In My Dark Dreams (47 page)

“Nothing is more frustrating to a detective than an unsolved crime. That is his life—to solve crimes. When he doesn’t, his life, or at least his work, which for a conscientious detective are almost one and the same, loses meaning. Not solving a crime is failing. And cops don’t like to fail. They hate it. Their essence, their ego, is tied up in solving crimes. And I say this with praise, not accusation—a good detective has a strong ego. He or she has to. You can’t survive out on the street without one.

“But then comes a fourth killing. Same time frame, same method. The police are horrified, of course, but secretly, they are also relieved. Because they still have a job, and they still have a chance to catch their elusive quarry. They would never admit to this, but it’s true.”

I pause to drink some water, because my mouth is dry.

I continue. “The pressure on the task force to find the killer is enormous now. There had been a false sense of security, because people thought maybe the killing was finished, and it was safe for women to go out at night again. The latest killing shattered that illusion.”

I repeat what I said earlier. “The police had to find the killer. They had to find him. No matter what. And they had to find him now.

“It’s early in the morning, but the clock is ticking. The public doesn’t know about this latest killing yet, but they will, very soon. And when they do, all hell is going to break loose. The talk shows and the poll-driven politicians are going to have a field day with this. Disasters sell tickets, and this disaster is off the Richter scale.”

Again, I say, “The police have to find a killer. But they don’t. And now it’s daybreak. They’re stymied.

“And then, a fantastic coincidence. A phone call comes in, an anonymous tip. Not from a cell phone, which you would expect, coming from an area of the city where everyone has a cell phone, or multiple cell phones. It comes from a pay phone.” I take a step toward the jury box. “A cell phone is traceable,” I say. “But a pay phone is not. I want you to remember that, ladies and gentlemen. What kind of phone this anonymous tip was made from.

“This anonymous tipster, who has never come forward, tells the nine-one-one operator that a suspicious-looking man is lurking. What makes him suspicious? He is Latino, and is driving a pickup truck.” I throw up my hands. “Think about that. Today, in Los Angeles, a Latino driving a pickup truck is suspicious.”

I shake my head at the absurdity of that. “That is so idiotic it defies any credibility. It’s not even racist, it’s just dumb. Drive around any part of the city or county, from San Pedro to Chatsworth to Valencia to Santa Monica to Pasadena. You see Latino men driving pickup trucks, all hours of the day or night. It’s such a common sight that no one would think twice about it. But for some reason, this sighting arouses suspicion.

“So the police investigate. The man in the truck has a perfectly valid reason for being where he is. He is there to work. He has to wait until the proper time, because he doesn’t want to disturb the neighbors, so he eats his breakfast and reads his newspaper and doesn’t bother anyone.

“But the police, for some reason that is absolutely unbelievable, decide to search his truck. The reason they give is that he had been arrested before. They know he was found not guilty of that charge, but in their minds, an arrest is reason enough.

“Later on, they will point to the coincidence that this man’s earlier arrest happened in the vicinity of one of the previous killings.” I step closer to the jury box.
“But they did not know that at the time they demanded he let them search his truck.
All they had was an eighty-year-old man’s vague account of maybe having seen one of the victims talking to a man who had a pickup truck. He didn’t even know whether the man was Chicano. He was dark in complexion, that’s all he could say. An eighty-year-old man, looking at a pretty young woman, from almost a block away, in the dark of night.”

I walk back to the podium. “And that was the only excuse the police had to justify searching Mr. Salazar’s truck. That sounds like an awfully flimsy excuse to me. But they did it. Better safe than sorry, that was their excuse.” I give a little who-knows shrug. “Okay. I’ll buy that.”

I pause, and raise a finger. “But now here is something I am sure you remember. One of the detectives who searched that truck had already been to the victim’s home. He had been in her bedroom. He was in there alone. No one else was with him. He was alone in the room where the victim kept her soiled clothes, in her clothes hamper. Her soiled clothes, which included her worn underwear.”

It’s as if I have suddenly pulled the pin from a grenade and am holding the live grenade in my hand. Somebody might get maimed, and fast. You had better duck for cover.

