The Kill Clause Part 21

"What'd you tell her?"

"What do you think I told her? That she was being a f.u.c.king idiot, that she should have swallowed her pride and called you, like you should have swallowed your pride and called her." Bear took no note of the glances from neighboring tables. He shook his head, disgusted. "You're both stubborn, spiteful people who will die alone."

Tim continued to work the chopsticks back and forth, harder. "We decided we needed to take a little time off. We were tangling up in each other."

"Have you really not seen her in five days?"

Tim felt a sudden heat in his cheeks. He took a sip of water, got a mouthful of lemon. "That doesn't mean I don't love her."

The waiter came up, and Bear ordered quickly for both of them without looking at the menu, naming the spicy shrimp simmered in sake, crab cakes, and seven-spice mussels. He'd been coming here more than once every few months, that was clear. Probably taking the occasional date.

When the waiter left, Bear fixed Tim with an apologetic stare. "Look, I'm just saying you should call her. You need each other. And she needs you-that house went from full to empty in a hurry. Can't really blame her for wanting someone around in the wake of all this, even if it is Mac sleeping on the couch. And while we're at it, when are you coming back to work?"

Tim looked up, surprised. "I'm not coming back, Bear. You know that."

"Tannino's wondering why he's having so much trouble reaching you. He's pulled me into his office twice this week to make clear he hasn't accepted your resignation."

"He doesn't have a choice."

"What are you doing, Rack? What are you up to?"

"Nothing. I'm just dealing with things on my own for a while."

For the first time Tim could remember, he didn't recognize the look in Bear's eyes. "Let me add to the list of things that I will make my business. You can't embarra.s.s me. Not as your partner. And you can't embarra.s.s the service." Bear leaned back, crossed his arms. "I know you're up to something. I don't know what, but I'll figure it out if I want to."

"You're overreacting. There's nothing going on."

"I thought you said you didn't have a phone." Bear's voice was firm, driving. "So what was the bulge in your pocket when you hugged me? It hasn't been that that long." long."

Tim had instinctively grabbed his cell phones so as not to leave them unattended in the car with the valets. An unforgivable oversight. "Picked it up this morning. 323-471-1213. Don't give the number to anyone."

"Why all the cloak-and-dagger?"

"There's still a lot of fallout from the shooting, media hounding me, so I'd just as soon stay under for a while."

"Really? I haven't seen anything lately. Everyone's whipped up about the Lane a.s.sa.s.sination now. You hear about the guy who pulled that off? They're snake eyes on leads-guy must have been an ice-cold professional." He shook his head. "Cranium ventilation. They always can find a new trick."

Tim shrugged. "It's not so bad. One less mutt on the street."

Bear's forehead furrowed into a wrinkled pane.

Tim looked down, played with his straw. An emotion rippled through him that took him a moment to identify. Shame. He realized he was giving off nervous energy, so he dropped the straw, placed his hands on his knees.

Bear pointed at him with a chopstick. "Don't let Ginny's death eat you away. Don't let it corrupt you. There's enough ignorance out there. The one person I don't expect it from is you."

The waiter arrived with their food, and they ate in silence.

*A funeral procession pa.s.sed by while Tim idled at the stoplight at Franklin and Highland. The hea.r.s.e led, somber and dignified, and a convoy of rain-polished cars followed-Toyotas, Hondas, and the obligatory drove of SUVs. Seized by an impulse, Tim pulled out behind the last car and followed the line of vehicles to the Hollywood Forever Memorial Park. He parked a block and a half away. By the time he'd made his way through the solemn front gate and over the first gra.s.sy hill, the ceremony was under way.

He watched from a distance, the mourners arrayed in black and gray, diminutive like figurines. When the sun managed to knife through the smog, Tim donned sungla.s.ses to cut the glare. The presumed widower shovel-turned a scattering of rocks and dirt into the open grave, and, despite the distance, Tim could hear it patter on the unseen casket. The man collapsed to a knee, and two young men stepped forward quickly, chagrined, to help him up. He managed as best he could, a patch of mud weighing down his wind-flickering trouser leg, the sun glimmering off his cheeks.

A murder of crows swept in and blanketed an overlooking sycamore, where they looked on, sleek and inauspicious. Tim waited several minutes for the birds to depart, but they didn't, so finally he turned his back and headed down the too-green slope toward his car.

21.

"...KCOM'S HAVING A field day, with around-the-clock updates and polls. On Hardball Hardball, Chris Matthews hosted Dershowitz, two senators, and Mayor Hahn for a roundtable discussion, and a particularly vivid argument brewed on Donahue Donahue yesterday morning during a segment t.i.tled, 'The Lane Slaying: Terrorism or Justice?'" yesterday morning during a segment t.i.tled, 'The Lane Slaying: Terrorism or Justice?'"

