Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

“Except for people who can’t cope with too much freedom.”

“And they,” said Isaac, “have you to contend with.”

Gower Street. Unit eleven of a twenty-unit apartment complex the color of honeydew melon set midway between Hollywood Boulevard and Franklin Avenue.

“Okay,” said Petra, getting out of the car. “Let’s see what our little fibber has to say for herself.”

When she scanned the mailboxes near the front door, unit eleven was registered to Hawkins, A.

No Leon on any of the slots.

The front door was unlocked. They climbed the stairs and walked to the rear of the hallway where number eleven was tucked. Petra rang the bell and a very tall, black man in a green sweater and brown slacks answered the door. White snowflakes were printed at the neck and cuffs of the sweater, a ski-thing in June. An intricate zigzag cornrow sheathed his high-domed head- one of those architectural masterpieces NBA pros liked to sport. Rapidograph pen in one hand, ink stains on his fingertips. What Petra could see of the apartment was spare and well-kept. Drafting table pushed up against a window. A cloud of incense drifted out to the hall.

“Yes?” said the man, twirling the pen.

“Afternoon, sir,” said Petra, flashing the badge. “I’m looking for Sandra Leon.”

“Who?”

Petra repeated the name. “She listed this apartment as her address.”

“Maybe she lived here once upon a time, but not for at least a year, because that’s how long I’ve been here.”

“A year,” said Petra.

“Twelve months and two weeks to be exact.” Twirl, twirl. Big grin. “I promise you, my name’s not Sandra.”

Petra smiled back. “What would it be, sir?”

“Alexander Hawkins.”

“Artist?”

“When I’m allowed to be. Mostly I work at a travel agency- Serenity Tours, over at Crossroads of the World.” Another grin. “If that matters.”

“It doesn’t,” said Petra, “unless you know Sandra Leon.”

“Is she an attractive young lady who appreciates art?” said Hawkins.

“She’s a sixteen-year-old girl who may have witnessed a murder.”

Hawkins turned serious. “No, I don’t know any Sandra Leon.”

“Is there an in-house landlord or manager?”

“I wish. These luxury accommodations are shepherded by Franchise Realty headquartered in the golden city of Downey. I was just on the phone with their answering machine. Little insect problem. I can give you the number, know it by heart.”

Back in the car, Petra called the company. The previous occupant of unit eleven had been a family named Kim and they’d been there for five years. No Leons had rented any apartments in the building during the seven years Franchise had managed the place.

She hung up, told Isaac. “Sandra lied twice. And that makes me real interested in her.”

Back on the phone, she left a detailed message for Dr. Bob Katzman.

Isaac said, “Now what?”

Petra said, “Now we return to the station and I try to locate little Ms. Leon. When I hit a wall, which will probably be sooner rather than later, I’ll take a closer look at those files of yours.”

“I’ve been looking into June 28 to see if there’s some sort of historical significance. The best criminal link I’ve come up with is that John Dillinger was born on that day. I suppose that could be inspirational to a sociopath. But Dillinger was a bank robber, a grandstander, very dramatic, the epitome of a conspicuous felon. From what I can tell, this killer’s just the opposite. He’s been picking a variety of victims in order to embed his pattern.”

This killer. Pattern. The kid was convinced of one dark hand behind all six cases. Ah, impetuous youth.

As Petra began the short drive back to Wilcox, Isaac said, “Something else took place on June 28. The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. June 28, 1914. Essentially, that began World War One.”

“There you go,” said Petra. “Someone’s declared war on the good folk of L.A.”

It was the wound pattern that snagged her.

Six P.M. As predicted, she’d hit the wall on Leon sooner rather than later. She phoned a nearby Mr. Pizza and called out for a small deep-dish with everything on it.

Across the room, Isaac remained at his corner desk, scribbling, punching his laptop, jotting down notes. Making a big show out of being inconspicuous. When the pie came, she went over and offered him a slice. He said no thanks, tailed her back to her desk, hung around as she opened the greasy box.

Petra selected a slice and began picking cheese off the pointed end.

Isaac said “Have a good evening” and left the station.

She poured herself more coffee, played with strings of mozzarella, picked up one of the files. Drank and ate and began to read. Getting grease on the folders. Being a little cavalier about it.

Until she came to the autopsy reports.

Six autopsy reports written by six separate coroners. The language was nearly identical.

Compression injuries of the occipital skull.

Hit from behind.

In every autopsy report, the weapon was described as heavy and tubular, approximately 77 centimeters in diameter in three murders, 75 in one, 78 in two. Which was close enough, given varying bone densities in people of different ages and sexes.

Two pathologists had been willing to speculate that the bludgeon was metal or hard plastic, because no imbedded wood fragments had been found.

What had been found was lots of blood and bone frags and gobbets of brain matter.

To Petra the weapon sounded like a length of pipe. Seventy-seven centimeters matched three inches on her old-fashioned ruler. Nice, hefty chunk of pipe.

Deep compression injuries, all that gore.

Someone- if there was a someone- liked braining people.

She started with the detective she knew still on the job.

Neil Wahlgren, the D on the Curtis Hoffey case. All she’d heard was he’d transferred somewhere in the Valley.

It took a while, but she located his extension at Van Nuys Auto Theft. Petra’s job trajectory had been just the opposite, from chop shops to chopped humans, and she wondered why Neil had switched.

He was away from his desk, but the V.N. desk officer gave her his cell and she reached him.

“Hey,” he said. “Barbie from Ken and Barbie, right?”

Remembering Petra and Stu Bishop. Those had been good days.

“That’s me,” she said.

“Hey,” Wahlgren repeated. He had a hearty voice that sounded genuinely warm. Petra recalled him vaguely as a big, ruddy Nord with a bulbous nose. The kind you imagined ice-fishing and quaffing whatever ice fishers quaffed.

“Chasing chrome?” she said. “No more d.b.s?”

“Ten years of d.b.s was enough. Give me a nice boosted Lexus with GPS any day. What’s up?”

“I’ve been looking at some cold cases and came across one of yours. Curtis Hoffey.”

Right away Wahlgren said, “Male pross, hit over the head.”

“That’s the one.”

“Messy.”

“Messy in terms of crime scene or detection?”

“Both. Couldn’t make an inch of progress,” said Neil. “Which is no surprise, I guess, a vic like that. Twenty years old and from what I could gather he’d been on the streets since twelve. Poor kid probably serviced the wrong john, but there was no talk on the street and no prior similars.”

“I might have one- emphasize might, ” she said. “Someone was combing through old files and came up with half a dozen head-bashes that match in terms of wound pattern and weapon guestimology.”

She paused. Should she go all the way, give him the June 28 tie-in? No, too weird. Not at this point- the guy worked Auto T, anyway, why would he care?