“The detective who had been in the victim’s house, in her bedroom, is now the same detective who is searching Mr. Salazar’s truck. This is not an ordinary detective, by the way. This is the head of the task force. More than anyone, finding the killer is on his shoulders.”

Once again, I say, “He has to find the killer. He has to find
a
killer.

“Lo and behold, what does he find in Mr. Salazar’s truck? Buried under a floorboard? A pair of the victim’s panties.” My eyes widen. “My God, he did it! He found the needle in the haystack. A one in a million chance, and he pulled it off!”

The buzz in the room is electric. I can almost feel the floor vibrating under my feet. I would love to sneak a peek to see how Cordova is handling this, but I don’t dare. Instead, I sip some water, so that I keep my rhythm steady, and don’t rush.

“So what does he do? Does he leave the evidence in place, where he found it, so the other detectives who are searching the back of the truck can see where it was hidden?” I shake my head. “No, he doesn’t do that. He picks it up, puts it in a plastic bag, gets out of the truck, walks around to the back, and then shows it to his partners.” I catch myself. “Excuse me, not his partners. He is the boss. The other detectives work under him. They take his orders.”

Yet again, I say, “They had to find the killer. They had to find
a
killer.”

I stare at the jurors, turn to look at Salazar, then give my attention to the jury again. “And they did. They found him.” I point to Salazar, who sits in place, motionless and expressionless. “They found a killer.

“They take him to police headquarters, initially, so they say, for questioning. But later, they arrest him and book him for murder. Because of a pair of underpants that were in his truck. Hidden in his truck. Found by the police detective in charge of the task force. Who had been in the victim’s apartment, hours before. Who had been in her bedroom. Alone.”

There is a stirring behind me. I can’t help but turn and look. Cordova is on his feet, pushing his way past the other cops in the row where he is sitting. He quick-steps down the side aisle to the back of the room, pushes against the door, and leaves. Everyone in the room watches him.

I wait for the interruption to subside, then take up my story again.

“One thing that has been established, and this we don’t dispute—the victims knew their killer. They may have been having an affair with him. Some of them, anyway. Serially or at the same time, we don’t know. But I think both sides agree that there was prior contact, a prior relationship.”

I pivot, turning my body toward the defense table, so the jury’s eyes go with my movement toward Salazar. “Here is a man who works from dawn to dusk, doing hard, physical labor. Outdoors, where it is hot most of the year. He goes from job to job, barely taking a moment to grab lunch. He spends evenings and weekends with youth groups, church activities, and his family.” I practically roll my eyes. “When in the world would he have time for an affair, let alone several? It’s a preposterous idea. And let’s put our cards on the table—Mr. Salazar and the victims of the Full Moon Killer live in different worlds. I have the utmost respect for my client, but he does not mingle in their world. That’s life. He would be the first to agree with me, and my saying that isn’t going to hurt his feelings. He doesn’t need to have affairs, his life is already filled to overflowing.

“The only piece of physical evidence against my client is the pair of underpants Lieutenant Cordova found—so he says—hidden in Mr. Salazar’s truck. No other evidence was found. No other pair of panties from any of the other victims. When he was arrested earlier his truck was scoured from top to bottom, because there really was a reason for that. And did any underpants turn up? No. They did not. And this, remember, was right after that previous victim was found. Long before daylight. Doesn’t it make sense,” I argue, “that if his peculiarity is to remove the panties from his victims and keep them in his truck, as was the case,
supposedly,
a pair would have been found in that truck? But there were none.

“Let’s return to the theory, which, as I said, both sides agree on, that the victims knew their killer. That some, if not all of them, were having affairs with him. Would it not have been easy for the killer to take a pair of underpants at any time during that affair? And then later, when the heat is on, stash them in Mr. Salazar’s truck? I think that is a possible way this happened. Mr. Salazar did not lock his truck. It was unlocked all day long. He’s out back in someone’s yard, tending to their garden, and a pair of panties is hidden under the floorboard of his truck.”

