Upon arriving at the ground-floor lobby, I hung my ID from my coat pocket, glancing around the crowded room. It appeared that representatives from every conceivable news organization were present, with more clustered around the entrance to the 400-seat civic auditorium.
I threaded through the crowd to the reception desk. “May I help you, sir?” asked the duty officer there, an Asian woman in her early twenties.
“Hell of a mess,” I observed.
The officer eyed my ID. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m attending a ten AM meeting with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. Any idea where that might be?”
The woman referred to a handwritten list. “Seventh floor,” she said, finding my name.
“Thanks.” After signing in and receiving a temporary pass, I started for the elevators.
“Detective Kane!” a woman’s familiar voice called across the lobby. “Detective Kane!”
I turned, cursing inwardly as I spotted Lauren Van Owen threading toward me through the crowd. She flashed a smile when she arrived. “You don’t seem happy to see me.”
“For once you’ve got something right.”
“No need to be hostile. You know, Kane, if you ever gave me a chance, you might find I’m not half as bad as you think.”
“And it might rain dollars tomorrow, too. Look, I’m late for a meeting, so if you’ll excuse me-”
“How about getting together afterward for lunch? On me. We could go over the case.”
“You never give up, do you?”
“No. So how about it?”
“Frankly, I’d rather be locked in a closet with a chainsaw juggler.”
“I’m not that bad,” Lauren laughed. “I’m just saying that perhaps we can help each other.”
I shook my head and turned again for the elevators. “Not in this lifetime, Van Owen.”
Upstairs, in a large office overlooking the southern skyline, I found a number of police personnel already assembled. Present from the LAPD were Lieutenant Long and Captain Theodore Lincoln (the West LA Division’s commanding officer), Paul Deluca, and two other detectives I recognized from the Hollywood Division. The OC Sheriff’s Department was represented by Lou Barrello and a younger man I took to be his partner, and a second detective pair that had been detailed to the squad. Most of the men had assumed places at various desks and chairs, but some still stood at the windows gazing out at the high rises and industrial buildings beyond.
“Nice of you to make it,” noted Lt. Long as I took a seat beside him.
“Bad traffic,” I said.
Long started to say something more, stopping as Mayor Fitzpatrick marched briskly in, with Police Chief Ingram, Sheriff George Baskin, and several ancillary officials from Orange County close behind. Bringing up the rear was Lieutenant William Snead, a tall, hatchet-faced man with whom I had a less than pleasant history. In each hand, Snead carried a cup of coffee. He passed one to Chief Ingram; the other he set on a chair beside the mayor. Then he stepped back, his eyes sweeping the room. I noticed them turning as hard as ice when they arrived at me.
“What’s that hump doing here?” I asked. “He still in Internal Affairs?”
“Snead recently moved up to lieutenant-two,” Long answered. “He’s Pacific Division’s detective commanding officer now.”
Mayor Fitzpatrick cleared his throat and addressed the group. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. As the room quieted, Chief Ingram and Sheriff Baskin moved to stand beside Fitzpatrick. He glanced at them briefly, then made eye contact with several others in the room, including Captain Lincoln. Absently, I noticed that the mayor’s face seemed even more flushed than usual, with a new crop of ruptured capillaries adorning his whiskey-bloomed nose and sagging jowls.
“You all know why you’re here,” Fitzpatrick continued. “Over the years many cities-Seattle, San Diego, New York, and Chicago, to name a few-have faced situations similar to the one challenging us today. They chose to ignore the political dangers involved, and when their problems didn’t go away, everyone wound up with egg on his face, politicians and law enforcement personnel alike. That is not going to happen here. In a few minutes I’m going downstairs to announce the formation of an LAPD/Orange County Sheriff’s Department interagency task force. I do this with the utmost confidence that our two organizations, proceeding under the direction of my office, will work cooperatively to apprehend the killer now threatening our citizens. With increasing pressure to cut law enforcement budgets and a political climate swinging progressively to the left, it’s essential that we end this thing quickly and decisively. Anything less, and the media will walk all over us. You men are an elite group. You’ve been chosen for your outstanding investigative records, staunch discipline, and unquestionable ability. You’re the best of the best. I know you won’t let me down.”
“I think I’m gettin’ a hard-on,” whispered Deluca.
A number of nearby detectives chuckled, including me. Fitzpatrick glared in our direction, then continued with what was obviously a dry run for his speech to the media downstairs in the civic auditorium. “You will be operating under the joint command of Lieutenant Kenneth Huff from the OC Sheriff’s Department and Lieutenant William Snead of the LAPD. Both are capable officers in whom I have the highest confidence.”
At Snead’s name, I groaned inwardly, suddenly realizing what Lieutenant Long had meant by last night’s warning.
“The ‘Candlelight Killer Task Force,’ or some similar appellation, as I’m sure our friends in the media will soon be calling you,” Fitzpatrick continued, “will have its own facilities, phones, and computer terminals. Members of the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office will be working with you hand in hand. They have assured me that they’ll offer every possible consideration. The task force will have the funds, resources, and personnel to get the job done, and done quickly. And that’s what I expect. Questions?”
Although the room stirred uneasily, no one spoke. I knew that every investigator there was thinking the same thing: Throwing money and personnel at a case didn’t necessarily bring results.
“Good,” said Fitzpatrick. “Then I leave you to your work. But one thing I want to make crystal clear: This killer must be caught.” With that, Fitzpatrick turned and strode out the door.
The rest of his retinue followed, with the exception of Lieutenants Huff and Snead. Captain Lincoln, who had stood at the rear of the room during the mayor’s speech, joined those departing. Seeing this, Lieutenant Long rose and exited, too.
Moving into the vacuum of the mayor’s departure, Lieutenant Snead stepped forward. “Some of you I know; some I don’t,” he said curtly. “For those I haven’t met, I’m Lieutenant William Snead. This is Lieutenant Huff,” he added, nodding at a short, wiry man to his left. Huff, who wore his thinning blond hair short and sported a full mustache, sat without comment, seeming content to let Snead handle the preliminaries.
“Our operational parameters will be as follows,” Snead went on officiously. “OC personnel will answer directly to Lieutenant Huff; all LAPD detectives will fall under my supervision. In conjunction with his other duties, Lieutenant Huff will serve as case-review coordinator, acting as a clearing house for all crime reports and supplementals. He’ll also oversee scheduling and coordination of followup investigations, and be responsible for reviewing, analyzing, and charting all reports and status updates.
“Besides heading up the LAPD investigative efforts, I will act as liaison to the coroner’s offices and crime labs in Orange County and Los Angeles, and handle evidence control. I will also serve as our link with the media. There will be no leaks on this case. All communication with the press will go through me, and me alone.”