duty officers from the day watch scored the ID by showing his picture to the homeless miscreants around the freeway on ramp. He was a regular fixture on that corner.
I learned all this when I got to Parker Center at nine the next morning. The detectives assigned to the new Fingertip task force had already taken over an empty cube farm that was to be our new, designated area on the third floor. The space was available in the overcrowded administration building because it was about to go under construction as a computer center. Deputy Chief Ramsey had run the contractors off and temporarily given the area to us. Two dozen detectives from five citywide homicide divisions were milling about, industriously moving ladders and fighting over the few window desks left behind by the contractors. Claiming prime office space was an important first day priority in task force geopolitics. The less desirable, center of the room locations were relegated to underachieving latecomers like me.
The detectives who were there had also commandeered the few available chairs and determined that Patrick Collins had no outstanding warrants by running him through our database, CID, and the National Crime Index computer. They had to use their cell phones because we still weren't hooked up to the main switchboard. Under all the bustle there was organized excitement here. Movie and book deals hovered on the horizon.
A swift, connect-the-dots series of phone checks quickly confirmed that Collins was an Army medic in 1970, assigned to the Big Red One, the First Combat Infantry Division in Vietnam. Thirty years before he took up residency under the overpass he had also been a resident of Seattle, Washington, where his seventyfive-year-old parents still lived.
As the task force milled and joked, a shrill whistle suddenly sliced through the confusion, bringing the volume down instantly. 'Everybody, shut the fuck up!' an unfamiliar voice shouted from the back of the room.
I was still standing in the threshold, carrying my murder book and Rolodex, feeling out of it, like a kid on the first day of kindergarten, when the sea of humanity in front of me parted and I was looking at a pale, narrow- shouldered man with blond-red hair of a strange orange hue. He had it chopped short and his gray eyes glared through wire-rimmed glasses. A big, black gun rig hung upside down under his left arm like a sleeping bat and screamed asshole. My guess? The ranking fed.
'Okay,' he said as soon as it settled down. 'Everybody, we're meeting in the coffee room in thirty. Bring an open computer file, an open mind and a chair.'
Already, I was hating this guy. I turned to a detective standing beside me and asked, 'Who's he?'
'Dat be muthafuckin' Judd Underwood of da muthafuckin' FBI,' the cop said in a theatrical whisper.
More furniture arrived ten minutes later on rolling dollies. Somehow I ended up with the worst desk. A dented, gray metal monster with a bottom drawer that was jammed and wouldn't shut all the way. A perfect place for our sacrosanct murder book. I lost a frantic game of musical chairs and ended up standing.
I knew a few of the other cops in the room. Mace Ward and Sally Quinn were from the Valley Bureau. Mace was a weightlifter with steroid cuts, who shot anabolics but had a furious hatred of junkies. His mild-mannered partner, Sally, resembled a kindly homeroom teacher until you noticed her kick-ass green-brown eyes that were hard and flat, and the color of bayou mud. I'd worked an Internet sting with both of them a few years ago when I was in Van Nuys.
Ruben Bola and Fernando Diaz were a Cheech-andChong homicide team from the old Newton Division, an area so rife with violent crime it was known citywide as Shootin' Newton. It had been reorganized into part of the Central Bureau but the old station house down there was still a hot spot. Wisecracking Ruben was smooth and cool, so he was Suave Bola. Fernando was round and loud, with a chunky diamond chip crucifix, making him Diamond Diaz. There were a few other familiar faces whose names I couldn't remember. Some were playing Who Do You Know; some were wondering aloud who was going to be in charge of solving the loo phone problem. The rest of us were still trying to find a chair and an open mind to bring to the coffee room.
The briefing started exactly on time. Judd Underwood had scrounged a blackboard from someplace and moved the vending machines out of the room. He had all five morgue photos of the Fingertip murder vics taped to it with dates and locations. While we settled in, he kept his back to the room, frantically scribbling on the blackboard like some harried criminology professor getting ready for class. Even after we moved inside pushing the few available rolling chairs, he didn't turn. For some unknown reason, under each photo, he was writing the lunar phase for the corresponding kill, which was puzzling because our unsub was on a fourteen-day calendar, not a lunar cycle.
