Michael Connelly - Blood Work

Before he returned to the van, the man had already been identified through its license plates as Luther Hatch, a thirty-eight-year-old gardener from North Hollywood released four years earlier from a nine-year Folsom Prison term for a rape conviction.

The subject was no longer unknown. Hatch became a working suspect. When his years in prison were subtracted from his age, he fit the VICAP profile perfectly. He was watched around the clock for three weeks-including during two more visits to the Glendale cemetery-until finally one night the detectives moved in as he attempted to force a young woman leaving the Sherman Oaks Galleria into his van. In the van, the arresting officers found duct tape and clothesline cut into four-foot lengths. After receiving a search warrant, the investigators tore apart the interior of the van as well as Hatch’s apartment. They recovered hair, thread and dried fluid evidence that was later linked through DNA and other scientific analysis to the two murder victims. Quickly dubbed “The Cemetery Man” by the local media, Hatch took his place in the pantheon of multiple murderers who fascinate the public.

McCaleb’s expertise and hunches had helped Winston break the case. It was one of the successes they still talked about in Los Angeles and Quantico. On the night they arrested Hatch, the surveillance team went out to celebrate. During a lull in the din, Jaye Winston turned to McCaleb at the bar and said, “I owe you one. We all do.”

Buddy Lockridge had dressed for his job as Terry McCaleb’s driver as if he were going to a nightclub on the Sunset Strip. Head to toe, he was clad in black. He also carried a black leather briefcase. Standing on the dock next to the Double-Down, McCaleb stared at the ensemble without speaking for a long moment.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, let’s go.”

“Is this all right?”

“It’s fine but I didn’t think you’d get so dressed up for just sitting in a car all day. You going to be comfortable?”

“Sure.”

“Then let’s go.”

Lockridge’s car was a seven-year-old silver Ford Taurus that was well maintained. On the way out to Whittier, he tried three different times to find out what it was McCaleb was investigating but each time the questions were unanswered. Finally, McCaleb was able to deflect the line of questioning by bringing up their old debate over the merits of sailboats versus power boats. They got to the Sheriff’s Department Star Center in a little over an hour. Lockridge slid the Taurus into a spot in the visitor’s lot and turned off the ignition.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” McCaleb said. “I hope you brought something to read or you’ve got one of your harmonicas on you.”

“You sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”

“Look, Bud, this might have been a mistake. I’m not looking for a partner. All I need is somebody to drive me. I spent more than a hundred bucks yesterday on cabs. I figured maybe you could use the money instead, but if you’re going to be asking me questions and-”

“Okay, okay,” Lockridge said, cutting in. He held his hands up in surrender. “I’ll just sit here and read my book. No more questions.”

“Good. I’ll see you.”

McCaleb entered the homicide squad offices on time for his appointment and Jaye Winston was hovering around the reception area waiting for him. She was an attractive woman a few years older than McCaleb. She had blond hair that was straight and kept midlength. She had a slim build and was dressed in a blue suit with a white blouse. McCaleb had not seen her in almost five years, since the night they had celebrated the arrest of Luther Hatch. They shook hands and Winston led McCaleb to a conference room that had an oval table surrounded by six chairs. There was a smaller table against one wall with a double-pot coffeemaker on it. The room was empty. A thick stack of documents and four videocassettes were sitting on the table.

“You want some coffee?” Winston asked.

“Nah, I’m fine.”

“Then let’s get started. I’ve got twenty minutes.”

They took chairs across the table from each other. Winston pointed at the paper stack and the videos.

“This is all yours. I copied everything after you called this morning.”

“Jeez, you kidding? Thanks.”

With two hands McCaleb pulled the pile toward his chest like a man raking in the pot at the poker table.

“I called Arrango over at L.A.,” Winston said. “He told me not to work with you but I told him you were the best agent I ever dealt with and that I owed you one. He’s pissed but he’ll get over it.”

“Is this L.A. ’s stuff, too?”

“Yeah, we’ve copied each other back and forth. I haven’t gotten anything from Arrango in a couple weeks but that’s probably because there hasn’t been anything. I think it’s all up to date. Problem is, it’s a lot of paper and video and it all adds up to nothing so far.”

McCaleb broke the stack of reports in half and started sorting through them. It became clear that about two-thirds of the work had been generated by sheriff’s investigators and the rest by the LAPD. He gestured to the videotapes.

“What are these?”

“You’ve got both crime scenes there and both shoots. Arrango told me he showed you the market robbery already.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, on ours you get even less. The shooter enters the frame for only a few seconds. Just enough for us to see he was wearing a mask. But anyway, it’s there for you to look at if you want.”

“On yours, did the guy take the money from the machine or the victim?”

“The machine, why?”

“I might be able to use that to get some help from the bureau, if I need it. Technically, it means the money was taken from the bank, not the victim. That’s a federal offense.”

Winston nodded that she understood.

“So how did you connect these, ballistics?” McCaleb asked, mindful that her time was limited and he wanted as much from her as he could get.

She nodded.

“I was working my case already and then a few weeks later I’m reading the paper and see a story about the other one. Sounded the same. I called L.A. and we got together. When you watch the videos, Terry, you’ll see. There’s no doubt. Same MO, same gun, same guy. The ballistics only underlined what we already knew.”

McCaleb nodded.

“I wonder why the guy picked up the brass if he knew the lead would be there. What was he using?”

“Nine-millimeter hardballs. Federals. Full metal jacket. Picking up the shells is just good practice. On my case, the shot was through and through and we dug the slug out of a concrete wall. He probably was guessing-maybe hoping-it was too mashed up for a ballistics comparison. So like a good little shooter, he picked up the brass.”

McCaleb nodded, noting the disdain in her voice for her quarry.

“Anyway, it doesn’t really matter,” she said. “Like I said, watch the tapes. We’re dealing with one guy here. You don’t need ballistics to know it.”

“Did you or the LAPD take it any further than that?”

“What do you mean, Firearms and Ballistics?”

“Yeah. Who has the evidence?”

“We do. The L.A. caseload’s a little heavier than over here. We agreed, since our case was first, to hold all of the evidence. I had F and B do the regular routine, you know, look for similars, et cetera, but they drew a blank. Looks like just these two cases. For now.”

McCaleb thought about telling her about the bureau’s DRUG-FIRE computer but decided the time wasn’t right yet. He’d wait until he had reviewed the tapes and the murder books before he started suggesting what she should do.

He noticed Winston check her watch.