Freezing jas-1 Read online

  Scott asked Weiss, ‘What’d you see when you put up the rappelling line?’

  ‘The body parts look like they were thrown down from above. Maybe they’ve rolled a bit but I didn’t see signs that this was the dismemberment site.’ Weiss gestured an invitation to the Critter to his left, who was holding a stack of plastic photo markers with surgical-gloved hands.

  Lee nodded. ‘I haven’t seen anything beyond the immediate area where they’re dripping. And CHP kept their perimeter well wide of that. I wouldn’t go wider.’

  ‘All right,’ Scott said. ‘Let’s use their perimeter line and note that. But Lee, I want you to photo-doc outside the perimeter as well.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Scott headed back to the ravine. Eric walked briskly to catch up and fall into step beside him.

  ‘You told Quantico this might be related to the Georgia cases?’

  ‘Yes,’ Scott replied.

  ‘So . . .’

  ‘So, they’re not biting.’

  ‘Did you explain about the cuts?’

  Scott nodded.

  Eric continued. ‘I think you should climb up and take a look yourself.’

  Scott climbed over the wall in a swift movement and carried on toward the ravine. ‘I was about to do just that.’

  Jayne swore as she unlocked the door of the low-slung brick building while balancing two Styrofoam cups of coffee and the bag of donuts. She’d just registered how bright the sign above the door was: Agency 32/1, emphatically illuminated by both daylight and spotlight.

  The Agency wasn’t much to look at but it had a good view: the back-end of Dodger Stadium and surrounds – low hills of eucalyptus and oleander sectioned by midsummer’s nut-brown scrubland. If you left the stadium and went to the Agency as the crow flies, you’d cross the 5 Freeway, the Los Angeles River, the rail yards, and San Fernando Road before landing in the front parking lot. Just five spaces, two marked Reserved and three marked Visitor. One reserved space was home to Steelie’s Jeep, the other, Jayne’s old cream-colored Ford truck.

  ‘I forgot to turn off the lights earlier,’ Jayne called out to Steelie, who was approaching with their toolboxes.

  ‘The real question is –’ Steelie exchanged the boxes for the donut bag and peered inside with a practiced eye – ‘did you remember to get me a lemon-filled?’

  ‘Is today Tuesday?’

  They went into the building, Jayne crossing in front of the counter where their volunteer receptionist would sit when she arrived at 9 a.m. Carol was a retired grief counselor who claimed she would rather sit all day at the Agency than at home. She dealt with phone calls, incoming and outgoing mail, file creation, petty cash, tea, and the watering of the one plant: a big aloe named Fitzgerald.

  Jayne passed through the double doors just beyond reception to go into her office, aware of Steelie trotting past her other door, which opened to the hall and led to kitchen, bathroom, and laboratory. She sat down at her desk and swiveled her chair to switch on the computer to the left, the lamp in the center, pull a legal pad and pen from the right, and, from all the way behind her, pull one file out at random from the cabinets that flanked the wall. Every morning, she looked at one file fresh, with no muddle from the day and no emotional muddle with the file.

  The file: the missing person. Each 32/1 file described someone who had gone missing, but this wasn’t a missing person report. It was a family history, a story told by those who knew the missing person and remembered falls from first bike rides or someone’s favorite candy. Jayne and Steelie had translated those falls and candy into a database of healed fractures on bone and cavities in teeth, all in the hopes of identifying the 40,000 dead bodies that languished in coroners’ offices throughout the country. But Jayne didn’t start with data in the morning. This was about the stories, in case a fresh look made something jump out.

  The file she pulled today had a sleeve inside the front cover. In the sleeve were photographs: a smiling twenty-two year old. Jayne automatically zeroed-in on the teeth: left central incisor – tooth #9 – was slightly twisted. It gave the woman an earnest look and would help identify her if she was lying in the morgue, dead. Unable to say her name, her bones and teeth would speak for her. Jayne flipped to the dental chart at the back of the file just to check that #9’s mesial torsion was noted. It was.

  She was several pages into the transcript of the interview she’d conducted with the missing woman’s parents seven months earlier when she heard first the bells hanging from a string on the front door, then Carol’s crisp, ‘Morning all,’ which seemed to encompass not just Steelie and Jayne but the missing person files too.

