The Devil's Necktie by John Lansing

you’d be hard pressed to cut a chicken wing with it.”
    â€œSo he tossed the four-inch blade,” Gallina said, grabbing for straws.
    Aronsohn couldn’t hold back any longer.
    â€œAll technicalities aside, Lieutenant, you didn’t have any questions at all about a decorated ex-NYPD inspector storing the alleged murder weapon in his toolbox? A toolbox that was clearly marked blades and small tools. For what? So he wouldn’t forget where he put it? Sentimental value? In case he ever needed it again? Does it make any sense at all that he would have walked away from the damning evidence and left his door unlocked for the police to . . . what?”
    â€œCrisis of conscience,” Gallina offered impotently. “Some people want to get caught.”
    Tommy looked incredulous. “And how did you know to look for the planted weapon in Inspector Bertolino’s loft?”
    â€œIt was a tip.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œA tip.” The word barely made it past his lips.
    â€œAnonymous?”
    Gallina could only nod.
    The deputy district attorney instantly picked up Tommy’s train of thought. “Can you trace the tipster?”
    â€œThe call came from a clean phone into our anonymous tip line. That, with the DNA from the rape kit, was enough for a warrant approved by DDA Becker and Judge Adison. And please let’s not forget, Bertolino lied about having sex with the victim.”
    â€œHe did not lie. He refused to answer the question,” Tommy said, restraining himself and letting Leslie continue her assault.
    â€œSo, what do you think now?” she demanded.
    â€œIt could have been a setup. Jury’s still out,” Gallina said.
    â€œIt stinks and you know it.”
    Leslie Sager let that hang in the air. Then she dropped the bomb.
    â€œTry this on for size, Lieutenant. This came across my desk this morning. If you hadn’t been so busy patting yourself on the back, you might have seen it.”
    The DDA opened a manila envelope and pulled out a nine-by-twelve photo of a ghoulish severed thigh. “This body part was found on an island in the middle of the L.A. River.” She pushed the photo across the table to Lieutenant Gallina.
    The severed, tattooed thigh had been photographed on a stainless steel examination table under a harsh light.
    â€œA homeless man had the joy of discovering this and almost drowned because of it. When the local cops pulled him out of the drink, the man was hysterical. He’d run off the island and almost got swept away during the storm.” She glanced down at the photo. “It’s a human thigh. Gang markings. Clean cut. Same depth of blade as at Vista Haven. There’s a nick on the femur identical to the one left on our female victim.” Her lips pinched together hard as she delivered the final blow to Gallina’s “case.”
    â€œMolloy’s crew did a preliminary dating that put the body part in the ground before Bertolino moved to Los Angeles.”
    There was an extended silence in the room. Gallina glanced over his shoulder through the glass window at an unshaven Bertolino, sitting expectantly on the bench in the hallway. Gallina, resigned, broke the silence.
    â€œWho’s gonna handle the press?”
    â€œThat would be you, Lieutenant. You’re going out in front of the cameras with hat in hand. It’s an ongoing investigation. We’ll get to the bottom of it. You’re sure Mr. Bertolino understands the gravity of the crime and that he had to be eliminated from the process because he was the last person to see the victim alive . . . et cetera.” Her voice remained icy as she listed the other consequences.
    â€œApologies to Mr. Bertolino and his family for any inconvenience that might have occurred because of the overzealous press coverage. Plus, if he sues, Gallina, you can stand before the city council and explain why they shouldn’t pay him