He looked over the list of names. He didn’t recognize any. As his stomach grew increasingly acidic, he kept returning to the photos of the bodies. In fourteen years with the LAPD and four years in the army before that, he had seen more than a few dead men. But these were unlike any in his experience. He had seen men who had stepped on land mines yet had been in better shape than these.
The killers — surely there had been more than one — had possessed incredible strength or inhuman rage, or both. The victims had been struck repeatedly after they were already dead, hammered into jelly. What sort of man could kill with such unrestrained viciousness and cruelty? What maniacal hatred could have driven them to this?
Before he could really concentrate on those questions, he was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Ross Mondale stopped at Dan’s desk. The division captain was a stocky man, five-eight, with a powerful upper body. As usual, everything about him was brown: brown hair; thick brown eyebrows; brown, watchful, narrow eyes; a chocolate-brown suit, beige shirt, dark-brown tie, brown shoes. He was wearing a heavy ring with a bright ruby, which was the only spark of color that he allowed.
The janitor had gone. They were the only two in the big room.
‘You still here?’ Mondale asked.
‘No. This is a clever, cardboard facade. The real me is in the john, shooting heroin.’
Mondale didn’t smile. ‘I thought you’d be gone back to Central by now.’
‘I’ve become attached to the East Valley. The smog’s got a special savory scent to it out here.’
Mondale glowered. ‘This cutback in funds is a pain in the ass. Used to be, I had a man out sick or on vacation, there were plenty of others to cover for him. Now we got to bring subs in from other divisions, loan out our own men when we can spare them, which we never really can. It’s a crock.’
Dan knew that Mondale would not have been so displeased about loaned manpower if the loanee had been anyone else. He didn’t like Dan. The animosity was mutual.
They had been at the police academy together and later had been assigned to the same patrol car. Dan had requested a new partner, to no avail. Eventually, an encounter with a lunatic, a bullet in the chest, and a stay in the hospital had done for Dan what formal requests had not been able to achieve: By the time he got back to work, he had a new and more reliable partner. Dan was a field cop by nature; he enjoyed being on the streets, where the action was. Mondale, on the other hand, stayed close to the office; he was a born public-relations man as surely as Itzhak Perlman was born to play the violin. A master of deception, ass-kicking, and flattery, he had an uncanny ability to sense pending changes in the currents of power in the department’s hierarchy, aligning himself with those superiors who could do the most for him, abandoning former allies who were about to lose power. He knew how to smooth-talk politicians and reporters. Those talents had helped him obtain more promotions than Dan. Rumor ranked Ross Mondale high on the mayor’s list of candidates for police chief.
However, as ingratiating as he was with everyone else, Mondale could find no words of praise or flattery for Dan. ‘You got a food stain on your shirt, Haldane.’
Dan looked down and saw a rust-colored spot the size of a dime.
‘Chili dog,’ he said.
‘You know, Haldane, each of us represents the entire department. We have an obligation — a duty — to present a respectable image to the public.’
‘Right. I’ll never eat another chili dog until I die and go to Heaven. Only croissants and caviar from now on. A higher quality of shirt stain henceforth, I swear.’
‘You make a habit of wisecracking at every superior officer?’
‘Nope. Only you.’
‘I don’t much care for it.’
‘Didn’t think you would,’ Dan said.
‘You know, I’m not going to put up with your shit forever, just because we went to the academy together.’