Robert Ellis - The Lost Witness

“But she ended up in the trash. No one was supposed to find her. No one was supposed to see.”

“That’s irrelevant. The location for each cut is made exactly where it requires the least effort. He’s a professional. There aren’t any hesitation marks. See how straight they are. How clean. These are incisions, Lena. Incisions made by a skilled surgeon.”

“So, what you’re saying is that where she ended up doesn’t matter. He wasn’t thinking about it when he dismembered the body.”

“Exactly. The two acts are unrelated. When he severed her hand away from the wrist, he was thinking about the incision and possible scar. He was keeping it clean and neat. It’s in a surgeon’s nature. His DNA. It’s instinctual. He wouldn’t know any other way.”

“Because of his training,” she said. “His experience. He’s done amputations before.”

“So many that I can’t believe he didn’t spend time overseas. Iraq or Afghanistan. You don’t get this good without practice. And this guy’s had a lot of practice.”

Lena took a step closer, gazing at the victim. The evidence was overwhelming. Jane Doe’s body had been drained of blood and dismembered by someone who knew how to do it, and for whatever reason, had done it many times before. As she thought it over, a chill moved up her spine. Jane Doe’s murder was performed by someone who liked it. Someone with a medical degree who cared about the quality of his work. .

Lena ordered an extra-large cup of Colombian, spotted an empty table by the far window, and cut across the room. Digging her laptop out of her briefcase, she found an outlet under the table, hit the power switch, and waited for the computer to boot up.

In spite of its close proximity to Parker Center, the Blackbird Cafe wasn’t exactly a cop hangout. Nor did many tourists wander through the door. Instead, the cafe catered to artists and musicians who had migrated downtown over the past decade and sought a quiet place to sip what was probably the best cup of coffee in town. The place was hidden on a side street halfway down the block-an old brick building with vaulted ceilings that was originally built as a horse stable, served as an auto-repair garage for more than fifty years, and now had the look and feel of a community reading room. The lights were dim, the walls lined with books, paintings, and photographs. Last month a patron donated three prints by Minor White to the cafe’s art collection, three views of the world cast in light and shadow that Lena couldn’t stop looking at.

She had been a regular since her brother turned her on to the place after a gig at the Palladium. The Blackbird Cafe was open 24/7 every day of the year. Since her transfer from Hollywood to downtown, the place had become an oasis for her, and she needed it right now. One or two sips worth of high-end caffeine before she stepped back into the grind.

Klinger had called. Chief Logan wanted another briefing in an hour. Lena wasn’t looking forward to the meeting and thought it a complete waste of time.

And the autopsy had been an ordeal. The condition of the victim, worse than anything she had ever experienced before. Lena had worked with Pete Sweeney at the homicide table in Hollywood for two and half years. Her introduction to the Robbery-Homicide Division ten months ago had been a brutal murder case with multiple victims.

But this one was different. A lot different.

As she thought it over, it was the murderer’s expertise that made it different. The precision he exhibited with the knife. His obvious skills and physical strength. The cuts that weren’t really cuts, but so well executed that Madina had called them incisions. It all pointed to a level of coldness and brutality that felt like it came from another world, a very dark and lonely world.

Lena glanced at her computer, still booting up. Lifting the lid off her coffee, she let the steam rise into her face and tried to forget about the foul odor she endured at the autopsy. The smell of death had permeated her clothes and ruined them. Even though she had showered and changed in the locker room at Parker Center, she could still smell it. Not in her clean pair of black jeans or her sweater, but lurking in the deepest recesses of her memory. She knew from experience that it would take two or three days, maybe even a week, before it faded into the background.

She took a first sip of coffee, glanced around the room, and turned back to her laptop. She had filed a preliminary report and created the murder book last night-a three-ring binder often called a Blue Book that would serve as the complete record for the case. But her concern right now was the chronological record. The program on her computer mirrored the first section in the murder book and amounted to a journal. Every step she made in the investigation-what she was thinking, planning, or had ruled out-would be included. And she wanted to update the file and print it so that she could give the chief and his adjutant copies when they met.

She had come up with the idea last night when she couldn’t get to sleep. The only way to beat the micromanagers on the sixth floor was to flood them with paper. Keep them occupied with something tangible or nearly tangible so that she could work the case.

She checked her watch and started typing. After hitting the locker room, she had walked Jane Doe’s fingerprints up to the Latent Print Section on the second floor. Someone must have prepped the way because SID agreed to make the run immediately. Lena was well aware of the backlog and assumed that the call to bump her to the head of the line had come from the chief, or even Klinger. Still, she would have the results within a day-not a week-and that’s all that really mattered.

She wanted to push Jane Doe through the system as quickly as she could. Hit the speed bumps fast with the hope that just maybe something would shake out.

She wasn’t counting on anything. She knew the odds of SID identifying the girl were handicapped. In order to get a hit, Jane Doe’s fingerprints would already have to be in the system. One look at Jane Doe’s clear brown eyes told Lena that she was an innocent. The chances of her committing a crime or working a job that required fingerprinting was just short of nowhere.

But at least she finally had an accurate physical description. Lena typed in the victim’s height and weight from her notes jotted down at the autopsy. On the way over, she had made another call to Benson at Missing Persons and given him an update. Madina’s office had already sent over the autopsy photos, including close-ups of the victim’s belly ring and heart-shaped tattoo. Benson would make a run through the database and have results for her in an hour or two. But that only covered Los Angeles. The California Department of Justice would make a second, more extensive run. And with any luck, Lena would have their results in a couple of days.

She moved the cursor up to the menu bar and hit save. When she reached for her coffee, she looked up and saw someone walking toward her from the other side of the room. It was Denny Ramira, the crime-beat reporter from The Times.

“What are you doing here, Ramira?”

“I saw you on the street,” he said.

“You followed me?”

“Yeah. I’ve never been here before. Nice place.”

“Don’t make it a habit, okay?”

He smiled, still looking around. “Senator West digs you, Lena. You made his day by taking that picture with him. Did you see the paper?”

She shook her head. She had left the house early this morning and didn’t open the paper.

“You guys are friends?” she asked.

“His office is helping me research something on the side. Maybe a book; we’ll see. It’s not that far along yet.”