April Smith - Good Morning, Killer

The river oaks had been planted in two rows, shading a dirt road that still ran along the far reaches of the park. Their slender trunks all tilted in the same direction, and the shape of their foliage was vertical and tall; as if once upon a time a family of gnomes fleeing an evil wind had become frozen in flight, and their stubby legs had been turned into tree trunks and their tangled masses of hair into leaves whooshing fearfully up.

It was spooky, this dark grove at the edge of the playing fields, out near an old white stucco wall long covered with tents of ivy. Blown leaves and granular red dirt had accumulated near the foot of the wall, forming a dry mulch thick enough to dig through, unlike the hard-packed earth of the baseball diamond whose backstop sat at the edge of the oak shadow.

A six-year-old boy chasing a foul ball had discovered the victim between the trees and the wall. In this narrow space, the killer could have worked unobserved all night. When the crime scene folks carted the leaves away, shovel marks were visible like uniform bites around the edge of the grave. The killer was meticulous. He had come prepared — yet the grave was shallow, as if meant to be discovered. This showed ambivalence about the death. The clothed body was curled on its side in a green trash bag that did not quite reach over the head, so long thick brown hair extruded in a bunch. The hair was the oddity that caught the boy’s attention, visible through the leaves. He had thought it was the tail of a dead animal, encrusted with flies and blood.

Her name was Arlene Harounian, sixteen years old. From the condition of the body the coroner estimated she had been dead four days. She lived in a worn-down working-class city called Inglewood, about six miles from the park, an hour bus ride and a world away from Laurel West Academy and the Third Street Promenade. The father reported her missing, and a detective, already working three homicides, had been assigned to the case. Arlene had been especially beautiful, with dark tanned skin that added to her exotic look, a wide smile and confident, infectious energy. She was a popular honor student with a 4.0 grade-point average, who also played basketball and ran track, described by friends as “independent” and “a person who knew what she wanted, which was to go to college and make a difference.” Newspaper photos showed grief-stricken classmates hugging one another on the steps of the high school. Arlene had been the kind of kid who could recharge a cynical, burned-out teacher just by walking into the room.

Everyone on my legal team had the same thought: What if Arlene Harounian were another victim of Ray Brennan? Although there was no obvious link between them, she and Juliana Meyer-Murphy were similar in age and appearance, and the coroner was talking sexual assault. If the two were connected, her death could yield important facts that might have bearing on the charges against me. I was hoping it was Brennan just so we could nail him. That is the warped agony of the serial crimes investigator: sometimes the only way to move forward is for the offender to do it again.

While Devon’s office pursued their sources, I pounded Jason Ripley with e-mails and phone messages until finally he agreed to meet in the park where the body had been found.

It was a Saturday, ten days after the crime scene had been released, which meant the tennis courts were busy and slow-pitch softball games back in play. Jason could have been another gangly new dad coming through the crowded picnic area in which every table held a different multiethnic birthday party, scrawny ficus trees enveloped by a haze of smoking hamburgers and roasting skewers of yakitori and chorizo.

When we made eye contact, instead of breaking into the usual shy-but-eager grin, Jason ducked his head deeper under the bill of his cap.

“How’s it going?” he asked somberly.

“It’s going.”

“Sorry for your troubles.”

I nodded. He put a running shoe up on the seat of the picnic table, and we stood there awkwardly. What I really wanted was a big soft hug.

“So,” rubbing his farmer’s freckled hands together, “how can I help?”

I squinted over the acres of playing fields to the small, twisted procession of river oaks and what had been hidden there, diagonally across from tables full of toddlers reaching eagerly for birthday cake.

“Let’s take a walk.”

Jason glanced at the site uneasily. “I’ve got to get back to the office, got a ton of three-oh-twos.”

“Sure,” I said, surprised to feel how much his terseness stung. “What are we getting from the lab?”

“In terms of what?”

“Cause of death?”

“Haven’t gotten the autopsy results.”

“Why not?”

“Backed up, as usual.”

“Give me a break, it’s a high-profile case.”

“All I can tell you is what they tell me.”

“I like it,” nodding with mock approval. “Where did you learn to put on the spin?”

Jason reddened.

“Okay, then, what’s the buzz? No reason we can’t gossip, talk about what you’re hearing in the halls.”

“The buzz is sexual assault.”

“Any links to Brennan?”

“Nothing confirmed.”

“If there were,” I asked with a tight smile, “would you tell me?”

“Ana, you know, I’m kind of in a tough position here.”

“Where? Who’s listening?”

An ice cream truck had backed into the picnic area piping idiotic circus music over and over.

“I just can’t …” His lips curled in against his teeth, a sign of refusal if there ever was one. “I just …”

“You feel disloyal because you’re talking to me? About our own case?”

“It’s not exactly your case,” he muttered, “or mine, really, anymore—”

“I’m only on suspension.”

“But if you go to trial …”

“If I go to trial that’s another deal, but meanwhile, girls are getting murdered and what the hell is the Bureau doing about it? That’s what I want to know. What is the status? Because I learned from experience that when the lead agent doesn’t keep the pressure on, the whole thing evaporates. So is anyone still tracking Brennan? Is anyone going to put this case next to the Santa Monica kidnapping and the hits we got in VICAP — Washington, Florida and Texas — or, when there’s another sexually assaulted body of a teenage girl, am I going to spend the rest of my life pacing around Mike Donnato’s kitchen like some demented bride of Frankenstein, saying, I told you so? ” Jason laughed. “You’re a real character, you know that?”

“It’s not about me, it’s about the Bureau. You want to be loyal to the Bureau, help me keep working this case, because all indications are this guy is into a cycle of repeating.”

“We don’t even know if it’s Brennan,” Jason began.

I found myself rubbing my face all over with my fingertips, like putting on cold cream or taking off a mask.

“So why did you come here? To tell me you can’t tell me anything?”

“I came because I like you,” he blurted. Then, “I don’t know what went on with you and your boyfriend — I’m just hoping it all works out for you in the end.”

“And …?”

“And … nothing.”

He was leaning one forearm on the bent knee that was up on the table, looking at me sideways, trying to hide behind the green sunglasses.

I waited.

“They want you to back off,” he said finally. “They want you to go away. You shot a cop, no matter what the circumstances.” He added quickly, “You’re a problem, and they want it gone.”

“Is this a message from Rick?”

“I’m just trying to explain why I can’t share information. I know you care a thousand percent, but until your court case is resolved — and believe me, everyone is pulling for you — it’s just too political.”