Who Killed Jenny Schecter? Ch. 15

"Okay," Collins said, handing his menu to the waiter. "Let's get this over before the food comes. Autopsy and stomach contents. One of the cutters comes into the squad room with his report and hands it to me, then makes himself at home in my chair. 'You're gonna have questions,' he says. So I start reading. Long story short, Sweeney vomited because he had drunk a large quantity of vodka in a very, very short time, maybe half to three quarters of a bottle, but hard to tell since he puked it up. But enough to register that point one-eight on the test, and it was rising quick. No way to tell how high it might have gone."

"High enough to kill him?"

"I asked. Hard to tell all by itself, the coroner says, but there's more. Sweeney had chased the vodka with maybe a dozen oxycontins. There was still vodka and some pill slush left in his stomach, probably not enough to kill him, because he'd puked a lot of it."

"Jesus," Carmen murmured. She thought she might be ill herself.

"So what did your guy think," Lauren asked. "Suicide attempt?"

"Sure, and who wouldn't?" Collins said. "But our guy is pretty good. He tests the fingers."

"Ahh," Lauren said, catching on. She turned to Carmen, just to make sure she was following. "Max stuck his fingers down his throat, he made himself puke all the stuff in his stomach."

"Because he changed his mind about suicide?" Carmen asked.

"That's one possibility," Collins said. "The other possibility is he was forced to drink the vodka and swallow the pills under duress, because somebody was trying to kill him with booze and drugs."

"And if he doesn't collapse and die by the side of the road in the middle of the night, he staggers into the path of an 18-wheeler, same difference, mission accomplished," Lauren said.

"That's grotesque," Carmen said.

Collins shrugged. "I have a theory, if you want to hear it. It ties in with the car."

"Go," Lauren said.

"Suppose it's not suicide, but homicide, like we think. Where's Sweeney's car? How did he get out there? How was he able to drive if he'd swallowed that much vodka and the oxy was kicking in? How could he make his own car disappear, which it has, and why would he even bother if he was trying to kill himself? Fuck the car, right? Who gives a shit. But it's almost two years later, and we still haven't found it, although I know where it is."

"Where?"

"Hang on, we'll get there. Sorry to tease you, but I like to tell it my own way, in sequence."

"Okay."

"So it's a homicide, because we need somebody to get Sweeney out there and then make the car disappear. So my theory is, Sweeney is the passenger in his own car, and the killer is driving it. Someway, somehow, at some unknown location and for whatever reason, the killer gets Sweeney to drink most of a bottle of vodka and swallow a handful of commonly available, untraceable pills. My guess is the killer has a gun, because why else would anybody go along willingly? So they are in the car heading north on the 99—"

"North, out of Bakersfield," Carmen said.

"Right."

"Why north?"

"Four hundred and fifty miles of farmland and oil fields to dispose of a body, let it rot for a few days or weeks or months in the sun before anybody finds it."

"Okay."

"I know," Collins said as their salads arrived. "You're dotting the eyes and crossing the tees. So anyway, they're heading north and Sweeney puts his fingers down his throat and starts to puke. That wasn't supposed to happen and now it's a problem."

"Because...?"

"Because the puke is on the passenger side," Lauren said. "It wouldn't matter if it was on the driver's side. But it demonstrates Max wasn't driving."

"Bingo," Collins said, pushing aside his salad plate as his ribeye arrived. "Go ahead, Hancock, you got it. Finish it up."

"The driver slams on the brakes and pulls over. Max jumps out of the car, maybe sick, maybe trying to get away, or both. It's pitch black except for headlights, if there's anything coming, and if the killer gets out of the car and tries to shoot him, it ruins the suicide/traffic accident scenario—"

"And Max might have been able to run far enough in the darkness," Carmen said. "He ran south behind the car, to get out of the headlights."

"Max knows enough to know it's a divided highway and his only chance is to cross over to the southbound side where the driver can't do a U-turn without going a few miles up the road."

"Why not run inland, away from the highway?"

"Chain link fence," Collins said, and an access road. "Crossing the highway was the smarter move."

"And before he does, he pukes again, getting rid of the vodka and pills, if he can. Of course, he's already half-drunk and maybe woozy."

"Yes, and maybe there's traffic, trucks coming by, and that means the killer can't do anything until they pass, and it gives your guy the opportunity to puke, then cross the road."

