Page 84 of The 24th Hour
That was Conklin crossing in front of Bobby, calling to Christophe.
Christophe’s answer was an anguished, wordless cry. I sat with my elbows on my desk, palms over my eyes, knowing that I would never forget what I’d just seen. It was as if I’d been sitting across the table from Rae Bergen myself, watching as a bullet tunneled through her head.
CHAPTER 109
BRADY SAID, “BOXER, I’m calling the LA Sheriff’s Department. Get ready to move out.” I snapped out of it, as Bobby called for medical assistance and Brady dialed the LASD and asked for the sheriff. He waited as the desk sergeant hunted him down and then explained what he wanted to do. Ten minutes after placing the call, Brady hung up the phone.
He came to our pod and summarized ground zero for me and Conklin. He’d reported the murder to the LA sheriff, who knew Clapper and was happy to cooperate with us. LA’s CSU would leave the scene intact until we arrived, then they would process it, give us the results. Uniformed officers were being dispatched to Rae Bergen’s apartment now.
I told Brady I wanted to see Christophe while we waited for transportation to the airport. I took the elevator up to the seventh-floor jail, where I asked desk sergeant and old friend Bubbleen Waters where I could find Christophe Picard.
“I’ll let you see him, Lindsay, but EMTs just gave him atranq to knock him out. He was hysterical, banging his head against the bars.”
“He’s unconscious?”
“Yup. I know you’re going to ask for how long, and I asked and was told that time out differs from person to person.”
I said, “When he wakes up, call Brady.”
“Copy that, Sarge,” she said, saluting me.
It was the first time I’d smiled that day.
I peeked in on Christophe, who was lying on his back on a slab inside a cell. He was out cold. I tried to rouse him by calling his name, but he was way under.
Because Rae Bergen’s murder was attached to the Fricke murders, and all three had happened in California, the case was ours. Rae Bergen went on the board back in our squad room.
A few minutes later, Conklin and I were in a patrol car speeding toward SFO, and from there we shuttled to LAX, where a pair of uniforms were waiting for us when we landed. They also had the keys to a loaner squad car and handed them to me.
Once we were on Pacific Coast Highway, heading to Malibu, I dialed up the radio, introduced myself to dispatch, and got a dedicated channel. Conklin typed Rae’s address into the GPS while I had a conference call with Brady and a sheriff’s deputy.
Two teams were assigned to us as backup and once the administrative formalities were buttoned up, an APB was put out so that every officer in LA was on alert to a murder with no actual suspect. Our squad moved out and, with all lights on, sirens blaring, we headed to the murder scene: an apartment building in Malibu.
CHAPTER 110
FOUR PATROL CARS were already parked outside a three-sided grouping of town houses on a bluff in Malibu. They were all white with red tiled roofs and decks with a view of the ocean. The building where Rae had lived was the first condo in the A block, the one closest to the street.
Conklin double-parked and our backup teams got out of their cars and cordoned off the street. We badged the uniforms at the entrance to the compound. The ranking officer was Chief William Taverno. I introduced Conklin and myself and asked him if he’d seen the crime scene.
“I was there. Left my lunch in the toilet.” I nodded as he added, “We’re waiting for the ME.”
A CSU mobile was parked at the curb unpacking their gear. I wanted to get into Rae’s apartment right now and get out, leaving everything as I found it. I hoped that before I left Rae’s place, I would uncover a clue to the identity and whereabouts of Rae’s killer.
Taverno said, “Don’t worry, Sergeant Boxer. Nothing but nothing moves until after you’ve seen it.”
As if Taverno had conjured it up, the ME’s van rolled up the street and double-parked.
Taverno, said, “That’s Dr. Camille Gray, the ME.”
The ME exited from the rear of the van with her bag and camera. She looked to be in her early forties and lithe, moving with speed and purpose. I intercepted her as she reached the sidewalk.
“I’m Sergeant Lindsay Boxer. My partner, Inspector Conklin,” I said. “I’m the primary officer—”
“The sheriff called me,” said Gray. “Good to meet you, despite the circumstances. I hear that the cause of death is apparent. Let’s see the scene. After we’ve got pictures, I’ll take the victim to my offices and send you a full report after the autopsy.”
Dr. Gray, Taverno, and two uniforms headed into the A building. Conklin and I followed them to 1A, Rae’s apartment. Rae’s office was too small to accommodate all of us at once. The others stayed back as Conklin, Dr. Gray, and I approached the nightmare that had been Rae Bergen.
The manner of death was as shocking now as when I had seen the shooting in action earlier, because now there was no screen separating us. A massive amount of blood had poured over the laptop keyboard and desk, dripping onto the floor and forming a pool the size of a kitchen sink. I stepped around the puddle to the opposite side of the desk and saw brain matter and fragments of bone, the shattered remains of Rae Bergen’s skull.