The Pratts’ four-year-old daughter had died in her bedroom down the hall, suffocated with a plastic trash bag matching others found in the house. A later canvass of the area turned up little. None of the neighbors saw or heard anything out of the ordinary.
I flipped to the eight-by-ten crime scene photos, pausing on a closeup of the husband. Rope encircled his throat, almost hidden in the mottled flesh. The pipe used to tighten the coils had been wedged behind his shoulder to maintain pressure. A second ligature mark ran across his chest and beneath his armpits. I looked closer, noticing that one eyelid had been cut crudely up the center. The other was completely missing. After shuffling past photos of the child, I inspected several shots of the woman. Like Susan Larson, she had once been beautiful. Now her face appeared somehow out of focus, her lips drawn back in a grimace, dried blood on her cheeks giving the appearance of some grotesque makeup that had run under her tears. Shallow knife wounds traversed her upper torso, accompanied by a hideous pattern of bites. Like gaping mouths, deep incisions below her ribcage, probably the killing strokes, split the skin of her abdomen.
Moving on, I scanned the OC autopsy protocols, learning that the woman had died of penetrating wounds to the heart and aorta, her husband of soft ligature strangulation. The bruising, degree of swelling, and increased histamine levels in the husband’s eyelid cuts and the woman’s bites and incisions indicated that most of the wounds had been inflicted before the time of death. Both victims showed signs of skin and eye irritation from a chemical currently available in pepper spray. Vaginal and anal tears, along with traces of a gel-type spermicide, were present on the woman.
Other lab tests proved disappointing. Semen, saliva swabs, and fingernail-cutting examinations all came up negative. No unexplained blood was found at the scene. Unmatched latent prints were lifted with no computer hits, and six unidentified hairs were recovered from the bed sheets and pubic combings.
Closing the folder, I looked over at Barrello. The OC detective had already finished the smaller LAPD file. He now sat smoking an unfiltered Camel, seeming lost in thought. Noticing my glance, he took one last drag and ground the butt into a flower pot. “Same guy,” he said.
I nodded. “There are a few differences. The plastic bag on the kid, for instance. And the pepper spray. But yeah. It’s him.”
“When will your lab and autopsy reports be available?”
“It’ll be a couple days on the lab. The coroner’s report probably won’t be available for a while longer, but the results will show the same things you guys found down here. Eyelids, bites, knife wounds, ligature strangulation.”
“Damn.” Barrello pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook out another.
“How many confessions do you have so far?” I asked. Most cases like this usually generated a rash of idiots who want to confess, I suppose in the hopes of getting their fifteen minutes of fame.
“Seventeen.”
“So things should be cleared up in no time.”
“Right.” Barrello lit his cigarette and took a drag, then handed back my file.
I took it, returning Barrello’s at the same time. “Now, don’t take this wrong,” I said. “I’m not saying we’re doing any better, but you guys don’t have squat, do you?”
Scowling, Barrello shook his head. “No witnesses, no informants, nothing. The woman’s ex-husband came up clean, and so did every other suspect we interviewed-family, friends, anybody with a key. For a while we thought it might be someone living in the complex. When that didn’t pan out, we interviewed everybody on the visitor list for the past six weeks. Zip. We’re workin’ our way further back now. You wouldn’t believe how many people go through those gates.”
“Anything in the family’s letters, bills, private correspondence?”
“Nothing. But there’s gotta be a connection. The guy knew how to get in and where to turn off the power. Plus, he managed to find his way around the house in the dark. He had been here before. I’m sure of it.”
“I get that feeling, too.”
Just then a silver-gray Mercedes pulled to the curb, parking behind my car. “Lawyers,” noted with disgust Barrello as a razor-thin man in an expensive-looking suit stepped out. “Always late, ’less they’re sendin’ a bill.”
“There you are,” the man called. “Sorry I’m tardy. Traffic was horrendous on the way in.”
Barrello rose to his feet. “So I’ve heard. You bring the key?”
“Of course,” the man answered, pulling a small manila envelope from his pocket. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay,” he added. “The envelope is self-addressed. Please use it to return the key to my office when you’re done. By the way, I had the electricity and water turned back on for the painters and carpet people. They’re scheduled to come in next week, after which the house will be placed on the market. I hope you’re finished with whatever you have to do by then.”
Barrello took the envelope. “If we’re not, we’ll let you know.”
“Fine.” The lawyer climbed back into his Mercedes without saying good-bye.
“Shyster scumbag,” Barrello grumbled as the attorney drove off.
“You have a problem with this particular guy, or the entire legal profession in general?” I asked.
“Lawyers in general,” Barrello answered curtly. After withdrawing the key, he crumpled the manila envelope and tossed it into the flower bed. “My wife’s doctors screwed up some tests a couple years back. Let things go on too long. She wound up with a lot of surgery, and sorting it out’s been a mess. Everybody’s suing everybody. By the time it’s over, the attorneys will be happy as clams. We’ll be lucky if we wind up with enough for a cup of coffee.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Barrello twisted the key in the lock and opened the door. I followed him in, noting a tiled entry, a step-down living room, and a staircase leading to the second floor.
“What exactly are you looking for?” asked Barrello.
“I’m not sure. This place have a security alarm?”
“No. Most of the other houses around here do, but one of the neighbors said Mr. Pratt claimed a dead bolt was better than the best burglar alarm.”
“Dead bolt, huh? So why didn’t he use it?”
Barrello shrugged. “You tell me.”
After a circuit of the first floor, Barrello and I proceeded upstairs. From the look of things, the Orange County investigators had done a thorough job-beds stripped, sink traps and bathtub drains removed, dustings of ferric oxide applied. In the master bedroom I noticed a stained patch of carpet near the closet. I knelt to examine it. “This where the husband died?”
“Uh-huh. At least that’s the way we’ve got it figured. Our lab matched the stain to residual fluid in his bladder.”
As I rose, I noticed that the knob on the bathroom door was askew. I glanced toward the bed, then back at the doorknob. Leaning closer, I noted fibers stuck in the crack between the shaft and the flange. “Makes sense,” I said, remembering the ligature mark on Mr. Pratt’s chest.
“What?”
“Fibers caught in the door handle.”
“I see them. Shit, we missed that.”
“We did, too,” I admitted, making a mental note to have SID reexamine the Palisades scene.
“What do you mean, it makes sense?”
“Later. Was anything missing from the house?”
“Not that we could tell,” Barrello answered, clearly irritated at being put off. “Kinda difficult to determine with everybody… gone,” he added. “We found cash in the dresser. The guy’s wallet and the woman’s purse appeared untouched. Both cars were still in the garage.