Bleeding Out

legs rested demurely side by side on the first row, arms carefully crossed in her lap. A small pool of blood had seeped out from under the girl's buttocks, and Frank quickly noted the absence of bruising below the knees or around the face. Frank stared into her dull eyes, wondering what was the last thing she saw.

The posing was a twist, but Frank knew it was him.

You've really gone all out this time, haven't you? Did you stick around to admire your handiwork?

She scanned the people on the edge of the tape. The news crew was standing around, bored and distracted because they couldn't get a good shot until the body was covered and pulled out. The cops were hanging out by one of the units, talking to each other. Not one of them was talking to the handful of gawkers.

Frank carefully retraced her steps. Addressing two of the cops from their name tags, she told one to start a scene log and the other to check for witnesses. She questioned the responding cop, who said the call came in anonymously. There was no one on or around the scene when they'd arrived.

Inside, Frank grinned wickedly, glad this was going to be RHD's nightmare. She glanced at her watch, wondering how much time she had left before the real detectives arrived. She decided to risk one more glance at the body and peered under the sheet. Just as she picked something off the body a man behind her asked, 'Franco! What the hell are you doing here?'

Frank turned with a slight smile and a handshake for the Southwest detectives. The detective who'd greeted her was a small man in rumpled, mismatched trousers and blazer. His name was Mark Cherry, and his partner, who was half his age and twice his size, was Aidan Gerber.

'Hey. You should be thanking me. Before I got here all those shit-for-brains were walking around in here like they were looking for a contact lens.'

'Okay, thanks,' Cherry said. 'Now what the hell are you doing here? And weren't you in that OIS?'

She repeated her jogging story. Cherry looked under the sheet and whistled. Gerber remained mute. Come to think of it, Frank didn't know if she'd ever heard him talk.

'She took a lickin' and stopped tickin',' Cherry mused. Gerber was writing in a notebook. Frank decided she'd better leave while she could.

'Good luck,' she said to Cherry. He broke away from his study of the body to look skeptically at Frank. Off- duty detectives didn't just show up at scenes for the hell of it. Frank tried to ease past Sally, but the reporter sidled over to Frank, asking, 'Can you at least give me a description of the body?'

'A young female,' she answered. 'I'm sure Cherry will tell you more. Or Gerber. Hey, does he ever talk?'

'I don't think so,' Sally grinned.

Frank was feeling particularly benevolent and she wished Sally luck, too.

'Lieutenant?'

Frank was just about in her car. She turned, guardedly.

'You're still Relieved of Duty, aren't you?'

Frank nodded, wondering if there was anybody in L.A. who didn't know about her suspension.

'Do you think we could arrange an interview to talk about the shooting, I mean, your role in it and how you felt? We'd approach it unofficially, a human drama type of work.'

Oh, sure, Frank thought, that's what I want—my human drama broadcast to a couple million people.

'Sally, I'm sure you know whenever there's an officer-involved shooting, there's an investigation. While that investigation is underway I'm not at liberty to discuss the incident one way or another.'

'You've suddenly slipped back into cop-talk on me, Lieutenant.'

'Maybe we can set something up after this is all cleared up,' Frank appeased.

'I'll hold you to it.'

With a brief and charming smile, Frank said, 'I don't doubt that for an instant.'

Having made her successful getaway, Frank stopped at a diner to think and make some notes while the scene was still fresh in her head. A young man, Pakistani she guessed, poured coffee and took her order. While she was jotting notes, four tattooed cholos sauntered in and took seats at the counter. Her peripheral vision saw one of them swivel in her direction and say, 'Pow, pow. Look at the placa.'

Frank ignored him. Duly noting the obvious similarities between the cases, what was intriguing her was the body's placement on the football field. She couldn't have asked for a better tie-in to her latest theory. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to get her body onto the bleachers. Frank hadn't seen any drag evidence on or around the body, so he must have carried her.

You wrapped her up and carried her.

Frank stared at the small piece of fuzz she'd taken off the body. They'd been all over. Frank was sure they belonged to a blanket. She squinted at the fiber. It looked blue. That wasn't much help in finding their boy right now, but it might help later.

You wrapped her up in a blue blanket and carried her around a high school on the corner of two main drags.

Remembering the morning's fog, Frank wondered if he'd deliberately used it for concealment. Still, it was a huge risk. The guy must be confident of his physical prowess and his surroundings. He knew exactly what he was doing. There was nothing accidental about this dump. Very calculated, premeditated, and dangerous. It was important for him—a big jump. The others were just practice, like the rapes had been practice before the murders.

Frank's ham and eggs came, but she just picked at them. She stared out the barred window, the cholos dimly reflected against the dull dawn.

And why'd you choose Dorsey for this big event?

Did he work there? Had he gone to school there, played football there? Because this last move was so bold, she felt the school was important to him. Frank was helpless without her badge, but she'd do what she could over the phone. Later she could use Noah to get them into Dorsey's records. Hopefully she'd beat RHD there. Even if she didn't, they probably wouldn't check into the athletic records right away, and Frank felt that was the place to start digging. She was sure their boy had gone to school somewhere nearby. Given his affinity for the area, it just made sense. Sooner or later he had to pop up in the system.

The cholos had finished eating and were leaving. The one with the big mouth stopped at her booth, saying, 'Hey, Blondie.'

When Frank looked up, he leaned in and flashed his sign, hissing, 'Rifamos.'

She nodded unconcernedly, keeping her mouth shut as she thought, Yeah, yeah. You rule this shit heap. Keep walking, Essay, or I'll rule your asshole with a .38.

Frank watched them pile into a Chevy and peel out into Vernon's building traffic. Her thoughts went right back to Dorsey. The posing fascinated her. She was sure it was critical.

Did you want her to be seen, like a trophy, or was she there to see you? You posed her like a spectator, but for you or for someone else?

The girl hadn't rigored yet, so she couldn't have been there for long. If he'd wanted her to see him, to watch him, he'd have given himself more time with her. It was more likely that he'd placed her there for someone else. Who?

Frank envisioned herself on the field in uniform, the noise of the crowd, clapping, calls, whistles.

Who's watching me? The coach? Family? Friends? The other players? Who am I trying to impress? Girls? Do they laugh at me? Am I shy, ugly, stupid?

Frank didn't get any feeling that the vie had been posed for a female to see. It was a masculine setting. Players and coaching staff would be the most likely to see her there, and grounds crews, too. The girls were symbols. Props.

I'm just using them...to show somebody something. What? What do I want to show you? And who are you? I'm obviously proving I'm capable, I'm in control. I'm saying, 'Look at me! Look what I've done!' Who'd be here that I had to prove something to?

Frank stared at her half-finished plate, wondering if the show was for his peers. Not likely, because that would encompass his whole school experience. He was focusing on or around the gridiron. She narrowed his audience to either teammates or a coach.