beside the Jeep. “Hey!” I yelled at the Australian shepherd mix.
The dog glanced up, took another guilty lap with his tongue, and trotted out the open door. Curious, I reentered the garage and inspected the spot the dog had been licking. A faint green stain marked the concrete near the oil drips I had noted earlier. Radiator coolant, I thought, recognizing the fluorescent color and remembering that the yellowish-green fluid tasted sweet, resulting in numerous dog poisonings each year. Deciding to close the garage to prevent further intrusion, I again used my pen to push the garage-door button. After waiting for the motor to cycle and reconnect the manual release I’d disengaged, I tripped the button anew. The garage went dark as the door thumped shut. Stepping into the house through the laundry room door, I noted absently that the service light on the door-opener was out.
I found Tremmel in the laundry room kneeling beside the bunny cage. “Rabbit people, eh?” the criminalist said, glancing up as I entered.
“Huh?”
“Rabbit people. My sister-in-law’s one. There’s a whole community of them. Pedigree bunnies, breeders, rabbit shows. My sister lets her lop roam around the house. Damn thing uses a litter box, just like a cat.”
“I found this one thumpin’ around the living room,” I said. “Nearly had to change my skivvies after that little encounter.”
Tremmel smiled. “Killer bunny attacks cop?”
“Something like that,” I admitted sheepishly. “Anytime you’re ready, Frank.”
Tremmel rose to his feet. “Okay,” he sighed. “Let’s do it.”
I spent the next several hours supervising the crime team-making decisions concerning which parts of the house to examine, what material to gather, and what avenues of investigation might prove fruitful. During this time I also gathered a number of the victims’ personal items: phone records from the kitchen alcove, a small vial of white powder and a packet of letters from the master bedroom dresser, and an address book, letters, and bills from a desk in the den. These would be booked into evidence as soon as I obtained a computer generated “DR” number, then later returned-with the exception of the vial, if it turned out to be cocaine-to the estate once the case was closed.
Given the situation, I realized that my first line of inquiry would be based on the premise that the killer knew his victims, at least to some extent. I also realized that no matter how thorough my search, all forensic evidence now being gathered would probably prove useless until we had a suspect. Aside from a close scrutiny of friends and family, the most likely way to obtain said suspect was through an informant or via a confession that could be corroborated with physical evidence. My instinct told me neither would be forthcoming.
Art Walters, the coroner’s investigator, arrived at a little after noon. A man and woman from the sexual- assault unit accompanied him. After a brief consultation, I led the new group to the master bedroom. By then the SID team had finished, and the room displayed a patina of ferric oxide on any object the killer might have touched, along with numbered stickers designating the locations of fluid and fiber samples taken throughout the area.
Normally an ample repository of gallows humor, even Walters fell silent as he inspected the bodies. Both assault-unit officers stood to one side, awaiting their turn. Five minutes into it I noticed the male member of the assault team turning green. “Why don’t you and your partner go grab some air?” I suggested. “We’ll call when we’re ready. No sense making you guys wait around.”
“Thanks.” The man smiled weakly and headed for the stairs. The woman stayed, shooting me a look that said if I could take it, so could she.
For the next hour I remained at Walter’s side as the bodies were uncovered, examined, and turned. The man’s hands and feet were found bound with plastic ties. Additional teeth marks became visible on the woman’s shoulders and buttocks. Saliva swabs were taken, blood and fibers gathered and labeled, wounds counted and recorded. Throughout each exam, the photo technician took shots from various angles.
At one point Walters noted the fingernail cuts on Susan Larson’s palms. “Son of a bitch probably did most of this while she was still alive.”
“That’s how I figured it,” I said.
“Think it’s the same psycho who killed that family in Mission Viejo?”
“That’s the second time someone’s asked me that.”
“And?”
“I didn’t hear much about it.”
“Damn, Kane, don’t you read the papers?”
“Just the sports page.”
“Hmmm. Had you figured for the funnies.” Walters glanced around the room. “Same m.o.-bites, knife wounds, candles. They didn’t mention the eyelids on the news, though.”
“If it’s the same guy, Orange County probably held back that detail.”
“Yeah.”
Falling silent once more, Walters pulled a PERK-physical evidence recovery kit-from his briefcase and proceeded to take scrapings and fingernail clippings from Susan Larson’s left hand. After marking the evidence, he slipped a paper sack over her hand and taped the bag shut. Following the same procedure, he did the other hand, then those of the husband and child. Next he moved on to the hair-sample section of the kit, using tweezers to pluck comparison hairs from different areas of each victim’s head, arms, legs, and pubis.
When Walters was finished with the woman, the assault team moved in, procuring pubic combings and oral, vaginal, and anal swabs. At my direction they gathered similar materials from the husband and son.
Two hours after arriving, Walters removed his gloves and signaled he was finished. Attendants from the morgue had arrived and were waiting on the street. I thought carefully, ensuring I hadn’t forgotten anything. I made a mental note to have the SID unit take the bed sheets once the bodies had been removed. I also reminded Walters that I wanted comparison fingerprints rolled on each victim, as well as impressions taken of the bite lesions. He assured me it would be done.
Afterward I stood at a window in the upper hallway, gazing out at the foggy street below. Three more TV newswagons had arrived, along with the usual assortment of newspaper reporters. I watched as the remains of Charles, Susan, and Spencer Larson-wrapped in clean white sheets and strapped to gurneys-were wheeled across the asphalt. After a long moment, I headed downstairs.
Time to talk to the media.
4
Later that evening I pulled into an underground parking garage beneath the Los Angeles Music Center. I handed the attendant a twenty, receiving a parking stub and a disappointing handful of change in return. Flipping the stub onto the dashboard, I turned down a maze of ramps, tires squealing on the slick concrete. Four levels down I pulled into an empty slot and shut off the engine.
After leaving the Pacific Palisades crime scene, I had made a quick stop at Arnie’s to shower and change, then driven to the West Los Angeles police station. Working through the remainder of the afternoon, I had filled out death reports on the Larson family, completed preliminary entries in the crime report, and updated my notes. As much as I like my job, I hate doing paperwork, but it’s a necessary aspect of any police investigation, and over the years I’ve found that putting it off just makes things worse.
Now, as I climbed from the Suburban, I made a determined effort to push earlier events of the day from my mind. Nevertheless, the sobering thought kept recurring that, in all my years on the force, the savagery of the Larson family’s murder was something I had never before encountered. I’ve seen a lot of terrible things people can do to one other, but what happened to the Larsons was cruel beyond measure. At this point, except for the obvious, I didn’t have a feel for what had happened in that house. Despite my attempts at compartmentalization, I also realized from past experience that I would keep gnawing on pieces of the puzzle until I did. Two things I already knew: I wanted to find the monster who’d done it. And whoever he was, he didn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as the rest of us.
Minutes later, an escalator deposited me on a broad terrace above the street. There are many ugly places in Los Angeles, but there are plenty of beautiful places too, and this was one of them. Taking long strides, I
