LA Requiem

I trotted down to Dolan. 'Looks like the gang's all here.'

Dersh saw us looking at him, recognized me, and waved.

I waved back.

At a quarter after ten, four LAPD motorcycles escorted the hearse through the main gate. Three gleaming black limos followed, trailing a line of cars that had been waxed and buffed until they glittered with bits of the sun. Dersh watched them come, a kind of benign curiosity on his face.

When the line of cars reached us, a dozen people who looked like family members emerged from the limos. The driver of the lead car took Frank's wheelchair from the trunk as Joe and another man helped Frank out. Joe was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit. The dark glasses made him look like a Secret Service agent, but since this was L.A., everyone was wearing sunglasses. Even the priest.

Councilman Maldenado and Abbot Montoya climbed out of the last limo. Bishop and Krantz and Assistant Chief Mills squeezed out of the sixth car, and hurried to fall in behind the councilman. Anxious to protect and to serve him, I guess.

Dolan and I were walking over when Krantz and Bishop saw us. 'What in hell are you doing here with Cole?'

Dolan pointed at Dersh.

Krantz and Bishop turned and saw Dersh looking back. Dersh smiled broadly and waved.

Krantz said, 'Holy shit!'

Bishop nudged Krantz. 'Wave back, goddamnit, before he suspects something.'

They waved back.

Bishop said, 'Smile!'

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Krantz smiled.

Joe had pushed Frank most of the way up the hill when a news van from one of the local network affiliates tore through the gate. Vans from a second network affiliate and then Lucy's station barreled through ten seconds behind it, braking hard alongside the hearse. Their microwave dishes extended even as camera operators and on-air reporters jumped out.

Dolan said, 'This can't be good.'

Dolan and I walked faster, Krantz and Bishop after us.

The three reporters hurried toward Frank, two of them with radio mikes and one without.

I said, 'Wake up, Bishop. Have the uniforms keep those people away.'

Dolan and I put ourselves between Frank and the reporters as Krantz ran for the motorcycle cops. A good-looking red-haired woman leaned past me, reaching for Frank with her microphone. 'Mr. Garcia, have the police made any progress in catching the serial killer?'

Bishop said, 'Oh, shit.'

A tall African-American reporter who had played professional football tried to press between me and one of the uniforms, but neither of us gave ground. 'Mr. Garcia, do you believe a man named Eugene Dersh killed your daughter, and, if so, sir, why?'

Bishop jerked at Krantz's arm, his voice a panicked whisper. 'How in hell did these bastards find out?'

Behind us, Frank Garcia said, 'What is this? What are they talking about, serial killer? Who's this man, Dersh?'

Councilman Maldenado stepped forward, trying to turn the press away. 'Please. His child is about to be buried.'

Eugene Dersh had come to the edge of the growing crowd, too far away to hear, but curious like everyone else.

The redhead's camera operator saw Dersh and punched her in the back. He didn't tap her; he punched her. 'Sonofabitch! That's Dersh'

She shoved the black reporter out of the way and ran toward

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Dersh. The black reporter ran after her. Dersh looked as surprised and confused as everyone else.

Frank Garcia tried to see Dersh, but since he was in the chair, people blocked his view. 'Who is that?' He twisted around to Maldenado. 'Henry, do they know who killed Karen? Did that man kill Karen ? '

Up the hill, Dersh was afraid and embarrassed as the two reporters barked questions. The mourners around the grave heard the reporters with Dersh, and began to murmur and stare.

The final reporter was an Asian-American woman who stayed with Frank. 'There were others, Mr. Garcia. Haven't the police told you? Five people have been murdered. Karen was the fifth.' The reporter glanced from Frank to Maldenado, then back to Frank. 'Some maniac has been hunting human beings here in Los Angeles for the past nineteen months.' You could see she liked saying it because of how the words would play on the news. She pointed at Dersh. 'The police suspect that man. Eugene Dersh.'

Frank lurched higher in his chair, craning to see Dersh. 'That man killed Karen? That sonofabitch murdered my daughter?'

Maldenado shouldered in and forced the Asian-American reporter away. 'This isn't the time. I'll make a statement, but not now. Let this man bury his daughter.'

Above us, Eugene Dersh pushed past the two reporters, walking fast back down the hill to his car. They dogged him, peppering him with questions as their cameras recorded it. Dersh would be able to see himself on the news again, though he probably wouldn't be as happy about it this time.

Frank's face was the color of dried blood. He bobbed in his chair, wrestling the wheels to try to chase after Dersh. 'Is that him? Is that the sonofabitch? '

Dersh climbed into his car, the reporters still shouting their questions. His voice carried in the still air, high and frightened. 'What are you talking about? I didn't kill anyone. I just found her body.'

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Frank screamed, '/'// kill you!'

He twisted so hard that he pitched forward, falling out of the chair. His family gasped and two of the women made sharp sounds. Pike, Montoya, and several of the family clustered around him, Pike lifting the old man back into the chair as if he weighed nothing.

Dersh drove away, and when he sped through the gate, the two plainclothes cars quietly fell in behind him.

The priest told Frank's brothers to get the family seated as quickly as possible. Everyone was embarrassed and uncomfortable, and Frank's housekeeper cried loudly, but the crowd settled as the pallbearers gathered at the hearse. I tried to find Dolan, but she had joined Mills, Bishop, and Krantz in a frantic conversation at the edge of the crowd. Krantz saw me, and stormed over. 'You and your buddy, Pike, get your butts to Parker Center as soon as she's in the ground. We're fuckin'-A gonna figure out what happened here.' He walked away fast.

The climbing sun became a hot torch in the sky as the family took their seats, and the pallbearers delivered Karen's body to its grave. Heat soaked into my shoulders and face until I could feel the delicate tickle of sweat running out of my hair. Around me, a few people cried, but most simply stared, lost in a moment that was both sad and unsettling.

The three news cameras stood in a line below us, recording Karen Garcia's burial.

They looked like a firing squad.

17

News vans lined Los Angeles Street outside Parker Center. Reporters and technicians milled nervously on the sidewalk, clustering around every cop who came out to grab a cigarette like piranha on bad meat. The city didn't allow smoking in its buildings, so addicted officers had to sneak butts in the stairwells and bathrooms, or come