Rayner shuffled through his sheaf of notes while the others sat in varying degrees of attentiveness around the table, waiting for his media recap to conclude. Like mirrored objects, Robert and Mitch.e.l.l sat on either side of the table, each shoved back in his chair, each with his legs loosely crossed, sneaker resting on opposite knee. Their languid postures suggested boredom; at last an attribute they shared with Ananberg. The Stork listened intently-Tim noted he had a tendency to blink frequently when concentrating-and Dumone, leaning back in his chair, statue-still, hands laced across his stomach, took it all in with a silent, almost magnanimous patience.

Rayner at last reached the final page of his report. "The footage of the execution is making the rounds on the Internet via a chain e-mail with an mpeg attachment-it's the topic of choice in a wide range of chat rooms. A family-values activist appearing on Oprah Oprah this afternoon expressed concern about the impact the footage has had on children. She drew a comparison to the this afternoon expressed concern about the impact the footage has had on children. She drew a comparison to the Challenger Challenger exploding on live TV or the planes. .h.i.tting the World Trade Center." exploding on live TV or the planes. .h.i.tting the World Trade Center."

"Except those were regrettable regrettable events," Robert said. events," Robert said.

Mitch.e.l.l's grin flashed beneath his thick mustache. "It's adult content, all right."

"And now the big news," Dumone said. "I have it on good authority that LAPD recovered an undisclosed amount of sarin nerve gas in the trunk of Lane's car. In a canister prepped for aerosol delivery. A briefcase in the pa.s.senger seat contained diagrams of KCOM's air-conditioning system, with the ducts labeled based on ease of accessibility. It seems not unlikely that Lane was planning on leaving a little gift for the government-controlled leftist media on his way back into hiding."

"Why hasn't that information been made public?" Tim asked.

"Because it shows LAPD's a.s.s. Particularly after September 11, intel and enforcement communities aren't rus.h.i.+ng to the public to point out their oversights and blind spots. Especially regarding a suspect who's so obvious. Another atrocity was avoided only because of dumb luck."

"And us," Robert added.

Rayner smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. "The public knows nothing about that, but still the polls are overwhelmingly in our favor."

"We didn't do this for the polls," Tim said, but Rayner didn't appear to hear.

"Three morning talk shows over the past two days featured call-ins regarding variations of the same question: Was Lane's a.s.sa.s.sination an undesirable event? 'No' scored seventy-six, seventy-two, and sixty-six percent. The proper news shows' pedestrian interviews were fairly well split between tacit approvers and indignant citizens. A significant minority expressed their disgust that such a thing had occurred, regardless of the character of the victim. One commentator referred to it as 'p.o.r.nographic.'"

"How do you get all this stuff?" Mitch.e.l.l asked. "I don't see you watching TV twenty-four/seven."

"Media breakdowns on topics relevant to my research are faxed to me twice daily."

Ananberg ran her hands over her thighs, smoothing her skirt. She wore a striped dress s.h.i.+rt with well-starched cuffs, cut like a man's, which oddly made it more feminine, and a sweater arranged in a country-club loop just below her neck. The frames of her gla.s.ses peaked out at the top corners. "Grad students," she said. "The ultimate workhorses. And you don't even have to groom them."

"So far my sense of it is, no one knows what to make of us yet," Rayner said. "So I'd like to raise the obvious consideration at this point, one which I'm sure we've all given some thought to. Do we make our position-though not our ident.i.ties-public?"

"Absolutely not," Dumone said. "Too much of an operational risk."

"We want more from Lane's death than public euphoria. It may be more effective to take credit and explain how we arrived at the decision."

"I think it's cowardice not to," Ananberg said. "No responsible state-no ent.i.ty I respect or trust-commits secret executions. It was a public act. I say we leak some sort of communique that states how we determined his guilt. 'We citizens who have empowered ourselves thus, made the decision on the following evidence-'"

"We do not submit the defendant to the mob in this country," Dumone said. "Our judges and juries don't grovel for societal support. They make rulings."

Rayner said, "We could release some equivalent to the minutes-"

"Any sophisticated doc.u.ment would be laden with clues for the press and the authorities," Tim said.

"No," the Stork said. "No way we make a statement. Too great a risk."

"It's irresponsible not not to give the public our rationale," Rayner said. "Without it they're left with nothing but the aftermath of a lynching." to give the public our rationale," Rayner said. "Without it they're left with nothing but the aftermath of a lynching."

Dumone said, "Lane's death was all about restraint, precision, circ.u.mspection. The public will be able to distinguish it as an execution, not a hit."

"Who cares if it's distinguished?" Robert said.

"The difference," Dumone said sharply, "is everything."

Rayner said, "A communique would clarify matters precisely precisely."

"If you're with us, toot your car horns on your morning commute," Tim said.

"It wouldn't be that vulgar, Mr. Rackley. We're trying to force meaningful dialogue from a recalcitrant public here. How does society feel about criminals who get off through loopholes? Should the system be amended? Was Lane's execution justice?"

