Bleeding Out

served a number of purposes: one, if Wyche really was innocent, it was a genuine apology to a citizen they were paid to protect. Two, lawsuits against the department were routine. Innocent or not, they didn't want Wyche going home pissed off. But most importantly, if Wyche was involved with the murder of either girl, he'd think he had the cops fooled and sooner or later he'd start bragging about it.

The squad room hummed with activity, but in her office Frank quietly sipped coffee while she reviewed Peterson's preliminary autopsy report. The bruising was nearly identical to Agoura's and of indeterminate origin. Peterson's nose, left clavicle, and the second and third fingers of her right hand were fractured. She'd been anally assaulted with no other evidence of sexual assault. This time, instead of an elderberry branch, the perp had used something resembling a yellow broom or mop handle.

Along the path of insertion, Crocetti's eyes had found minuscule fragments of yellow paint that had been sent to the lab for analysis. The trajectory of the path was similar to Agoura's, indicating a left-handed assaulter. Like Agoura, Peterson had bled to death slowly enough to know she was dying. Several major organs had been shredded, and again the perp had rammed his victim hard enough to pierce a lung. The coroner's team had found fibers similar to Agoura's, as well as what appeared to be blue nylon fibers and additional short brown hairs. They were on their way to the lab with the paint frags and tox samples.

The prints from the shooting gallery had come back with a lot of partials and unknowns, offering only two solid leads. Later in the day, Frank and Noah found one of them at a corner mart a block away from the high school. She was a nineteen-year-old black female, a strawberry. She was chain-smoking Kools, searching for someone to blow for a hit off a crack pipe. They worked her for about an hour, but she was useless and barely able to stay in her skin. Next they chased down a seventeen-year-old black male. Noah knew him. He had a crook in his nose and hustled ass, so everyone called him Hooker. He insisted he hadn't been in the gallery the night Jennifer Peterson died. Noah assured him they didn't want anyone in the shooting gallery for criminal charges.

'We're just looking for witnesses, and it ain't a gang thing. In fact, it's probably a white guy dumpin' his shit in your 'hood, makin' it look like somebody inside's doin' it. You'd like to see that mother caught, wouldn't you?'

'Be alright wit me,' Hooker answered noncommittally.

'Besides, if you cooperate now, maybe we could cut you some slack later on down the line.'

'Right,' he said, disbelief written all over his face.

'I'm straight up with you, my man, I ain't lyin'.'

'Ain't yo man.'

'Look,' Frank broke in, 'even if you weren't there, just give us some names, tell us who shoots there regularly.'

Through the GREAT sheet that the LAPD gang details generated, they'd already made a list of Hooker's homies. Noah spat them out.

'Does Dr. Dread hang there, or Little-Kool or maybe T-Square?'

At first Hooker looked surprised, then confused, and finally resigned.

'Sometime,' he said, and supplied the detectives with the names of over a dozen junkies and crackheads.

It would take weeks for Frank and Noah to contact all the leads, but so far no one would admit to seeing anything the night Peterson's body had been dumped at Carver. And no sound of crowing from Randy Wyche, either.

Using the major incident list Noah had compiled from in and around the rec area, Frank had found some two dozen rapes and eight murders that might match their perp's MO and time frame. She spent Saturday morning poring through four of the thick rape folders. She discounted the first case because the rape victim was older, knew her attacker, and hadn't been raped anally. The second case was a woman who hadn't seen her assailant even though he'd talked to her, growling obscenities and directions while holding a gun to her neck. After careful consideration Frank put the folder in the reject pile in spite of the fact that the victim had been anally raped.

The next two cases had a lot of similarities. Both victims had been young teenagers, neither had seen their assailants, but they reported he was 'strong' and 'big' and hadn't said a word to either girl. After examining photographs, diagrams, victim statements, police reports, and hospital reports, Frank put the two folders in a 'keeper' pile.

Pleased, she tipped back on the rear legs of the dining room chair and ran her fingers roughly through her hair. She watched the rain pissing down furiously on the other side of the sliding glass doors; it was the first good storm of the season. Gough'd be happy. So would Ike and Diego. They were on call, and good weather lent itself more readily to homicides than bad, so hopefully they'd have a quiet weekend. She thought about calling Noah but hated bugging him at home. Instead, she changed out of her sweats and headed down to the Alibi. Maybe Johnnie'd be around, and if not, at least Nancy could serve her a brew and a burger. But to Frank's surprise, neither of them were there. She straddled a seat at the bar, quickly dousing a tiny flicker of disappointment, and asked Mel where Nancy was.

'Called in sick. Got that damn flu everybody's down with. Stout?'

Frank nodded and ordered the hamburger.

'How's the dead body business?' Mel asked, wiping a slip of foam off her mug.

'Better than yours,' she replied looking around.

'God, isn't that the truth. It's the rain. Keeps people home.'

'Guess so.'

Frank gazed onto the grimy, wet street, glad to be inside and dry. A gas fire glowed in the hearth opposite the entrance and cast warm light on the bar's dark wood. All the lights were on, and behind the jeweled bottles a huge mirror reflected them back.

'That's a damn shame 'bout all those dead girls, huh?'

'It's a shame, alright.'

'You think it's the same guy?'

'Mel, how long have I been coming here?'

'A long time, Frank.'

She nodded. 'And have I ever discussed an open case with you?'

Mel shook his head, laughing. 'And have I never not asked?'

Frank smiled softly, sucking the dark beer through its creamy foam, eyeing the football game playing over her head.

'Who's winning?'

'Trojans, six to three.'

'Sounds like a baseball score,' she noted, glancing back down at the jeweled mirror. Johnnie was jogging outside the barred window, head tucked into his jacket against the rain. He ran inside, shaking himself out of his wet coat like a dog.

'Goddamn, it's cold!' he bellowed, pulling out the stool next to Frank's. 'Mel! Hit me with a whiskey beer back,' he ordered, his voice husky.

They discussed the day's college games while Mel poured. Then Mel drifted toward the other end of the bar to take care of two uniforms Frank recognized. Johnnie said, 'Heard Fubar reamed you a new asshole yesterday.'

Johnnie was talking about a newscast the mayor had heard where the anchor claimed LAPD sources confirmed Agoura's and Peterson's murderers were, indeed, the same person. He'd gone on to make some other erroneous claims, and the mayor had called Foubarelle in a tizzy to find out why he hadn't been told about this first. The captain, in turn, flew into the squad room, fed up with always having to ask for information, and shot at Frank with both barrels. When he'd finished his tirade, Frank had tactfully pointed out that had any of what the newscaster said been true, she personally would have informed her boss right away.

Frank hissed, 'Shit,' and wagged her head in disgust. 'What I wouldn't give to see that squint on the street for a couple years.'

'They're givin' us some heat, huh?'

'Yeah. You know if those girls were black or Mexican and dumped in Beverly Hills or Westwood, the press wouldn't even have slowed down as they passed by on their way to a 'real' story.'

Johnnie shrugged, licking foam delicately off his lip.