For those who keep track of such nonsense, Manhunter, the 1986 motion picture adapted from the Thomas Harris novel Red Dragon, was about the FBI Behavioral Science Unit and featured a serial killer who killed on a lunar cycle. In one scene, the FBI hero actually stated that the moon had a powerful effect on most nut-job killers. Not exactly earth-shaking news since Luna is both Latin for moon and the root word for lunatic. I couldn't help but wonder if Underwood was about to reenact a scene from that film.
Finally he turned and faced us, the chalk still in his hand. 'Good morning,' he said, softly.
He was such an obvious asshole, nobody answered. 'My name is Judson Underwood.'
And then, so help me, just like it was the first day of school, he turned and wrote it on the blackboard.
'D-E-R-W-O-O-D,' he announced over the chalk strokes. 'I'm a GS-Fourteen and the ASAC of the local FBI office here in L. A. I specialize in criminal behavioral science and serial crime profiling.'
He finished by writing GS-14, ASAC, and BEHAVIORAL SCIENCE with a flourish in chalk, then he underlined it before turning again to face us.
'I run kick-ass units, so if you're a slacker, get ready for an ass kicking. Around here, brilliance will be expected, excellence will be tolerated, and standard work will get you transferred out with a bad performance review.' He looked around the room. 'Are we all square on that?' Nobody answered.
'Good. In case any of you humps have problems with an FBI agent running a city task force, you should know I've been asked to head this show by your Director of Field Operations, Deputy Chief Michael Ramsey. I'll handle the investigation; he's going to handle logistics and communications.'
That fit my take on Great White Mike. If the case tanked, our media-savvy deputy chief would be perfectly positioned in front of the TV cameras to point an accusing finger at the entire task force, including our new, narrow-shouldered, kick-ass FBI commander.
'To begin with, we're gonna have some rules,' Underwood said. 'On this task force, nobody hoards information. Everything is written down and e-mailed to me daily. All facts, wit lists, and F. I. cards are in my computer at EOW.'
For those unfamiliar with cop acronyms, F. I. stands for Field Interview, EOW for end of watch.
Underwood cleared his throat and continued. 'We're going to have full disclosure. I don't ever want to find out that some piece of this case was not transmitted, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Woe be it to the detective who neglects to include everything in his daily report. Are we all completely square on this condition?'
Now everybody nodded. They all smiled and looked very pleased with this rule. A few even muttered, 'Thank God for that.'
But you can't fool me. It was just stagecraft. Both of the previous task forces I was assigned to had started with the full disclosure speech. From this second on, everyone in this room would be lying and hoarding like crack whores. It was a career case-the fast lane to the top of the department with big money stops at the William Morris Agency and CAA. It was a chance to become famous and add that new game room onto the den.
'Let's begin with the givens,' Underwood pontificated. 'Given: we have five DBs, all males, all mid-fifties to mid-sixties. Given: all have been disfigured with their fingertips amputated at the phystal phalanx of each digit. Given: all five vics have a symbol mutilation carved on their chests, an act of homicidal rage: We now know this symbol represents an approximation of the Combat Medics insignia. The first four bodies were on a two-week clock, then it dropped to seven days.
That roughly corresponds to Lunar Phase Three of the calendar. I'll pass out a lunar chart to help you with lunar phases. From this point forward we will run all time frames on both a lunar, as well as a standard calendar. I know technically, these murders don't appear to be lunar phase killings, but it has been my experience that the moon exerts a powerful psychological pull on abnormal psyches and that most irrational acts have metaphysical constructs.'
Right out of Manhunter. Sometimes I'm so good at reading assholes, I surprise myself.
'Using the moon as well as a conventional calendar could yield insights,' he finished. 'Are we all square on this?'
A few cops nodded but most were looking down, not engaging his eyes.