I pick up a sheet of paper, part of the court transcript. Holding it in front of my face, I say, “This is the testimony of the DNA expert. The prosecution’s expert, Dr. Chatterjee.” I look down, and read. “Question:
Can you tell how recently Ms. Steinmetz’s DNA was left on these panties? Was it definitely on the night she was killed?
Answer, from Dr. Chatterjee:
Not necessarily. That would not be possible to know, because DNA lasts a long time. Months, even years.”

I put the document aside. “It lasts months, even years.” Crossing to the evidence table, I pick up the plastic bag that contains the panties that were taken from Salazar’s truck and show it to the jury.

“There is no evidence, not one shred, that proves or even implies that this pair of women’s underpants was worn by the victim on the night she was killed. None. Zero. They could just as easily have been worn days, weeks, or months before.”

I walk to the table and place the evidence back. “Just as easily,” I repeat.

“Now let’s talk about the prosecution’s other main claim against my client. The eyewitness identification. That went over well, didn’t it.”

Everyone in the room bursts into laughter; everyone except Loomis and his team, who sit at their table, stone faced.

“She absolutely, positively, unequivocally, without any doubt, one hundred percent, identified Mr. Salazar as the man who was with the victim the night she was killed. No doubt whatsoever. Zero. Nada. The victim and the man who obviously knew each other and were together right before she was killed. Right before. Minutes, maybe. Right before.” I break into a smile. “But guess what? When she came in here and actually saw Mr. Salazar face to face, not a picture in a book, not through a one-way glass, but looking right at him, standing a few feet from her, she could not identify him as the man who was with the victim. When she finally saw Mr. Salazar in the flesh, it turned out she had been wrong!”

I shake my head in disgust. “An eighty-year-old man looking at something from a block away in the middle of the night, and a witness who recants her sworn testimony. Those are the prosecution’s only witnesses.” I give a knowing nod. “Boy, that is great evidence. Ironclad. I sure wish we had such good evidence.”

The jury is smiling at me. They like me, and what I’m saying.

“Here’s what I think is a likely scenario. More likely than anything the prosecution has presented,” I say. “The police had to have a killer. We know that. Coming up empty again was unacceptable. The detective who went to the victim’s house could not resist taking a pair of her soiled underpants. It was too hard to pass up such an opportunity. But now that he has them, he has to find an appropriate suspect to plant them on. He doesn’t have one, and they’re running out of time. It’s five minutes to midnight. In five minutes their coach is going to turn into a pumpkin.

“And then, a miracle happens. A suspect falls into their lap. Some anonymous phone call comes in.” I digress for a moment. “That, by the way, ought to raise a red flag in your minds. Who made this call? Why? Doesn’t that feel fishy to you? It does to me. It really does to me.”

Back to my thesis again. “The police respond. And there is Roberto Salazar. All wrapped up for them in a pretty pink bow. All they have to do is connect him to the victim. And they do. Her undies are in his truck. A to B to C. Guilty.”

I come around the corner of the podium and lean against it. Two reasons. My back hurts, and I need to change my posture. And to bring an air of intimacy between the jury and me. I stare at their faces. They are giving me their full attention.

“The problem is, A to B to C don’t add up. They just don’t. There is no evidence that in any way connects Mr. Salazar to the victim. None. No other evidence was found in Mr. Salazar’s truck, his other truck, his house, anywhere he might have been. None. And the prosecution’s key eyewitness recanted her sworn testimony on the stand.”

Another gulp of water. I’m in the home stretch now. But there are still some loose ends I have to tie up.

“The panties, and a very dubious connection to Mr. Salazar’s whereabouts and the locations where the victims were found. Of course he would have been in those locations, that is where he worked. Not just for a year, the year these killings took place. For years and years before. If he is such a sociopath, why did he wait all this time before he went on his killing spree? Did something suddenly snap inside him?” I shake my head vigorously. “There is no evidence that he did, none at all. Not from any physical evidence, not from his psychological profile, which, please remember, the prosecution did not contest. Nor did they contest the findings of Dr. Leonard Silk, a renowned psychotherapist, that Mr. Salazar is not a sociopath. They couldn’t, because he isn’t. He is as sane and normal as you or me.”