could have rideshared from the restaurant,” he reminded her.
“I wanted to come, Ryan,” she insisted, again biting her tongue despite the desire to ask additional questions.
He continued west on Ventura Boulevard deeper into the Valley. After another ten seconds of silence, he finally began to speak.
“So here’s the deal. I have a contact in the department who will occasionally alert me to cases I should be aware of.”
“Could you be a little more cryptic?” Jessie asked, unable to contain herself.
“I actually don’t have much more than that to share,” he said, ignoring her snark. “About four years ago, I got a call from a burner phone. The voice was digitally manipulated. The caller suggested that the prime suspect in the murder of a wealthy businessman was being set up and that I should look at political motivations for the killing.”
“This call just came out of the blue?” she asked.
“Yep. I was a junior grade detective without much to lose so I followed it up. The case was about to be closed. But I started asking questions and pretty quickly, the whole thing unraveled. It turned out that the businessman was a major supporter and fundraiser for a local city councilman. Once he died, the councilman’s funding dried up. His challenger was able to overwhelm him financially and won the seat. In the end, we realized the challenger for the seat had hired someone to take out the businessman for exactly that reason, to kneecap the incumbent’s primary source of financial support. He also had the original suspect framed so it would look like a random robbery gone wrong.”
“How did your contact know all that?”
“I have no idea. I’m not even sure the source knew the extent of the thing. I got the sense that the person, who I started calling Chatty Cathy, knew something was off, even if the details were hazy.”
“Is the source a woman?”
“No way to tell,” Ryan admitted. “But for the purpose of giving them a name, let’s say yes. Anyway, I started to get additional calls after that. Not often, maybe twice a year. They were always from burners using digital voice masking. And they almost always involved cases that seemed open and shut, but upon further investigation, were more complicated.”
“So Chatty Cathy is some sort of guardian against injustice?”
“Maybe,” Ryan said, not sounding as confident. “Or it could be something else. I’ve noticed that in most of these cases, the real story is messy and makes people in positions of power look bad. A lot of times, I think our higher-ups would rather go for the easy answer than get into the muck of uncovering crimes that might implicate folks with influence. By calling me, Chatty Cathy gets to raise the alarm about questionable cases without getting herself dirty or putting her career at risk. The goal may be noble but I think there’s some self-interest involved too.”
“So what about this case made her reach out?”
“I don’t know,” Ryan said as he turned right off Ventura Boulevard onto Coldwater Canyon Avenue. “She never tells me why a case is sketchy, just that it is. All I know is that a woman was murdered in the thirteen thousand block of Bessemer Street in Van Nuys. She was stabbed multiple times in the torso. The preliminary theory is that it was a robbery gone wrong; that the burglar didn’t think anyone was home and attacked the resident upon finding her.”
“Do they have a suspect?”
“They don’t,” Ryan said. “But according to Chatty Cathy, things are moving fast. The nine-one-one call only came in about a half hour ago and the coroner is already on scene, preparing to remove the body.”
“The detectives are okay with that?” Jessie asked, incredulous.
“My understanding is that they aren’t even there yet. The senior uniformed officer gave the order.”
“What?” Jessie said, dumbfounded. “That’ll compromise the crime scene. Can we stop that?”
“That’s why I said we had to leave right away,” Ryan replied. “Chatty Cathy said the coroner was trying to slow down the process but that we have about ten minutes before they have no choice but to bag the body.”
“How far away are we?” Jessie asked.
“Not far,” Ryan said as he turned onto a residential street doused in flashing lights. “It’s that building halfway up the block.”
They parked a few doors down and got out. Hurrying over, Jessie couldn’t help but notice that despite the lights, there weren’t as many vehicles as she would have expected. There was the coroner’s van, an ambulance, and two squad cars. Usually a murder scene would have at least double that many black-and-whites.
As they approached the building, the lone uniformed officer outside gave them a wary look. Ryan flashed his badge.
“What’s the story, Officer?” he asked.
Considering the time constraints, Jessie was surprised that Ryan was stopping at all. The young African-American officer, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, had a nervous expression and the name tag Burnside.
“Sir,” he answered, his voice cracking slightly, “we’ve got a Caucasian female, seventeen, multiple stab wounds to her chest and abdomen. She was found in her bed by her roommate.”
“Are the Valley Bureau detectives on scene yet?” Ryan asked.
“No sir.”
“Who’s in charge then?”
“That would be my boss, Sergeant Costabile from Van Nuys Station,” the officer answered as he pointed back to the right. “He’s inside. It’s apartment 116.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said briskly, grimacing slightly as he walked by with Jessie right behind.
“Do you know Costabile?” Jessie asked as she hurried to match his pace.
“Only by reputation,” Ryan said. “Hank Costabile’s not just old school, he’s ancient. And from what I hear, he’s a pit bull.”
“Pit bulls are actually agreeable by nature,” Jessie said a little indignantly.
“Point taken,” Ryan said. “But you know what I’m saying. He’s known to be…difficult. This could get ugly so be prepared.”
“What does that mean?” Jessie demanded.
But before he could answer they had reached the door. A burly officer named Lester stood just outside the taped off unit. He looked as wary as the cop outside but less nervous. Jessie observed that Ryan didn’t show his badge to this guy.
“This area is off limits,” Officer Lester said brusquely. “Police business. The officer outside should have told you.”
“Oh yeah?” Ryan whispered in a curious, very un-detectivelike tone. “What happened? You can tell me.”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Lester snapped. “Are you a resident of this building, sir? Because we can’t have civilians just wandering through a crime scene.”
“Oh no, we wouldn’t
