As a general rule, police commissioners stayed away from crime scenes and focused on the really important work, like paperwork and politics and making sure they looked good in front of the cameras. They were more administrators than cops, and wherever they traveled the media wasn’t too far behind.
But there were exceptions, like the killing of a police officer, or if the crime had a high-profile element to it that needed to be thoroughly understood so it could be spun properly for the public. What happened here in Brentwood had both elements: a cop killed during the commission of a blood crime in one of the safest, most expensive neighborhoods in Los Angeles—a definite first. Of course the man was here.
It was easy to spot Kelly, a mountain of a man who stood six six. He paced along the grass near the side of the house where Danny had entered the backyard. As Ellie drew closer, she saw Kelly had a phone mashed against his ear. He wore a tan suit with a stylish tie and a pair of rimless eyeglasses with lenses that magnified his intense blue eyes.
She didn’t know the man personally—had never met him—but she had heard he was frank and tough, with zero tolerance for bullshit. When he was deputy chief, he was given the nickname “the Pied Piper” for his ability to ferret out crooked cops.
Kelly told the person on the other line he had to go and hung up.
“Walk me through what happened,” he said. Then he paused, as if reconsidering his words, and looked her over briefly. “Are you up to it?”
“I’m up to it.”
“Good.”
The way he said it, Ellie got the feeling she had passed some sort of test. “Have we made any progress here, sir?”
“We’ve got an APB out on the vehicle and the shooter, copters in the air searching, but so far, nothing.”
She led Kelly through the backyard dappled with afternoon sunlight, and explained everything that had happened. Everywhere she looked she saw glass fragments and spent shell casings and blood—and three dead bodies.
“The boy over there? He’s a stickman,” Ellie said. “That’s what they call themselves, the kids they use to find out if people are carriers.”
Why did I say that? Of course he knows what a stickman is. Kelly flashed her a look that told her as much. Dammit, Batista, get your shit together.
“What makes you think he’s a stickman?” Kelly asked.
“May I show you?”
The commissioner scratched the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Go ahead,” he said.
Ellie moved to the chaise longue where the skinny teenager with the man bun had sat earlier. His body and what was left of his head were now concealed inside a forensic tent to prevent news copters and any reporters and bystanders from viewing the carnage.
She reached into her pants pocket for a pair of latex gloves, used her other hand to wave down one of the forensic techs working the backyard. She wanted this documented and on the record, just in case. Better to cover your ass than to have your ass handed to you in court.
“The canvas bag,” she said to the male tech. “Has it been photographed?”
The man checked his tablet. “It has,” he said.
“What about the contents inside?”
“Just pictures of what we can see. We haven’t searched through it yet.”
Ellie turned to Kelly and said, “Sir, with your permission, I’d like to reach into the bag.”
Kelly nodded, then told the tech to document the process—including video. The tech held up his tablet and then recorded Ellie as she carefully dipped a gloved hand inside the bag, with its neatly folded towel and change of clothes and a couple of paperback books, as well as a clear bag holding processed and ready-to-eat food like meal-replacement bars and nuts.
When she stood, she had, pinched between her fingers, what at first glance looked like the kind of small flashlight people tossed into a glove compartment or a cabinet underneath a kitchen sink. Only the black metal tube she was holding didn’t have a bulb, and it was small enough to conceal in your palm.
“Do you recognize this, sir?”
Kelly shook his head. The tech didn’t answer, either, too busy recording.
“This was originally developed for diabetics to get blood glucose levels,” Ellie said. “The army had it modified so blood types could be determined on the battlefield, in order to speed along the process of an emergency transfusion. You press the button on the end here with your thumb and a very fine needle ejects and pierces the skin so fast that most people don’t even realize they’ve been pricked. It only takes a few seconds to get a result. It flashes on the small LED screen right here on the side.”
Kelly was looking at her with avid interest—and some skepticism, too, she thought.
“Word on the street,” Ellie said, “is that these devices have been modified to identify the proteins in carrier blood—within seconds, from what I’ve heard.” She returned the item to its original place inside the bag.
Kelly thanked the tech, his tone leaving no doubt that the man should leave and get back to work.
Then she was alone with Kelly again.
“That injector,” he said. “How do you know about it?”
Ellie had learned early on that there was nothing more dangerous to a powerful man than a woman who, intentionally or not, made him feel stupid or inferior.
“I do a lot of reading,” Ellie said. “And I visit a lot of blood chat rooms on the deep web. There are a lot of theories out there—”
“Thank you for your help, Officer Batista. And I’m sorry about the loss of your partner.” Kelly seemed to genuinely mean it.
“Sir, the two vics inside the house—have they been identified?”
“Not yet. Thank you—you’re dismissed.” Kelly left toward the house.
Ellie saw her opportunity. It was risky, but she might not get it again.
“Sir, with your permission, I’d like to see them. I didn’t get a close-up look the first time I was in there, when I was clearing the house.”
“Did you touch them? Disturb the crime scene in any way?”
“No, sir. I did everything by the book. Cleared the house, checked for a pulse, and then radioed dispatch. Nothing will come back to bite us on the ass. You have my word on that.”
Kelly’s features relaxed a bit.
“The reason I asked to see them again,” Ellie said. “Sir, I think I know who they are.”
CHAPTER 5
POLICE COMMISSIONER KELLY was looking at her with renewed interest. Not in the admiring way you looked at someone who could help you, but in the suspicious way you looked at someone you suspected was holding important information from you.