Serpent’s Tooth. Faye Kellerman

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      “Maybe one or two. Why?”

      “I didn’t find any recent pictures of Harlan in his apartment.”

      Rhonda was taken aback. “That’s odd. I know he has a portfolio—”

      “No, I found that. I’m talking about things like photo albums.”

      She shrugged. “Weird. Because we took quite a few …” She smiled. “Quite a few compromising ones. After we broke up, he told me he was going to send them to my mother. I told him to go ahead … ain’t nothing she’s never seen before.”

      “Did he?”

      “If he did, Mom never said a word.”

      Decker said, “Rhonda, if Harlan was a member of SAG, he must have had an agent.”

      “He had a couple light-years ago. Fired them all.”

      Decker’s beeper went off. Rhonda stood up from the rocker. “Phone’s on the wall.”

      Decker’s eyes scanned the mural, rested on a painted phone kiosk. Mounted on the wall, inside the painted booth, was a real, three-dimensional pay phone. “Do I need money to make the call?”

      “Credit card’s fine.”

      Decker said, “I’m slow on the uptake, didn’t get much sleep. I can’t tell if you’re putting me on.”

      Rhonda smiled tightly. “It was a joke.”

      “Sorry to be so dense.”

      “Mr. Dumb Lug.” Rhonda rolled her eyes. “About as slow as a roadrunner. Sly, too. So why do I find myself trusting you? Is that how you extract confessions? You get people to trust you, then you slam them?”

      “I don’t slam anyone, least of all someone like you.” Decker looked at the pager’s number. Strapp’s office.

      Rhonda said, “I’ll be back in a minute. Help yourself to the phone.”

      “Thanks.” Decker punched in numbers; the captain picked up on the fifth ring.

      “Get over to the station house. Community is planning a major memorial for Estelle’s victims this afternoon. You’re expected to be there. Show some community support and help me field the press.”

      “I’ll be at my office in ten minutes.”

      Strapp said, “Good quote yesterday, Decker. About the scene being your worst nightmare. If you can think up a few more like that … something that shows compassion … that would be good for us … for LAPD.”

      Decker was silent.

      Strapp said, “Look, I know it sounds politico, but tough. This is our chance to make a good impression. Our asses have been fried in print for so long, it would be real nice if we could be represented as the public servants we really are.”

      “I understand, sir.”

      “Good, then. Get down here. We’ll strategize together.”

       7

      After a full day of hospital visits, bereavement calls, and heart-wrenching services for the dead, Decker made it back to the station house, his energy depleted, his brain crashing against his skull like a tidal wave. Advil wouldn’t cut it. Dry-mouthed, he swallowed a couple of Darvocets, but knew even that wouldn’t be enough. Rooting in his shirt pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lit up a smoke and rubbed his aching temples. Marge came in a few moments later, holding a half-dozen manila envelopes which she used to fan away smoke.

      “You must feel like shit warmed over.”

      Decker stubbed out the cigarette. “Trying to compose myself before I go home. I don’t want Rina to see me like this. How’d the interviews go? Learn anything?”

      “Depressingly unremarkable. Can I sit?”

      “Of course.” Decker pointed to a chair, eyed his smoke.

      “Go ahead, Pete. I remember well your smoking days.”

      “Just a temporary lapse.” Again, Decker lit up. “Tell me about the interviews.”

      “Nothing to tell. Bullets started flying, people started screaming, running for cover. Truly terrifying.” Marge paused, collected her thoughts. “From what I could gather, it seems that Harlan wasn’t deliberate in his shooting. Didn’t shoot at any one person specifically, or even aim at people for that matter. He just opened fire. A lot of it. The boys and I have been comparing notes. They agree with that assessment.”

      Marge paused.

      “Since this kind of thing is rare, I don’t really know what’s considered the typical behavior for mass murderers.”

      “Off the top of my head, the compatibles that come to mind are Tasmania, the Long Island Railroad, the San Ysidro McDonald’s, and Dunblane—”

      “The elementary school in Scotland.” Marge paled. “God, what a world!”

      Decker inhaled his smoke, tried to keep his mind focused. “I remember that in Tasmania and in San Ysidro, the murderer aimed at people. Picked them off like prey. But you’re saying that wasn’t what happened. Harlan just sprayed the place.”

      “Appears that way. We’ve been working a time frame … how many minutes did the actual shooting last? Time elongates during these catastrophic events. What seems like hours could have been minutes. At the moment, we’re guesstimating.”

      She held up the manila envelopes.

      “I picked these up for you. Just came in from the Coroner’s Office. Probably some prelim autopsy reports. Want me to go over them? You look tired.”

      Decker sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, breathed in wisps of nicotined air. “Who’s still out there?”

      “All of us—Scott, Tom, Bert. We’re still writing up reports. Oh, Gaynor left about an hour ago. He said you told him to work on the case at home.”

      “I’ve got him doing some computer work. His home equipment is better technologically than what we’ve got here.” Decker stubbed it out. “Give me the reports. Call the others in.”

      “Right away.” Marge handed him the envelopes and left.

      Decker broke open a seal, pulled out some slice-and-dice autopsy photos. Hitting him like a mace in the gut. He sifted through them with deliberation … concentration. Marge soon returned with the others. They pulled up chairs, sat in front of Decker’s desk, all of them uncharacteristically quiet.

      Decker said, “I’ve got some prelim autopsy reports. Finals won’t be ready for days, so we’ll go over these—”

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