  Jayne walked to her doorway to see the plump, white-haired woman putting her canvas bag on the front counter. ‘Thanks for coming in, Carol.’

  ‘It’s been nine months. You can stop thanking me.’ Carol waved her hand in dismissal.

  Steelie had arrived to greet Carol and Jayne turned back to her office, thinking about the grant applications for the Agency’s third year of funding, which included a modest salary for their receptionist. It was too late to adjust the requests for the second year and she hoped Carol would keep accepting lunch five days a week as some compensation. She picked up the transcript again.

  Steelie came to stand in front of her desk. ‘Which one have you got today?’

  ‘The girl from Tarzana.’ Jayne waited expectantly.

  Steelie put a finger to her lips, then pointed at the file. ‘Bulbous frontal, twisted front tooth, missing from her job at . . .Victoria’s Secret?’

  ‘Jesus. I don’t know how you do it. We’ve got a hundred case files and you can always remember details like that.’

  Steelie bowed as she walked backwards toward the hall.

  Jayne called after her, ‘Was it X-rays in the package that came yesterday?’

  Steelie nodded. ‘Just getting to them now.’

  A few minutes later, Steelie’s voice called out from the intercom on the desk telephone.

  Jayne activated the microphone. ‘Steelie, you can only be in one of two other rooms in this tiny building. Why are you using the intercom?’

  ‘Why did we buy phones with intercoms if not to use them?’

  As usual, she had a point. ‘OK, what is it?’

  ‘Can you come down to the lab? There’s something here you should see.’

  Jayne walked down the hall and turned into the last doorway on the right. Steelie was at the end of the room, at the base of a U formed by countertop on three sides. She was perched on a stool, looking at an X-ray clipped to the large wall-mounted light box, papers spread out on to the countertop below. Jayne came up to stand at the counter and looked at the film.

  It was a radiograph of a man’s head, taken from the left side. The bony parts were milky-white, as were the teeth, though the metallic fillings were bright white where the metal had blocked the light from passing through the X-ray film. Something else was stark white but in an unexpected place. Jayne leaned in, her eyes traveling above the eye sockets, perhaps between them; an inch or so back from the forehead. She turned to look at Steelie.

  ‘These are antemortem films, right?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘OK.’ Jayne paused. ‘So he’s got a bullet in his head.’

  ‘That’s what I came up with.’

  ‘What case is this?’

  ‘Thomas Cullen.’

  ‘From Twenty-nine Palms?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Well, I remember interviewing his folks. They didn’t mention that he had a bullet in his head.’ She turned to Steelie. ‘Are you thinking war wound or something?’

  ‘Too young for Vietnam, AWOL for Afghanistan and Iraq.’

  ‘What about Desert Storm?’

  Steelie swung back to the X-ray, pulling herself closer to the counter and pointing at the film with the eraser end of a pencil. ‘Actually, here’s what I’m thinking: from the angle of the bullet I’d say he shot himself through the roof of th
e mouth but he didn’t count on the ol’ sphenoid being there, let alone being so convoluted, and the bullet lodges. Pain associated with shot is numbed by shock at still being alive. Never even tells his family he tried it.’

  ‘Is there a shot of the maxillae?’

  ‘Not in this batch. I reckon the doc took these to see where the bullet was and determine if they were going to dig it out.’

  Jayne’s eyes widened. ‘They had to leave it.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘And it would make him identifiable as hell.’

  ‘Yep.’ Steelie was warming to the subject. ‘According to the file, Cullen’s parents only referred to a dentist, not a doctor, when they put in the missing person report. It wasn’t until they came to see us that they started to look for medical X-rays. Didn’t even think they’d find any. So . . . since the dental hasn’t made the match yet, I think we should put out an ACB.’

  An ACB was an All Coroners Bulletin. 32/1 had developed it to notify coroners with unidentified bodies when there was new information about highly identifiable characteristics on missing persons; details that couldn’t have been included in the original police report and therefore wouldn’t be in the FBI’s national database, NCIC. The ACB was in its pilot phase, with strict usage guidelines the Agency had established in concert with coroners nationwide.

