I've been a cop for almost half my life and other than Sumner Hitchens, I've never heard anyone on the job call a police captain 'Skipper.' That only happened on TV, in the movies, and in Hitch World, which I had come to learn had a very large zip code.
The way the story went, Sumner Hitchens had sold one of his big homicide cases to the movies. That happened just a year before he was transferred to Homicide Special. Back then Hitch was a detective in the Metro Division downtown. He and his homicide table had busted a dangerous serial killer, a nutcase who thought the only way he could nourish himself and stay alive was to drink the blood of his victims.
Paramount produced the film and Jamie Foxx ended up playing the starring role of Detective Sumner Hitchens. The movie was entitled Mosquito, and the damn thing grossed over six hundred million dollars worldwide. Hitch had two back-end profit points hence the hundred-thousand-dollar Carrera, the pricey watch and wardrobe, as well as his new multimillion-dollar house in the Hollywood Hills, all of which he never tired of bragging about. His Hollywood representatives were a gang of sharks at United Talent Agency.
In my opinion, Sumner Hitchens was the ultimate pretender so there was no way I was going to let that hairbag end up as my partner.
He spotted me standing on the neighbors' steps ten yards away.
I must have been frowning because he waved and shouted, 'Hey, dawg, cheer up. Its you and me now, brother.'
Chapter 6
Patrol had already taped off a media control area in a vacant lot half a block away. It was currently empty, but we all knew before long this would get phoned in by a neighbor and once the press got wind of the fact that Scott Berman was one of our vies, they would be covering this place like a red carpet awards show.
Crime techs were arriving down by the main gate, talking in low voices while they waited for an ADA to show up with a search warrant so they could start collecting evidence. Until then there wasn't much anybody could do.
Hitch tried to approach me once or twice, but I gave him the slip by saying, 'Just a minute, Hitch. Be right with you.' I didn't want to give our new partnership even six seconds of emotional currency.
As the primary along with Alexa, I was one of the few people who were permitted to stay on the scene before the warrants arrived. Another exception was my immediate supervisor. I was looking to pull Jeb aside and start with my list of complaints. I'd paid my dues and like Sally said, I deserved better. No way I was going to work with Hollywood Hitchens. Jeb was just going to have to see this my way. I was rehearsed and ready to make my case when I finally caught him alone. He was standing at the side of the house, out of the immediate area of interest, talking on his cell.
'Captain,' I said as I approached, but he held up a hand to silence me.
'I don't care who's in the regular rotation,' he said into his Black-Berry. 'I want you to handle it personally, Meyer. We're gonna need a pile of cover on this.'
Meyer was Bert Meyer, better known in police circles as Meyer the Liar, head of our Media Relations Department.
'We're gonna need a media war room with daily press briefings and handouts,' Jeb continued into his cell. 'This is gonna be everybody's lead story. Matt Lauer will probably be out from New York tomorrow, doing stand-ups in front of this place.'
I looked down and saw an old paint-peeled Prime Properties Real Estate sign that had been ditched back here years ago. Underneath, hanging from a chain, was a dirt-smeared placard that read: A BEVERLY BARTINELLI LISTING. I wrote it down.
Jeb finally hung up and turned to me. 'I don't wanta hear it, Shane,' he said before I could even get started.
'But Captain…'
'You're gonna work with him. It's my call and it's already settled. That's all there is to it.'
'Captain, can I at least make my case?'
Jeb Calloway was originally from Port-au-Prince, Haiti, and still spoke with a slight French accent. He was marble hard, black ebony with a torpedo-shaped head and Mighty Mouse build. We sometimes called him the Haitian Sensation because of his comic-book proportions. He was a good guy but when he got pissed he could really break your balls. The whole package, every ounce and fiber, now looked extremely menacing. He glanced down at his watch impatiently.
'Go! You've got forty seconds.'
'I only need five. Hitchens is a total waste of space and a raging asshole. I won't work with him.'
A uniformed patrolman started down the path by the side of the house, stringing perimeter tape.
'Can you give us a minute?' Jeb said, and the cop abruptly spun and left us there. Jeb turned back to me.
'Shane, I try to be fair to everyone. You know I've got a three-strike rule. He's down to his last swing and, like it or not, you're it.'
'Three strikes? He's already had em, Captain. Dick Parsons dumped him over that evidence-tampering thing that went to IA, Chris Molina for being a total dickhead and crashing their unit twice. Barbara Palma last week for seducing her twin sister after the police academy picnic. That's three.'
'The Barbara Palma thing was a foul tip. Some people misunderstand what Hitch calls personal charm. He and Babs were chemically incompatible. It was my idea to split em up, so that one doesn't count.'
'Captain, please.'
'Shane, work with the guy. He needs your guidance. You're my cleanup hitter. My cheval de guerre. Get Hitchens out of the ditch and back on the road.'
'Do you really want this numbnuts working on Scott Berman's high-profile homicide? Forgetting his agents at UTA and the fact that when the movie comes out, Howie Mandel is gonna be playing you in blackface, he's completely unreliable. Hes gonna screw up.'
'You're the one who's working the case. I'm looking to you. He's just driving the car and learning from a master.' Then Jeb looked down at his watch. 'You're done, Scully. Request denied and you got a whole two minutes instead of just forty seconds. See what a nice guy I am? Now go out there and hit it. Bring me back a collar and do it before this is next week's cover story in People magazine.'
During the intervening hour, the rest of the CSI responders hit the scene along with the medical examiner and his staff. They continued to mill around at the foot of the drive, waiting for Carla Morris from the district attorney's office to show up. She finally arrived with the warrant signed by a superior court judge.
'How come this warrant is only for the backyard? What about the house?' Alexa asked as she stood by the sagging driveway gate with a swarm of evidence techs and glared at the paper.
'I thought you said the bodies were in the backyard. I don't think you said anything about a house,' Carla said. 'If you want me to go back and get a new warrant, it's gonna take another hour.'
Alexa pondered this for almost a minute.
On a murder scene, time lost at the outset can allow a perp to get away. Prints or other evidence, if recovered soon enough, could allow us to effect a quick arrest. Since the house was locked and probably not part of this anyway, Alexa made her decision.
'Let's get started. If we need to, we can go back and get a paper for the house tomorrow.'
With the warrant in hand, about twenty CSIs and coroner's assistants carrying their crime scene kits full of investigatory tools started up the path Alexa and I had marked in the grass by the side of the drive.
Except for pointing out areas of examination, the primary homicide detective is a third wheel during this stage of an investigation. The tech squad and coroner had full control of the scene.
The CSIs began by setting up an inward spiral search, walking the outside circle of the yard, moving slowly in toward the pool, where the bodies were. Ten investigators walked in a line, looking down, marking anything that looked like evidence with cards that were folded into a teepee shape with numbers that corresponded to a master sheet.
