Have SID check it out. Get a shoe size, maybe a make.
Using my pen, I flipped a light switch at the base of the stairs. Nothing. I tried another switch. Same result.
Power out?
On a wall nearby I noticed a security panel, its LCD screen dark.
No battery backup?
I proceeded down the hall, flashlight in hand. At the end of the hallway I entered a laundry room with a door leading to the garage. Beneath a counter piled with clothes I noticed a large wire cage, its door open, the interior empty. A rectangular sign wired to the front read “Buster.”
Retracing my steps, I glanced into a powder room, then made my way to the kitchen, sweeping my flashlight beam along the walls as I entered. Dishes lay piled by the sink, an empty pizza carton beside them. Flanking an oval table in the breakfast nook was a bulletin board covered with crayon depictions of fish, insects, and an American flag-obviously the work of a child but some surprisingly good. Magnetic fruit tacked other drawings to the refrigerator. In a small alcove beside the pantry, someone had taken the phone off the hook and wrapped the receiver in dishtowels.
Crossing the room, I noted that the hands on an analog clock beside the stove had stopped on 12:37. Using my camera’s built-in flash, I took a picture of the clock, then unplugged it. As I continued my inspection, I saw that like the lights in the entry, the digital panels on the microwave and oven were out.
The remainder of the ground floor proved unremarkable: a wood-paneled den, a formal living room, and a dining room with a cut-glass chandelier above an ornate dinner table. Upon completing my circuit of the downstairs, I stopped again in the entry, considering my next move. Apparently, electricity to the house had been turned off-presumably by the killer. Not ready to start pulling drapes and opening blinds, I decided to see whether I could find the breaker panel and get the power back on. After returning to the laundry room, I opened a heavy door on the back wall and stepped into the garage.
Lacking windows, the garage proved even darker than the rest of the house. It took me a moment to find the door-opener control. I pushed the button with the tip of my pen. As expected, the door remained closed.
Playing my flashlight across the concrete floor, I approached the single car present, a Jeep Cherokee. On the bumper, between an anti-nuke slogan and a pro-choice emblem, a third sticker read “Thanks for visiting L.A. Please come back-we weren’t shooting at you.” I smiled briefly. Then, without touching the car’s surface, I leaned across and pulled a rope handle dangling from above, disengaging the door-opener motor from its track. Next I stepped to the garage door and rolled it up, squinting against a sudden flood of light from outside.
A quick search of the garage for the power panel proved fruitless, but I found something else. Fresh oil drips marked the concrete in the Larsons’ vacant parking space. Bending, I checked beneath the Jeep. I saw no sign of leaking under the engine or drive train. Stepping outside, I signaled to Morrison, who had resumed his post on the front walk.
“SID on the way?” I asked when he arrived.
Morrison nodded. “Should be here in about fifteen minutes. I also got in touch with the coroner’s office like you said. They’ll have an investigator en route within the hour.”
“Fine, kid. Now, get on the radio and check with DMV for vehicles registered to the Larsons. Have somebody ask the neighbors, too.”
Morrison glanced into the open garage. “One’s missing?”
“Maybe,” I said, noticing a white van with a roof mounted antenna pulling up to the entry gate down the street. Even at that distance I could make out the Channel Two eyeball on the side. Cursing under my breath, I headed back into the house, realizing a bad day was about to get worse.
Minutes later I found the house’s electrical panel below a coat rack in the laundry. Someone had tripped every breaker. Again using my pen, I flipped them back on. With each click I could hear some distant part of the house coming alive: the refrigerator in the kitchen, a heating fan in the garage, the startup chirps of a computer in the den.
Suddenly I froze. An eerie thumping was coming from deeper in the house.
Again.
Someone was still inside.
3
Slipping out my Beretta automatic, I eased down the hallway, staying close to the wall. I listened.
The living room.
The odd thumping abruptly stopped. I considered requesting backup. Deciding against it, at least for the moment, I edged into the living room, my flashlight and weapon held in a double-handed grip.
The sound resumed. I crabbed deeper into the dim room, trying to pinpoint the noise.
The couch?
Bending, I peered under a large, L-shaped couch. The thumping increased. Still gripping the Beretta, I swept the flashlight beam along the floor. Caught in the light, two red eyes glowed from the darkness. Startled, I jumped back, almost knocking over a lamp. A moment later a fat, tan-and-white rabbit with long floppy ears hopped out, sat, and thumped the floor several times with a hind leg.
I let out a disgusted sigh, glad I hadn’t called for backup. Some things you never live down, and this would have been one of them. “What are you doing here, little fella?” I asked softly. “Nearly scared the crap out of me.”
As if in apology, the bunny took several inquisitive hops closer, then drooped its ears and regarded me solemnly. Apparently deciding I presented no threat, the rabbit then indulged in a quick preening, licking its fur with the self-absorbed fastidiousness of a cat. I watched in amazement.
After completing its cleaning, the rabbit sat up on its hind legs, sniffed once, and stared at me again. Tentatively, I reached out and stroked the soft fur of the rabbit’s head. At my touch, the animal lowered its entire body, splaying its ears like tent poles.
“I’ll be damned,” I said, slipping my hands under the animal’s body. “Come on, Buster. Can’t have you hoppin’ all over the crime scene now, can we?”
By way of response, the animal remained perfectly still, allowing me to carry it back to the laundry room. Once in its cage, it hopped to a food cup inside and began eating. “I’ll be damned,” I repeated, closing the cage door.
Leaving the rabbit to its meal, I returned to the base of the stairs and headed up, skirting the stains on the treads. Upon reaching the landing, I saw three closed doors down a hallway to the right. A set of double doors stood open to the left, leading to the master bedroom. I moved left, deciding to see the worst of it first.
I hesitated at the bedroom doorway, hair rising on the back of my neck. Murky light from the street filtered in through closed drapes, illuminating the large room in shades of gray. A man and a woman lay side by side on a king-sized bed, their eyes staring up with the unmistakable finality of death. Wraps of elastic bandages covered their mouths. Blood-soaked blankets hid their bodies from their necks down. More crimson smears marked the headboard; a dark pool of blood had congealed on the carpet.
I’ve worked homicides for a major part of my years on the Force. With few exceptions, most murders I’ve encountered have been simple, garden variety killings: drive-bys, domestic fights that escalated to a fatality, drug-related deaths, and so forth. Stupid, ugly, cruel and occasionally brutal crimes-but at least on some level understandable. “That fat bastard left the toilet seat up one time too many.” Like that. I knew this was different. Whoever had done this had taken his time. And he’d liked it.
Anyone who confronts gruesome realities on a regular basis eventually develops a method of coping. Mine is to shut off emotions I can’t afford to feel and concentrate on the forensic details of the crime. And that’s what I did now. Taking a deep breath, I entered the bedroom.