On-screen, the shooter boarded the bus, paid the driver and took his seat.
“That’s the stop on Sunset at the edge of Temescal Canyon,” he said. “Route serves the Palisades, but we don’t get many passengers joining it there. I spoke to the driver, Curtis Tucker, and he says the guy was masked when he flagged down the bus. You want to talk to him? It’s his day off, but I can ask him to come in.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Sal replied. “One of my colleagues can go to Mr. Tucker’s home and take his statement. See if he caught anything that might be useful. Can you send that footage to my office?”
“Sure,” Ray said. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Use this email address.” Sal handed him a card.
“What now?” I asked the thoughtful-looking cop.
“How do you feel about another drive?” he replied.
Chapter 7
We followed the Route 9 bus line via Rustic Canyon, heading through one of LA’s most desirable neighborhoods. Along tree-lined Chautauqua Boulevard, we caught glimpses of mansions set behind high walls and imposing gates. They nestled in gardens shaded by trees large enough to have been around when movies played without sound.
Sal and I talked about the job, his years on the force, the harder edge the world had developed in recent years that made it a more dangerous place for anyone in law enforcement. He told me that when he’d first started as a beat cop out on patrol, he would talk to drunks and addicts and they would be reasonable and generally comply with his instructions. Now, the twin scourges of opiate addiction and anti-police sentiment meant that if a cop approached anyone, they would almost invariably be subjected to hostility and violence. Sal said he was glad he only rarely had contact with the street nowadays, but he felt sorry for newly minted beat cops trying to navigate such a volatile landscape.
We talked about the screening and my experiences in the attack. Sal was driving and couldn’t take notes, so he recorded my account on his phone for transcription later. There wasn’t much to tell. The Ecokiller, as the media had dubbed him, was looking to make a political statement, and had chosen the highest-profile movie release of the year as the target of his violence. He was strong, reasonably well trained, and smart enough not to have shown his face during transit. He wore nondescript clothes that covered any distinguishing features or markings.
As we drove beyond the lush gardens that were nourished by water drawn by pump, pipe and faucet from rivers hundreds of miles away, the mountains returned to their natural state: rugged, dry, covered in rough scrub. We rose into the hills, following Sunset Boulevard, which bent and curled like a snake.
We finally reached the bus stop on the corner of Sunset and Temescal Canyon, and Sal took a right and pulled onto a grass median that split the two lanes of the canyon road. The trailhead was directly in front of us and the bus stop to our rear, with the Pacific Ocean beyond. Up ahead were trailers and a makeshift camp of tents. The press called this place Sanctuary City, an encampment of the homeless that had sprung up in the foothills of Temescal Canyon, drawing more desperate people each and every day while the city fought legal battles in the courts to dismantle the camp and move the inhabitants on.
“Hard Luck City,” Sal said, nodding toward the first tents, just visible through the trees.
It was the name cops and city workers gave to the place and was more accurate in my opinion. This wasn’t a sanctuary, at least not one the people living there could depend on for any length of time.
“You think our guy might have come from there?” I asked.
“It’s possible,” Sal replied.
We got out, and I immediately felt the early-afternoon sun baking my black tux. The grass was tinder-dry and the ground hard beneath my feet. I took off my jacket and left it in Sal’s Lincoln. He wandered around, hands on hips, surveying the location.
“Busy,” he said, observing the steady flow of traffic on Sunset.
“But people don’t stop here,” I replied. “They drive up the hill to park in the Canyon lot.” I gestured beyond the makeshift encampment.
I took out my phone and called Mo-bot.
“What can I do for you, Jack?” she said when she answered.
“I’m going to send you a location,” I replied. “Can you check vehicle GPS signals half an hour before...” I lifted my head toward Sal. “When did he get on the number 9?”
“Six-fifteen, according to the footage,” he replied.
“So, let’s make it from five-thirty,” I told her. “Any vehicle that stopped at this location and was parked here or in the Canyon lot until after the shooting.”
“Okay,” Mo-bot said. “I can ask our friend in Maryland. Should be a breeze for him.”
Mo-bot was referring to a Department of Defense analyst called Weaver, who had worked with us during the Monaco investigation when we’d thwarted an attempt on the life of Eli Carver, the Secretary of Defense.
“Thanks,” I replied.
“I’ll call as soon as I have anything,” Mo-bot said, before hanging up.
“Impressive,” Sal remarked. “Can you really do that?”
“With a little help,” I told him.
“Would take me at least a week. If I could get a warrant,” he sighed.
“It won’t compromise your ability to build a case, will it?” I asked, suddenly concerned I might have jeopardized the chances of Justine’s assailant facing justice.
“If it comes to something, no one needs to know how we got there,” Sal replied.
I nodded, liking the experienced cop more with each passing hour.
“We should check the camp,” he said. “Canvas folk. In case our guy did come through there.”
“Sounds good,” I said, and we started walking toward the encampment nestled in the trees.
Chapter 8
There were a handful of trailers, but most of the people occupying the encampment lived in tents. Portable gas stoves filled the air with the scents of coffee and hot food. A local homeless charity had set up a mobile kitchen, where volunteers were handing out bowls of noodles. A couple of uniformed cops loitered by their bicycles near the perimeter of the impromptu settlement, watching the comings and goings of the people who’d settled into their own rhythm in this place.
The first news reports on Sanctuary City had started about a month ago, but the encampment had already been going strong. No one knew quite when the first people came or why they’d chosen this place, but it had wrong-footed the authorities who didn’t know how to handle the mass clearance of people from a natural space that was surrounded by some of the most expensive homes in California. The optics, as many commentators had remarked, wouldn’t be good. So, the city had settled for litigation that would ensure everything was done by the book, and in the interim word had spread. California was a desirable destination for people without homes because of its good weather and the justified belief the West Coast was still somewhere dreams could come true.
Sal and I split up and took different routes through the camp. I stopped to talk to anyone who looked approachable and was struck by how many of the people here had stories of bad luck; three or four big calls that hadn’t gone their way, many involving medical emergencies, and they’d speedily found themselves on the wrong side of the tracks. There were some drug users and people with clear mental health issues, but I moved swiftly on from them if they weren’t responsive or coherent. For the most part, people were friendly and tried to be helpful, and I found myself wondering about Sal’s assessment of the changes he’d seen as a cop. Maybe, as the saying goes, when you’re trained to be a hammer, after enough time, you start seeing nails everywhere.