"So Max crosses to the southbound side, and starts walking south. Meanwhile the killer drives up to Exit 37 and comes back southbound, or illegally uses the crossover. He sees Max walking and comes over onto the shoulder and runs him down. Was Max facing the car or facing away?"

"Facing the car. He saw it coming. Maybe he'd been hitchhiking, maybe not, but it got him and threw him fifty, sixty feet in the air into the guardrail."

"I hope he was drunk enough not to know what was about to happen," Carmen said.

"We'll never know," Lauren said. Collins grunted, cutting another piece of steak.

"You said you know where the car is," Carmen said.

Collins was chewing. "Hancock?"

"It's out there somewhere in the valley. In some arroyo, some gully, some junkyard. Probably torched."

"Count on it," Collins said. "Fire destroys the driver's fingerprints, destroys the puke, destroys any other useful forensics. And before he sets it on fire he removes the license plates and any other identifying stuff that might survive a fire. Probably can't even tell it was once a blue Subaru. It'll still have the VIN numbers, but nobody who comes across it will go to the trouble of looking it up. It'll just be another burned-out wreck out there, with hundreds of others. Who knows? Maybe it's already been found and the torched remains sold to a junkyard for $10 as scrap. The car is not only missing, it may not even exist anymore."

"How much of this theory can be proved in court?" Carmen asked.

"Almost none," Collins said. "We can't prove it was his own car that hit him, even though I'm dead certain it was, because the lab guys have paint chips from a blue Subaru from that paint batch, which covers about two years, and we have tire tracks from tires that might have come from Sweeney's car, but we don't have the car itself to match them with, and my guess is we never will. But the accident reconstruction guys tell us in a report I photocopied into your folder that the wheelbase of the vehicle that came off the highway was a about a hundred and four inches and front tires about 57 inches apart. Guess what the wheelbase and tire distance of a 2002 Subaru Outback is? So my theory remains just a theory. You guys aren't eating much. You want dessert?"

***

"Why don't you give me your folder on the Schecter case and I'll start reading while you finish eating," Collins said, although Lauren and Carmen had barely started, and their salmon was cold. Lauren handed him the manila folder with the photocopied pages from the Schecter murder book. She had not included the few pages that mentioned her long-ago interview with Carmen, which in any case wasn't useful since Carmen was 800 miles away and only knew background stuff.

Carmen had only pushed her food around her plate, but now that she started actually eating she realized she was hungry, and thirsty, too, in spite of the glass of ice water she'd just drunk. Still, she felt weird, being hungry after visiting a murder scene and discussing the awful details of vomit. Then she realized real police do this all the time, day in, day out. Homicides, rapes, stabbings, horrific traffic accidents, dead bodies recent or decomposing, drowned babies, then coffee and a couple of donuts, or a giant chili hot dog at Pink's. You had to be able to detach yourself from reality. The salmon was really good.

"Interesting," Collins said, closing the folder.

"Okay," Lauren said. "What do you think?"

"Well, there's not a shred of evidence connecting our two murders except that Sweeney was present at the first one. But I don't have to tell you this, but cops hate coincidences. I hate them, and I bet you do, too. I never met a cop who didn't."

"You still haven't," Lauren said.

"So what I think is, same unsub did both," Collins said.

"Rollo Tomasi," Carmen said.

"Who's that?" Collins asked, then he remembered. Lauren did, too. Rollo Tomasi was the made-up name of the unsub who had shot Guy Pierce's policeman father in the movie LA Confidential.

"All my unsubs are named Rollo Tomasi," Carmen said. "Why do you think it's the same person?"

"Because we have a pattern," Collins said.

"That's what I thought, too," Lauren said. She turned to Carmen. "You see it?"

Carmen knitted her brows, thinking. "Both were half-assed attempts to make them look like accidents."

"You get an A plus, grasshopper," Lauren said. "I'm not convinced the Schecter murder was premeditated, but once Jenny fell off the deck, the killer deliberately rolled her into the pool. That had to be spontaneous."

"Sweeney's different, but also the same," Collins said. "Pre-meditation all over the place, but it went south at the last minute, Sweeney puking in the car then escaping, if my guess is right, and having to be run down on the shoulder of the highway instead of a booze-and-drug overdose suicide or pedestrian accident."

"And then the killer had to find a way to get rid of the car," Lauren said, "which I don't think was part of the original plan."

"Which means we can build a pretty good picture of the killer," Collins said. "Want me to start?"

"Go for it," Lauren said.

