break
him and fails. Cassiletti looks the jury in the eyes as he explains
himself and his thought process. The jury deliberates less than an
hour before returning a verdict of guilty
When the newspapers take his picture, he doesn't
smile. He has an intelligent expression on his face, maybe does
something with his hands to show how he's pieced together the clues
to re-create the crime. He takes off his coat so that his weapon and
badge show. It looks impressive, his big black thirty-eight in the
tan holster and next to that, his gold shield. He wears his gray
slacks that day and a black belt, the Italian one.
A dispatcher from downstairs walked by Cassiletti
shook himself back to reality
Both he and St. John believed they were looking for a
strong man as their offender. A man perhaps comfortable around
horses, good with his hands.
The rope the killer used was white, or had been when
it was new and clean. It appeared to be made of nylon. The ends had
been sealed by some heat source that left them blackened. When it
extended, the rope would have been six feet long. Cassiletti could
only estimate this, as the knot that had been fastened by whoever
tied the cement block to the body was still intact.
The core of the rope was braided. He went over to the
crime lab and checked other samples of rope. Many were braided on the
outside, fewer had a center core, and he could find no samples of
rope that were a braid encased in a braid.
The knot, the block, the
rope, the doll. They were all going to mean something. He could feel
it.
* * *
St. John put Cyrill McCarthy's scriptors out over the
network of police agencies with a "wanted for questioning"
stipulation. He'd been released from Chino a month earlier, on
January sixteenth. His parole officer was on vacation and wouldn't be
back until the following Monday
St. John also ran Stacy Lansford's name through every
system in the Department of justice's database—CLETS, NCIC, DMV
voter registration, even the phone book—and had come up with zip.
She had existed once, but the paper trail had died four years
earlier. He had struck out similarly with Jane Ferrar. Christine Hill
died from breast cancer in 1983. Poor kid.
Cassiletti knocked on the glass of his cubicle. "Want
to take a ride?"
St. John threw down his pencil. "Yeah, might as
well." He followed his younger partner out to the parking lot.
"Where are we going?"
"The scene of the crime," Cassiletti said,
making his voice melodramatic. "One of them anyway."
He held up an evidence bag that St. John saw
contained a length of rope.
" I want to follow some leads." Cassiletti
laughed that high silly laugh of his that was so incongruent with his
large build, and St. John half smiled as he fastened his seat belt.
" Let's take Sepulveda," St. John said. "I
want to stop at Munch's Texaco station. Would you mind?"
Cassiletti stared out his side window, the slightest
hint of disapproval in his tone. "No."
When they arrived at the gas station, Lou was on a
ladder at the gas pumps, replacing one of the fluorescent bulbs in
the canopy
They pulled up beside him, and St. John rolled down
his window. "Munch here?"
"She's on a test drive. Be about fifteen
minutes. Want to wait?"
"No, we were in the neighborhood. Tell her we
stopped by."
Cassiletti nodded to Lou, and for just a moment St.
John saw a look pass between Cassiletti and Lou that seemed to echo
Cassiletti's earlier tone of reproach. St. John felt a split second's
guilt, as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He
almost said, "We're just friends," but stopped
himself.
"What are you waiting for?" he asked,
instead.
Cassiletti's foot spasmed on the gas pedal, sending
the car forward with a lurch.
" Watch it," St. John said.
" Do I yell when you drive?"
" You don't need to."
"I wouldn't do that to you."
" Would you just go already? Christ, you sound
like an old woman. "
Cassiletti burnt rubber onto Sunset Boulevard,
smiling slightly when St. John
him and fails. Cassiletti looks the jury in the eyes as he explains
himself and his thought process. The jury deliberates less than an
hour before returning a verdict of guilty
When the newspapers take his picture, he doesn't
smile. He has an intelligent expression on his face, maybe does
something with his hands to show how he's pieced together the clues
to re-create the crime. He takes off his coat so that his weapon and
badge show. It looks impressive, his big black thirty-eight in the
tan holster and next to that, his gold shield. He wears his gray
slacks that day and a black belt, the Italian one.
A dispatcher from downstairs walked by Cassiletti
shook himself back to reality
Both he and St. John believed they were looking for a
strong man as their offender. A man perhaps comfortable around
horses, good with his hands.
The rope the killer used was white, or had been when
it was new and clean. It appeared to be made of nylon. The ends had
been sealed by some heat source that left them blackened. When it
extended, the rope would have been six feet long. Cassiletti could
only estimate this, as the knot that had been fastened by whoever
tied the cement block to the body was still intact.
The core of the rope was braided. He went over to the
crime lab and checked other samples of rope. Many were braided on the
outside, fewer had a center core, and he could find no samples of
rope that were a braid encased in a braid.
The knot, the block, the
rope, the doll. They were all going to mean something. He could feel
it.
* * *
St. John put Cyrill McCarthy's scriptors out over the
network of police agencies with a "wanted for questioning"
stipulation. He'd been released from Chino a month earlier, on
January sixteenth. His parole officer was on vacation and wouldn't be
back until the following Monday
St. John also ran Stacy Lansford's name through every
system in the Department of justice's database—CLETS, NCIC, DMV
voter registration, even the phone book—and had come up with zip.
She had existed once, but the paper trail had died four years
earlier. He had struck out similarly with Jane Ferrar. Christine Hill
died from breast cancer in 1983. Poor kid.
Cassiletti knocked on the glass of his cubicle. "Want
to take a ride?"
St. John threw down his pencil. "Yeah, might as
well." He followed his younger partner out to the parking lot.
"Where are we going?"
"The scene of the crime," Cassiletti said,
making his voice melodramatic. "One of them anyway."
He held up an evidence bag that St. John saw
contained a length of rope.
" I want to follow some leads." Cassiletti
laughed that high silly laugh of his that was so incongruent with his
large build, and St. John half smiled as he fastened his seat belt.
" Let's take Sepulveda," St. John said. "I
want to stop at Munch's Texaco station. Would you mind?"
Cassiletti stared out his side window, the slightest
hint of disapproval in his tone. "No."
When they arrived at the gas station, Lou was on a
ladder at the gas pumps, replacing one of the fluorescent bulbs in
the canopy
They pulled up beside him, and St. John rolled down
his window. "Munch here?"
"She's on a test drive. Be about fifteen
minutes. Want to wait?"
"No, we were in the neighborhood. Tell her we
stopped by."
Cassiletti nodded to Lou, and for just a moment St.
John saw a look pass between Cassiletti and Lou that seemed to echo
Cassiletti's earlier tone of reproach. St. John felt a split second's
guilt, as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He
almost said, "We're just friends," but stopped
himself.
"What are you waiting for?" he asked,
instead.
Cassiletti's foot spasmed on the gas pedal, sending
the car forward with a lurch.
" Watch it," St. John said.
" Do I yell when you drive?"
" You don't need to."
"I wouldn't do that to you."
" Would you just go already? Christ, you sound
like an old woman. "
Cassiletti burnt rubber onto Sunset Boulevard,
smiling slightly when St. John
Similar Books