  ‘This’ll be the first one. We’ll have to follow protocol to the letter, Steelie.’

  ‘I know the rules. Unknown or suspicious circumstances only.’ She indicated a manila folder on the counter. ‘I’ve got the Cullen file right here. I’ll check it out.’

  The lights suddenly dimmed and the lab computer behind them turned off, then restarted itself.

  ‘Shit. Brownout,’ they said simultaneously.

  ‘We’ve got to get a generator, Jayne.’

  ‘I know. They say it’s going to be a long, hot summer.’

  ‘It’s LA. It’s always a long, hot summer,’ Steelie dead-panned. ‘You said our budget’s strapped?’

  Jayne pushed off the counter. ‘We’d have to raise the cash separately unless I’m reading the charity rules incorrectly. Maybe you can have a look also.’

  When Carol announced Scott Houston on Line 1 later, Jayne answered the phone at her desk before she took her eyes off the sentence she was reading, which made her sound distracted.

  ‘Scott. How are you?’

  ‘Good, but you sound tired. We get you up too early this morning?’

  ‘Very funny. What’s up?’

  ‘Well, when was the last time you ate?’

  ‘What are you, my mother? I’m not that tired.’

  ‘Actually, I was trying to ask you to lunch.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jayne looked at her watch but couldn’t take anything in. ‘Is it lunchtime already?’

  ‘Is that a ladylike way of saying, “No, thanks”?’

  ‘Only a more gentlemanly invitation would get you a ladylike response.’ Jayne was focusing now.

  ‘Oh ho! I’ll send round an embossed card with gold edging next time.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d like to see the words “In-N-Out Burger” in calligraphy.’

  ‘I can do better than that. Cal Plaza.’

  ‘Downtown?’

  ‘Why not? It’s only ten minutes from your shop.’

  ‘I know. I mean, Cal Plaza’s great but you moved to LA, like, a week ago. I’m surprised you’ve even heard of it.’

  ‘Hey, I get out,’ he protested.

  She wondered with whom.

  He spoke into her silence. ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK, I’ll be by around noon.’

  ‘With Eric?’

  ‘Nope, Eric will be eating with the Critters at the site.’

  ‘They’re still there, then?’

  ‘You fishing, Jayne?’

  ‘No. I’m not asking you to divulge—’

  ‘Relax! I’ll tell you all about it at lunch.’

  When Jayne returned to the lab, Steelie was just hitting the Print key on the computer. Jayne sat on a neighboring stool. ‘Scott’s going to bring me up to speed on the BP case.’

  ‘Cool. When?’

  ‘Noon.’

  ‘A lunch date,’ Steelie chirped.

  ‘No one used that word.’

  ‘Wait, “lunch” or “date”?’

  Jayne gave her a quelling look.

  Steelie relented. ‘I’ve got something more interesting than Agent Houston right here.’ She whipped the paper out of the printer tray and handed it to Jayne.

  It was the ACB. It looked serious and official:

  * * ALL CORONERS BULLETIN * *

  Dear Coroner/Medical Examiner,

  In the matter of CULLEN, Thomas

  DOB 03-01-1959, NCIC# M-004517592

  Please be informed that the aforementioned individual sustained GSW to palate and sphenoid with projectile remaining lodged in sphenoid and visible on attached LEFT radiograph dated 04-15-1992. For further information, contact:

  Steelie Lander

  Agency 32/1

  ‘That looks good,’ Jayne said. ‘What were Cullen’s circs in the end?’

  ‘The cops logged him in as unknown. He had asked for a few days off work, didn’t return, car found at John Wayne Airport. I think he went to do the same thing as in ’ninety-two but with something more reliable than a handgun. Pills, maybe.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He flies up to Alaska, to see the ex.’

  ‘What ex?’

  ‘It’s in your interview transcript: the girlfriend who left him in ’ninety-one and the reason I think he tried this number.’ Steelie tapped the X-ray image of the bullet.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘He tootles up there, says goodbye or what-have-you, takes his pills, and suddenly he’s Alaska’s problem.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Well, whatever happened to him, if he’s been found and they’ve done a craniotomy – or even if an Anthro pulled the maxillae to X-ray the teeth – they would’ve been clued into the old bullet. Even if he’s alive and has amnesia, this X-ray is key. The fact that the police didn’t know he had a bullet in his head when they did his misper report warrants the ACB.’