"Pretty quick-witted. Maybe not smart, but certainly cunning. Thinks fast on his feet, or her feet. Doesn't panic, very cool customer. Able to improvise. Resourceful. Seizes opportunities. Acts decisively when necessary."

"Kills without compunction," Lauren said.

"A serial killer?" Carmen asked.

Collins and Lauren thought about it.

"I don't think so," Lauren said. "I'm not seeing that. Yes, the killer is a sociopath, almost certainly has no conscience, but that's not the same thing. I still think Jenny's murder was spontaneous. Worst case, Max's murder has some tie-in to Jenny, but we just don't know what it is yet, because we haven't looked into it and haven't found it. But I know what you were worrying about."

"What's that?" Carmen asked.

"That somebody is or was stalking the group of eight women who were there that night, because now a quarter of them are dead. Who's next? Is that what you were thinking?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about the group," Collins said. "Have you re-interviewed all of them?"

"Not yet," Lauren said. "We just started tracking them down when we ran across Sweeney's homicide."

"Just as well," Collins said. "You'd just have to go back and talk to them again in light of this new information."

"Excuse me, I've got to go to the ladies room," Carmen said, standing up. "Lauren, I'll take a coffee if the waiter comes by." Since sitting down Carmen had downed two glasses of water and two glasses of wine, and now it was time to do something about it.

When she was out of earshot Collins said, "I take it your partner's new?"

"Trainee," Lauren said. "Cadet. New mentoring program, one of those things."

"She even graduate from the academy?"

"Not yet."

"She's not even carrying a gun."

"No, she hasn't qualified at the range yet." It wasn't surprising that Collins had found time to check out Carmen's shape.

"I figured. One of those affirmative action things, I bet. She banging somebody upstairs?"

'Uh, no, she's still getting over a relationship. She was engaged to be married, and it fell apart at the last minute."

"I had a couple of them, but they usually fell apart after I got married, not before. That way the exes get to keep big parts of my salary. My third one seems to be sticking."

"Three's a charm," Lauren said. Hard to believe an overweight, hard-drinking cop had a divorce or two in his past, Lauren thought sarcastically, but she played it as straight as she could. "In Carmen's defense, she's pretty smart, and she learns fast. And she's not political, not a department climber or ass-kisser. What you see is what you get. I could have done a lot worse."

"Yeah, I guess." Lauren was afraid Collins was going to go on about how back in his day, blah blah blah, but he had the good sense to keep quiet until Carmen returned.

"What did I miss?" Carmen asked sitting down and putting cream and Sweet-and-Low in her coffee.

"Nothing, just waiting for you," Lauren said.

"Give me your overview of the Schecter thing," Collins said.

"Eight women in West Hollywood having a wine-and-cheese goodbye party for two of them, who were in the process of moving to New York. It was at their house, nice place, backyard pool. White collar professionals, good to very good incomes—"

"All lesbians?"

"No, not all," Lauren said quickly, sensing Carmen going rigid. "Some were, some weren't, some bi."

"Just asking," Collins said.

"Understood. Schecter was next-door neighbor and the one organizing the party, she was putting together a farewell goodbye tape. The whole group had known each other for quite some time, no strangers, nobody new to the group."

"I'm guessing history among them."

"Sure, that's a given, especially in a tight-knit lesbian community. And as it happens, everybody there was pissed at Schecter for one thing or another she had done or said. So yes, lots of anger at Schecter, maybe motives for murder, but having said that, only a few possibly strong enough for drowning somebody."

"Yeah, yeah, but we both know people will kill each other over a torn two-dollar bill, let alone anything we'd consider a big deal."

"Yes, we know. All we're saying is, everyone pissed at her, and two or three very, very pissed, but nothing so glaringly strong that any one person stood out."

"But you have a confession from the one up at Humboldt."

"We do, and that's a major problem. We have lots of evidence she didn't do it and was covering up for somebody, and it backfired on her. Also, the investigation was short-circuited by the confession, and we've since found one other very strong suspect who was never properly investigated, and maybe a couple more. One of our stronger suspects from the group was Sweeney."

"She the strongest suspect? Not whatshername at Humboldt?"

"Her name is Alice Pieszecki. Worst case, I'd rank her as maybe fifth or sixth suspect."

"She'd have been near the back of the line," Carmen said quietly. "The problem is, there was a line."

"Schecter was fucking the roommate, right? Significant other's always your best suspect."

