Michael Connelly - Blood Work

The shooter let Gloria’s body slide to the ground and her upper body fell outside the view of the video frame. Only her hand, as if reaching across the floor, and legs stayed in the picture. The shooter moved toward the counter, quickly leaning over and looking down at Mr. Kang on the floor. Kang was reaching into a shelf below the counter, frantically pulling out stacks of brown bags. The shooter just watched him, until finally Kang’s arm came out, a black revolver in his hand. The man in the ski mask dispassionately shot Kang in the face before he ever got the chance to raise his gun.

Leaning further over the counter, his feet in the air, the shooter grabbed one of the bullet shells that had ejected and fallen next to Kang’s arm. He then straightened up, reached over and took the bills from the open cash register drawer. He looked up at the camera. Despite the mask, it was clear the man winked and said something to the camera, then quickly left the frame to the left.

“He’s picking up the other two shells,” Walters said.

“No sound on the camera, right?” McCaleb said.

“Right,” Walters said. “Whatever he said there, he said to himself.”

“Only one camera in the store?”

“Only one. Kang was cheap. That’s what we were told.”

As they continued to watch, the shooter made one more pass through the corner of the screen on his way out.

McCaleb stared blankly at the television, stunned by the harshness of the violence, despite his experience. Two lives spent for the contents of a cash drawer.

“You ain’t gonna see that on America’s Favorite Home Videos, ” Arrango said.

McCaleb had dealt with cops like Arrango for years. They acted as though nothing ever got to them. They could look at the worst crime scenes and find the joke. It was part of the survival instinct. Act and talk as if it means nothing to you and you’ve got a shield. You won’t get hurt.

“Can I see it again,” McCaleb said. “Can you slow it down this time?”

“Wait a minute,” Walters said. “It’s not over.”

“What?”

“The Good Samuel comes in just about now.”

He said it with a Hispanic pronunciation. Sam- well.

“The Good Samuel?”

“Good Samaritan. Mexican guy comes in the store, finds them and tries to help. He kept the woman alive but there was nothing he could do for Kang. Then he goes out to the pay phone out front and makes-there he is.”

McCaleb looked back at the screen. The timeline now read 22:42:55 and a dark-haired, dark-complected man in jeans and a T-shirt had entered the picture. He first hesitated on the right side of the screen, apparently looking at Gloria Torres, and then went to the counter and looked over it. Kang’s body lay on the floor in a lake of blood. There were wide, ugly bullet wounds in his chest and face. His eyes were open and still. He was obviously dead. The Good Samaritan returned to Gloria. He knelt on the floor and apparently hunched over her upper body, which was off-screen. But almost immediately he was up again and out of the picture.

“He went down the aisles looking for bandages,” Arrango said. “He actually wrapped her head with masking tape and a Kotex. A supersize.”

The Good Samaritan returned and went to work on Gloria, although all of this was off-screen.

“The camera never picked up a great shot of him,” Arrango said. “And he didn’t stick around. After he made the call to nine one one out front, he split.”

“He never came in later?”

“Nope. We went on the TV news with it. You know, asking for him to come forward because he might’ve seen something that would help the investigation. But nothing. This guy went up in smoke.”

“Weird.”

On the screen the man stood up, his back still to the camera. As he was moving out of the frame, he glanced to his left and a brief profile of his face was visible. He had a dark mustache. He then disappeared from view.

“He now calls the cops?” McCaleb asked.

“Nine one one,” Walters said. “He said ‘ambulance’ and they put him through to the Fire Department.”

“Why didn’t the guy come in?”

“We got a theory on that,” Arrango said.

“Care to share it?”

“The voice on the nine one one tape had an accent,” Walters said. “Latino. We figure the guy was an illegal. He didn’t stick around because he was afraid if we talked to him, we’d find out and ship him back.”

McCaleb nodded. It was plausible, especially in L.A., where there were hundreds of thousands of illegals avoiding authorities.

“We put out fliers in the Mexican neighborhoods and went on Channel Thirty-four,” Walters continued. “Promised he wouldn’t be deported if he’d just come in and tell us what he saw, but we got nothing. Happens a lot in those neighborhoods. Hell, the places they come from, they’re more scared a’ the cops than the bad guys.”

“Too bad,” McCaleb said. “He was there so soon, he probably saw the shooter’s car, maybe got the plate.”

“Maybe,” Walters said. “But if he got the plate, he didn’t bother giving it to us on the tape. He did give a halfass description of the car-‘Black car, like a truck,’ was how he described it. But he hung up before the girl could ask if he got a plate.”

“Can we watch it again?” McCaleb asked.

“Sure, why not?” Arrango said.

He rewound the tape and they silently watched it again, this time with Arrango using the slow motion button during the shooting. McCaleb’s eyes stayed on the shooter for every frame that he was on film. Though the mask hid his expression, there were times that his eyes were clearly seen. Brutal eyes that showed nothing as he gunned down two people. Their color indiscernible because of the black-and-white tape.

“Jesus,” McCaleb said when it was over.

Arrango ejected the tape and turned off the equipment. He turned and looked at McCaleb.

“So, tell us something,” he said. “You’re the expert. Help us out here.”

The challenge was clearly evident in his voice. Put up or shut up. They were back to the territorial thing.

“I’d have to think about it, maybe watch the tape some more.”

“Figures,” Arrango responded dismissively.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” McCaleb said, looking only at Arrango. “This wasn’t the first time.”

He pointed at the dead TV tube.

“No hesitation, no panic, the quick in and out… the calm handling of the weapon and the kick, the presence of mind to pick up the brass. This guy’s done this before. This isn’t the first time. And probably not the last. Plus, he’d been in there before. He knew there was a camera-that’s why he wore the mask. I mean, it’s true that lots of places like that have cameras but he looked right up at this one. He knew where it was. That means he’d been in there before. He’s either from the neighborhood or he came in earlier to case the place.”

Arrango smirked and Walters looked quickly from McCaleb to his partner. He was about to say something when Arrango held up his hand to silence him. McCaleb knew then that what he had just said had been accurate and that they already knew it.

“What?” he asked. “How many others?”

Arrango now held both hands up in a hands-off gesture.

“That’s it for now,” he said. “We talk to the lieutenant and we let you know.”

“What is this?” McCaleb protested, finally losing his patience. “Why show me the tape and stop there? Give me a shot at this. I might help you. What have you got to lose?”

“Oh, I’m sure you can help. But our hands are tied. Let us talk to the lieutenant and we’ll get back to you.”

He signaled everybody out of the office. McCaleb thought for a moment about refusing to leave but dismissed it as a bad idea. He walked through the door, Arrango and Walters behind him.