"Yes," Robert said.

Tim felt a familiar pull-instinctive resistance in the face of Robert's unequivocality.

"We know it. Anyone who studies the record knows it. That's good enough for me," Mitch.e.l.l said. "And those who don't get it now will will after the next execution. We'll soon establish a pattern. We don't need to turn over potentially d.a.m.ning evidence." after the next execution. We'll soon establish a pattern. We don't need to turn over potentially d.a.m.ning evidence."

"You're going to be in high demand, I'm sure, for talking-head appearances," Dumone said to Rayner. "And, if you'd like, you can always steer conversation in the appropriate direction. Keep dialogue on track-without giving anything up. But we're not exposing ourselves at this stage. We can revisit the issue later." giving anything up. But we're not exposing ourselves at this stage. We can revisit the issue later."

Ananberg leaned back in her chair, thin arms woven across her chest in an inadvertently prudish show of frustration. Rayner tilted his head, his expression one of concession.

Rayner's financial supremacy and facility with armchair social theory ostensibly put him in the driver's seat, but it was ever clearer that Dumone was the on-the-ground chief. When Rayner talked, the others listened; when Dumone spoke, they shut up.

"Can we get to voting?" Robert asked. "I didn't exactly come down here to talk about missives and Oprah f.u.c.kin' Win-"

Dumone fanned a flat hand, a gesture that was at once soothing and firm, and Robert cut off midsentence. Robert offered his brother a face-saving smirk as Rayner opened the safe and removed another binder from the stack. It hit the table with a slap.

"Mick Dobbins."

"Mickey the Molester?" Robert said. He shot Ananberg a look. "Listen, sugarbritches, Mickey the Alleged Alleged Molester just don't have the same ring." Molester just don't have the same ring."

Dumone held the binder before him in one hand like a psalm book, letting it fall open. "Groundskeeper at Venice Care for Kids. Indicted on eight counts of lewd acts with a child, one count of murder one. Before the incidents, he was beloved by kids and staff." He pa.s.sed the detective progress reports to Tim. "IQ seventy-six."

"Does that preclude capital punishment right off the bat?" Tim asked.

Ananberg shook her head. "Two independent psychiatric evaluations failed to cla.s.sify him as mentally r.e.t.a.r.ded. I guess it doesn't just come down to IQ, it has to do with level of functioning and other stuff."

The remainder of the papers were segmented and pa.s.sed around the table.

"Seven girls, ages four to five, claimed they were molested by him," Dumone said.

"How?" Tim asked.

"Genital and a.n.a.l touching. Some digital insertion. One girl claimed to have been sodomized with a pen."

"Intercourse?"

"No." Dumone shuffled through the pages, glancing at the lab results.

"How's this a capital case?" Ananberg asked.

"Peggie Knoll was admitted to the hospital with high fever, shaking chills. Evidently it was a bladder infection-by the time they caught it, it had turned into a kidney infection. She died of"-he flipped open the hospital report-"overwhelming urosepsis."

"Did they do a rape kit?"

"No. Knoll never claimed to have been molested. It wasn't until after her death that the seven girls came forth, said they and Knoll were molested, put Knoll's molest a few days prior to her hospitalization. The DA backtracked-paraded out a few expert witnesses who said if a molest-especially a.n.a.l-v.a.g.i.n.al-occurred in that time frame, it was a proximate cause of the bladder infection."

"How did Dobbins get off?" the Stork asked. He blushed deeply, hiding his face by sliding his gla.s.ses farther up his nose. "The trial, I mean."

"The jury found him guilty, but the judge was underwhelmed with the merits and threw the case out for insufficiency of evidence."

"They're overturning juries now," Robert said with disgust.

"There was a decided lack of physical evidence," Dumone said. "Nothing in Knoll's medical records. The search of Dobbins's apartment turned up nothing. The case detective noted a stack of p.o.r.nography in a bathroom cabinet. Several issues of the magazine Barely Legal. Barely Legal."

"I know it well," Ananberg said. Six sets of eyes fastened on her. Mitch.e.l.l looked distinctly annoyed; Tim alone wore a half smile.

"p.o.r.nography don't mean s.h.i.+t," Robert said. "What else? What about the medical reports on the other girls?"

The Stork raised his hand, his eyes, s.h.i.+ny through his gla.s.ses, focused on the sheet in front of him. "Medical examinations were inconclusive. No tearing, no scarring, no bruising, no bleeding, no trauma a.s.sociated with penetration."

"But penetration was just digital," Mitch.e.l.l said. "That would cause less trauma."

"On a five-year-old girl, something would still be detectable," Ananberg said.

"How long after the alleged molestation were the girls examined?" Tim asked.

The Stork flipped a sheet over. "Two weeks."

"Plenty of healing time."

"Especially if there were just superficial tears or light bruising," Mitch.e.l.l added.

"No DNA, no nothing?" Ananberg asked. "Anywhere?"