned back and spoke in a voice that wouldn’t carry.

“This is Los Angeles, Detective. Chiefs come and go. But now more than ever, we need people like you to fill the ranks and take charge.”

Lena didn’t really follow politics, but had read enough to know that West was one of the good guys. The senator obviously had overheard the chief and his adjutant giving her the goods. He had interrupted them in order to help her. While she appreciated the gesture, he was slighting her commanding officer. No matter how great the compliment, it would have been out of line to respond. Instead, she was thinking about the autopsy. Only the chief could have forced Madina to shorten his trip in New Haven. Only the chief could make it happen so quickly. She wasn’t upset. She was grateful. She was thrilled.

Her mind surfaced. Something glistened in the light, and her eyes flicked down the senator’s jacket. He was wearing a pin on his lapel. Not the obligatory depiction of the flag, but something far more personal.

“Would you like to see it?” West asked.

She nodded. “The firefighters. They gave it to you after nine-eleven.”

He flashed a warm smile-his blue eyes sparkling-then removed the pin and handed it to her.

“It was a gift,” he said. “I wear it every day. It’s something I’ll never forget.”

Lena rolled the pin over in her palm until the gold caught the light. It was a three-dimensional work of art depicting an LAFD fire engine set at ground zero in New York City. Nine firefighters stood on top of the truck raising a ladder toward the sun. Lena remembered when West had been honored by the Los Angeles Fire Department because her entire division participated in the ceremony. But she had never seen the pin before in real life, only pictures of the bright red and gold object printed in the paper. It was handmade by an artist living in South Pasadena. It was a very special pin given to someone who not only bent over backwards to help the rescue operation after the attack, but who also fought to provide medical treatment and financial aid years after when rescue workers started getting sick and hadn’t received their due. The pin was a gift to someone who didn’t bounce from one story to the next like a cable TV reporter trying to steal money and ratings. It was a gift to someone who hadn’t forgotten what happened and never would.

Lena passed back the pin and watched the senator carefully return it to his lapel.

“I’m going to ask you for a favor, Detective. And I already know that it’s something you won’t like.” He had that quizzical smile going again as he passed her his business card. “I’m spending more time here than I am in Washington,” he said. “If I can ever do anything for you, call me and I’ll try my best.”

“What’s the favor? How can I help?”

“The press is out there. And I want a picture of me and you standing together for my office. Ramira’s photographer would take that picture and send me a copy. But don’t think that I’m naive. Everybody else in that room will take the picture, too. And that’s why I said that you’re not going to like it, but I am.”

Lena thought it over. The senator raised an eyebrow, his warm smile becoming infectious. After a moment, she nodded.

Lena hustled down the stairwell at the coroner’s office, too anxious to wait for the elevator. When she hit the basement, the smell of disinfectant and decomposing flesh hit back. Wincing at the harsh odor, she rushed past the long line of dead bodies waiting against the left wall without looking at them.

She hadn’t been able to sleep last night, tossing and turning, and staring out the bedside window. She knew her anxiety came from the investigation being stuck in first gear. The heat from the sixth floor and the lack of evidence. Her inability to identify the victim or get past go. She couldn’t shake the frustration, and now she was feeding on it.

She stepped inside the changing room. Pulling the scrubs over her slacks, she grabbed a pair of booties and sat down on the bench. When the door swung open, she looked up and saw Art Madina pulling the mask away from his face.

“How was New Haven?” she asked.

“A bit frightening.”

“Lots of slide shows?”

“The conference was about the food supply. The Feds have cut the number of inspectors by half because of the war. No one’s minding the store.”

“What’s the food supply have to do with pathology?”

“For the past twenty-five years, the first thing we looked for was HIV, Lena. But now it’s Mad Cow disease. You can’t kill it by cooking because it isn’t alive. And there’s no cure. No drug cocktail to see the patient through.”

“It’s that serious?”

“Like I said, no one’s minding the store. You eat much beef?”

She gave him a look, then noticed the jar of Vicks VapoRub on the shelf.

“Pass me the ketchup,” she said.

Madina smiled, handing over a pair of goggles, a surgical mask, and the jar of Vicks VapoRub. He was a slim man, no older than forty, with bright, curious eyes and black hair cropped so short it probably qualified as a buzz cut. Madina had become the DA’s favorite when presenting evidence at trial. Lena noted his one-day beard and the dark circles cutting into his cheeks. Although he may not have had much sleep last night, she still felt lucky that he was performing the autopsy.