"Yes, that's true 80 or 90 percent of the time," Lauren agreed, "but this time we're pretty certain this is one of the 10 percenters."

"Okay, but what about Sweeney?"

Lauren and Carmen looked at each other. "I'm not following," Lauren said.

"This guy, Tom. The ex, the father of Sweeney's baby."

"Oh. Right. On track now. Didn't you guys take a look at him back when Max got run down?"

Collins shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Oh, shit," Lauren said. "You might as well tell us."

"Yeah, I know. I was going to. See, about two weeks after the Sweeney murder I went on vacation. My wife and me, and our daughter and son-in-law. We took this cruise to Hawaii. We've been planning it for years. Cruise to and from, cruise around, land tours, the whole thing. Cost a small fortune, but worth every penny. We signed up a year ahead, and it was all booked and paid for eight months in advance. I had plenty of vacation time, and scheduled it long, long in advance. What I'm saying is, Osama bin Fucking Laden could have parachuted into Bakersfield along with Bonnie and Clyde and the Russian mob, but my wife and me and Betty Lou and Frank, we were getting on that fucking boat in Long Beach that particular morning and going to Hawaii, you get what I'm saying? If it sounds like I'm apologizing I'm not. But we were getting on that boat, that's all there was to it."

"We understand," Carmen said. "You don't need to justify it. You went on vacation. You're entitled."

"Thank you. So what I'm saying is, right about the time I went, the forensic stuff starts to trickle in, a piece here, a piece there. Background checks. Fingerprints, wants and warrants, no BOLO results on the car, CHP reconstruction report of the crime scene. Tire marks. It was twelve fucking days before we were able to look at it well enough to say, okay, this is a murder, this is deliberate vehicular homicide, not a suicide, not some kind of accident. And you know all the stuff about solving homicides, the first 48 hours, blah blah blah."

"Yes, most get solved in the first 48 hours, and after that the trail starts going cold."

"Right. You see that on TV all the time, and it's one of the few things they ever get right. So my point is, by the time we see it's a homicide the fucker is already almost two weeks old."

"Right. And you're about to head out of town."

"For three weeks. Yes, we weren't running down to Tahoe for a long weekend. I'm out three weeks, and they give my partner, who was almost brand new to homicide himself, a temporary partner, and the two of them take over just as I leave town."

"We get it," Lauren said.

Collins pushed a piece of pie crust around on his dessert plate.

"Hold up," Lauren said. "Before you go on, let me tell you this. We fucked up the Schecter murder investigation. I tell you this cop to cop. We blew it. Some of it was just the circumstances, just like you going on vacation. And some of it was we just simply blew it. The lead was my boss, Marybeth Duffy. She knows she blew it, and admits it, and feels like shit because of it. And I love her to death and would still follow her anywhere, she's the best cop I know or ever met, and wouldn't want to work for any other boss, not ever. But all that said, she had a bad day and she fucked up, that's all. We all have bad days, and we have to move on. Who knows, maybe they even make us better. So, if you want to tell us your people fucked up, you're in safe company."

Collins grinned. "Not just my people. Me, too. I was lead. Some of it is on me."

"Fair enough," Lauren said. "Tell it."

"I'm not sure how to start. I don't want to say the wrong thing, or say it the wrong way, and I don't want to offend anybody. But I'm just a street cop from Bakersfield, okay? I'm not a big city guy. There's a lot of stuff I don't know shit from shinola about. My wife will tell you, I'm not the most enlightened guy in the world. I am who I am, that's all. So what I'm saying is, I don't know anything about this transgender thing. What I know about the gays and the lesbians might just fill a good-sized coffee cup, but what I know about the trans thing wouldn't fill a tenth of a shotglass. I mean, I see the stuff on television, you know, sex change operations and men becoming women and women becoming men, and ... how can I say this? ... it's all just, like, noise. I mean, I hear it, I see it, but I just have no idea what they're talking about. Bruce Jenner, or whatever she calls herself now. That Ru-Paul guy. Even down at the Casa, those drag queens. So maybe what I'm telling you is, when we found out about Sweeney, well, I just plain didn't know what to do with it. Was he a man? Was he a woman? He was a man who had a baby? He was a lesbian who fucked a guy? A guy got knocked up? I mean, frankly, and I hope I'm not offending anybody, but I just plain didn't know what to do with it. Meaning him, or her, or whatever. You get what I'm saying? Am I wrong-footing here?"