  ‘No argument from me. You have the checklist for the protocol?’

  ‘Right here.’

  ‘OK, let’s sign it so you can get this sent out.’

  As they finished up, they heard Carol talking to someone at reception.

  ‘That’ll be your lunch,’ Steelie commented.

  ‘If it is, he’s early.’

  The two of them walked to the front of the building. Scott was leaning on Carol’s counter. Their receptionist was finishing a sentence with, ‘. . . afford it on my salary.’

  Steelie interrupted in a warning tone. ‘Don’t try to tempt Carol away with your government wages, Houston.’

  He stepped back from the counter with his hands raised, palms out. ‘I would never do that to the Agency. You should know that about me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carol began. ‘Agent Houston and I—’

  ‘Please call me Scott.’

  ‘Very well. Scott and I were just comparing the V-six and the V-eight when used in the four-wheel-drive Chevrolet Suburban.’

  He looked at Jayne and Steelie. ‘You guys knew that Carol rode shotgun when her mom drove the Alaska Highway just after it opened in the forties?’

  ‘In a wood-panel Suburban,’ Carol added with pride.

  Scott leaned toward her again. ‘I look forward to continuing our discussion another time.’

  Jayne thought their receptionist was on the verge of patting her hair demurely, so she propelled Scott out the front door and into the heat of the day.

  THREE

  The mist of California Plaza’s fountains kept its amphitheater of granite steps cool even when the Santa Ana winds were blowing hot over Los Angeles. Every riser supported a person’s back and every flat surface was a perch for buttocks and take-out sushi.
Scott and Jayne had opted for hot dogs from a deli and they sat at the top step with their backs to Angel’s Flight, the funicular that used to carry people up and down Bunker Hill for 25 cents. All talking had been deferred in favor of eating, so there was just the hum of others’ conversation, the occasional outburst of distant laughter, and the unpredictable ha-sisssss-fwap of the fountains’ geyser-like water jets falling back to the granite floor far below them.

  Jayne popped the last bit of ketchup-drenched bun into her mouth and mumbled, ‘Now, that was a good idea.’

  Scott murmured agreement as he wiped his mouth and held a hand out for her paper hot dog boat. Stacking it with his, he stood up and walked to a trashcan.

  Jayne started to relax in the sun, admiring the openness of the plaza, until she noticed how this position on the steps, which Scott had subtly chosen, was in the only section not covered by close CCTV. Most of the cameras were mounted on the buildings clear across the way, focused on the entryways of boutiques and cell phone stores. She looked around for Scott and found him striding back, scanning the perimeter of the amphitheater.

  When he was next to her again, she said, ‘All right, give me the skinny on the body parts and tell me why we had to come to the best spot in Downtown to not get overheard.’

  ‘Worked that out, eh?’

  ‘Spill.’

  Scott leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and lowered his voice. ‘OK, the Bureau’s directed us to move the freeway body parts over to the LA County coroner’s office, where you know they’re going to the bottom of their list—’

  ‘Wait. How come they’ll go to the coroner? I thought that once the FBI has a case, that’s it.’

  ‘Well, the boys in Virginia don’t want another bunch of body parts to deal with, especially when those parts don’t include a head. Not without the locals at least trying to ID them first. We get to keep the investigation into the vehicle because that could go interstate but we’ve been directed to move the body parts to Mission Road ASAP.’

  Jayne immediately thought of the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. ‘Can’t you at least check the fingerprints through AFIS? Fingers were present on both hands.’

  Scott seemed to glance over his shoulder. ‘I climbed up to the body parts and had a look at the cuts. They’re precise. All at anatomical locations to make dismemberment easier. We know these parts were dislodged accidentally due to the drunk rear-ending the van but whoever’s been carrying them around in a freezer is a pro. I don’t think he’d be sloppy enough to leave us fingertips if he thought they could ID the vic through a database every cop accesses daily.’