Robert Crais: Chasing Darkness

“He had an album with Polaroid pictures of his victims. There were seven pages with a different vic on each page. We thought they were fake. You see something like that, you think it’s gotta be phony, like that porno stuff with girls pretending to be dead? We didn’t know the shit was real until Bobby recognized one of the girls. It was fucking disgusting.”

“The mouth.”

I said, “Where did you find the album?”

“On the floor by his feet.”

Starkey positioned herself as if she was sitting in the chair and touched the top of her left foot.

“Here. We figured it slid off his lap when he went for the gold-”

She suddenly glanced up.

“He only had one foot. The other was screwed up.”

Lionel Byrd had lost half of his right foot in a garage accident when he was twenty-four years old. I hadn’t remembered it before, but now I recalled Levy telling me about it. The settlement had left Byrd with a modest disability payment that supported him the rest of his life.

Poitras said, “It was Bobby put it together. One of the vics was a prostitute named Chelsea Ann Morrow. Bobby knew her, and after we had Morrow, we faxed the pictures through the other divisions. That’s when the IDs started coming. Downtown rolled in that afternoon.”

I stared at the floor as if I would suddenly see the album. Maybe that was why Starkey kept looking at the floor. Maybe she could still see it.

“Did he leave a note?”

“Uh-uh.”

I glanced at Starkey.

“So all you found were the pictures?”

“We pulled a camera and a couple of film packs. There was a box of ammo for the gun. If the task force guys found anything else, I don’t know.”

“Pictures don’t mean he killed them. Maybe he bought them on eBay. Maybe they were taken by one of the coroner investigators.”

Poitras stared for a moment, then shrugged.

“I don’t know what to tell you. Whoever took them, the geniuses downtown decided he’s good for it.”

The scores of black fingerprint smudges seemed to be moving. They were worse than roaches. They looked like swarming spiders.

“Can I see it?”

“What?”

“The album.”

“Downtown has it.”

“What about crime scene snaps?”

Starkey said, “The task force. They cleaned us out, man. The CI’s work and everything from SID went to them. Witness statements from the neighbors. All of it. They hit this place like an invasion.”

A car door slammed, drawing the three of us to the porch. A senior command officer and a younger officer had just gotten out of a black-and-white. The senior officer stared up at us. He had a tight grey butch cut, razor-burned skin, and a nasty scowl.

Poitras said, “Shit. He’s early.”

“Who’s that?”

“Marx. The deputy chief in charge of the task force.”

Starkey nudged me.

“You were supposed to be gone before he got here.”

Great.

Poitras moved to greet him, but Marx didn’t want to be greeted. He came up the steps at a quick march, locked onto Poitras like a Sidewinder missile.

“I ordered this scene to be sealed, Lieutenant. I specifically told you that all inquiries would be handled through my office.”

“Chief, this is Elvis Cole. Cole is a personal friend of mine, and he’s also involved.”

Marx didn’t offer to shake my hand or acknowledge me in any way.

“I know who he is and how he’s involved. He conned the DA into letting this murderer go.”

Marx was a tall rectangular man built like a sailing ship, with tight skin stretched over a yardarm skeleton. He peered down at me from the crow’s nest like a parrot eyeing a beetle.

I said, “Nice to meet you, too.”

Marx turned back to Poitras as if I hadn’t spoken.

“I’m not just being an asshole here, Lieutenant. I clamped the lid so nobody could run to the press before the families were notified. Two of those families have still not been reached. Don’t you think they’ve suffered enough?”

Poitras’s jaw knotted.

“Everyone here is on the same side, Chief.”

Marx eyed me again, then shook his head.

“No, we’re not. Now get him out of here, and take me through this goddamned house.”

Marx went into the house, leaving Poitras to stare after him.

I said, “Jesus, Lou, I’m sorry.”

Poitras lowered his voice.

“The real chief’s out of town. Marx figures if he can close this thing before the chief gets back, he’ll get the face time. I’m sorry, man.”

Starkey touched my arm.

“C’mon.”

Poitras followed Marx back into the house while Starkey walked me down. The two uniforms and Marx’s driver were talking together, but we kept going until we were alone. Starkey fished a cigarette from her jacket as soon as we stopped.

“That guy’s an asshole. It’s been like this all week.”

“Is Marx really going on TV tonight?”

“That’s what I hear. They wrapped up their work last night.”

“A week to cover seven murders?”

“This thing was huge, man. They had people on it around the clock.”

She lit the cigarette and blew a geyser of smoke straight overhead. I liked Starkey. She was funny and smart, and had helped me out of two very bad jams.

“When are you going to quit those things?”

“When they kill me. When are you going to start?”

You see? Funny. We smiled at each other, but her smile grew awkward, and faded.

“Poitras told me about the Bennett thing. That must be weird, considering.”

“Was her picture in the book?”

Starkey blew more of the smoke.

“Yeah.”

I looked up at the house. Someone moved in the shadows, but I couldn’t tell if it was Poitras or Marx.

Starkey said, “Are you okay?”

When I glanced back, her eyes were concerned.

“I’m fine.”

“It was me, I’d be, I dunno, upset.”

“He couldn’t have killed her. I proved it.”

Starkey blew another cloud of smoke, then waved her cigarette at the surrounding houses.

“Well, he didn’t have any friends here in the neighborhood, I can tell you that. Most of these people didn’t know him except to see him, and the ones who knew him stayed clear. He was a total asshat.”

“I thought the task force cut you out.”

“They used us here with the door-to-door. Lady at that house, he told her she had a muscular ass. Just like that. Woman at that house, she runs into him getting his mail and he tells her she could pick up some extra cash if she dropped around one afternoon.”

That was Lionel Byrd.

“Starkey, you’re right. Byrd was a professional asshat, but he didn’t kill Yvonne Bennett. I don’t believe it.”

Starkey frowned, but the smile flickered again.

“Man, you are stubborn.”

“And cute. Don’t forget cute.”

I could have told her I was also sick to my stomach, but I let it go with cute.

She drew another serious hit on the cigarette, then flicked it into a withered century plant. Here we were in fire season with red-flag alerts, but Starkey did things like that. She pulled me farther away from the uniforms and lowered her voice.

“Okay, listen, I know some things about this Poitras doesn’t know. I’m going to tell you, but you can’t tell anyone.”

“You think I’m going to run home and put it on my blog?”

“Guy I worked with at CCS is on with the task force. He spent all week analyzing the stuff we pulled out of the house. You won’t like this, but he told me Byrd’s good for the killings. He says it’s solid.”

“How does he know that?”

“I don’t know, moron. We’re friends. I took his word for it.”

Starkey nudged me farther from the uniforms again and lowered her voice even more.