Ballard shook her head.
“L-T, she’s got kids and she’s going to start making arrangements to get cover on the nights. I think you should tell her. Write her up, put it on her record, like you said, but don’t leave her swinging like that.”
“This needs to be a learning experience, Ballard. And don’t you tell her. Not a word. That’s an order.”
“Roger that.”
Ballard left the station, dejected.
It sometimes seemed to her as though the biggest barricades in the so-called justice system were on the inside, before you even got out the door.
28
The autopsy was routine, except that seeing Javier Raffa’s naked body on the exam table showed Ballard the lengths to which he had gone to escape the gang life and set an example for his son, Gabriel. In addition to what she had already seen on the neck, there were laser scars all over the chest, stomach, and arms, a painful map of tattoo removal. She guessed it had taken years to get rid of all the ink. It reminded Ballard of the monks who practiced self-flagellation with whips and other instruments to repent for their sins. Whatever Javier Raffa’s sins were, he had paid a painful price.
There was only one tattoo left on the body. It was a rising sun over water on the left shoulder blade. It showed no symbols or words of gang affiliation.
“Well, he got to keep one,” said Dr. Zvader, the deputy medical examiner handling the autopsy. “A setting sun.”
Ballard realized there was no telling whether it was a rising or setting sun, even though they might have significant differences in meaning.
“Funny,” she said. “I was thinking it was a rising sun.”
“It’s California,” Zvader said. “Has to be going down.”
Ballard nodded. He was probably right but it made her feel bad. A setting sun meant the end of day. A rising sun was a start. It was promise. She wondered if Raffa knew that his time was short.
Ballard stayed in the autopsy suite until Zvader found the bullet that had killed Raffa embedded in the cartilage of the nose. It had traversed the brain after entering near the top of the skull, killing Raffa instantly and lodging behind the nose.
“I think he was looking up at the fireworks when he died,” Zvader said.
“That’s so sad,” Ballard said.
“Well, it’s better than knowing it’s coming and being afraid,” Zvader replied.
Ballard nodded. Maybe.
The slug was heavily damaged, first by the impact on the skull and then by the cartilage. Zvader bagged the projectile and put his name and coroner’s case number on the package before handing it to Ballard.
Ballard headed to the Ballistics Unit to drop off the slug for comparison analysis in the NIBIN database. It was an even longer shot than the shell casing comparison because of the damage to the slug. The database was essentially for casing comparison. So much so that projectile comparison was backburnered, and Ballard knew she would not be waiting around for a tech to conduct the analysis. She would be lucky to hear anything within a week.
Along the way, she took a call from Carl Schaeffer, the BSL yard supervisor.
“We got one. A new one.”
“A streetlight out?”
“Yeah, call just came in. On Outpost.”
“First of all, Mr. Schaeffer, thank you for remembering to call.”
“Not a problem. I got your card right here on the desk.”
“Do you have any details yet?”
“No, she just said that the light outside her house is burned out. I was going to send a truck but thought I’d check with you first.”
“Thank you. Don’t send a truck. Let me make a call and see if I can get the print car out there first. I or one of my colleagues will call you when it’s clear to repair.”
“You got it, Detective.”
“And Carl, I don’t want you to forget to call me when these come in, but I’m not sure I want my card on your desk. Remember, I want this low profile, and I noticed you have the time clock in your office. Everybody punches out there, right?”
“Right, I got you. It goes in the drawer now.”
“Thank you, Carl. Can you give me the exact address or location of the streetlight we’re talking about and the name of the person who called it in?”
Schaeffer gave her the information. The streetlight in question was on lower Outpost Drive, a winding hillside road that went north from Franklin Avenue all the way up to Mulholland Drive. Ballard considered dismissing the call from Schaeffer because it was still eleven days from the next holiday weekend and in the previous cases the streetlight had been tampered with just a day or so before the Midnight Men attacked. But Outpost was just across the Cahuenga Pass from the Dell. The first two assaults had occurred in generally the same area — the same patrol zone, at least. The Dell case could be the start of a second cluster.
She also had to consider that a fourth attack had already occurred over the past holiday weekend and had not yet been reported. The bottom line was that she couldn’t dismiss the tip from Schaeffer.
After dropping off the bullet that killed Javier Raffa at the Ballistics Unit, Ballard drove to Outpost and located the streetlight in question. She stopped the car at the curb to get out and take a closer look. It was an acorn-style light like those in the Dell. She saw no obvious signs of tampering on the access plate at the bottom of the post. The light was located directly across the street from the house from which the complaint had come. The woman who lived there and had called in the complaint was named Abigail Cena. The house was what Ballard always called a Spanish rambler. It was one level and spread wide, with a red barrel-tile roof and a white stucco facade. There were bushes and other vegetation lining the front, going beneath every window. There was also an attached garage that reminded Ballard of Cindy Carpenter’s house and the suspected access route of the men who assaulted her.
Ballard first called the Forensics Unit to request that the print car come out and process the streetlight’s access plate. She then called Matt Neumayer and told him about the call from Carl Schaeffer at the BSL yard.
“What do you think?” Neumayer asked. “Are they changing things up? This MO doesn’t fit.”
“I can’t tell,” Ballard said. “But we also have to consider that if this is them, it may have already happened over this past weekend. That they hit two women, and the streetlight’s just been reported now.”
“Oh, shit, you’re right. It could be a nonreported case.”
“I can come out and sit on the neighborhood tonight — not being obvious about it — but I have to get some downtime now. I’m running on fumes. I was thinking your crew could run down who lives in the neighborhood, maybe determine if this Abigail Cena lives alone or if any other women do in this immediate quad of homes.”
“Yeah, we’ll do it. You go get some sleep. And don’t worry about tonight. I know you’re off. If we want to stake the place, we’ll set it up. Maybe I should get Lisa used to working nights.”
That told Ballard that Robinson-Reynolds had not told Neumayer that he was rescinding Moore’s reassignment to the late show. She felt bad about holding it as a secret from a good guy like Neumayer, but she was bound by the order from the lieutenant. And she wanted no part in the command games he was playing.
“Roger that,” Ballard said. “Shoot me an email if you set it up. I’d just like to know what’s happening.”
“You got it, Renée. Pleasant dreams.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about — Oh, wait, did Lisa and Ronin pick up the other Lambkin surveys?”
“They’re out now getting them. They went together rather than split up.”
“Got it. Well, let me know about that too. It would be nice if we found a triple cross with all three of them.”
“Would make our job easier.”
“Roger that.”