Thursday had dawned bad and moved on to worse. A record heat wave currently swept LA and the city of angels was filled with cranky motorists and gun-toting devils. Don's weekly quota for dealing with the evil of the world had been met Monday, and unfortunately Tuesday and Wednesday continued the streak.
He was extremely thankful for the efficacy of his SUV's AC system as he pulled up to the scene. Colby and David were already there, speaking with uniforms and taking careful notes. As he wove through the maze of police cruisers, spectators and news vans, a tractor-trailer came into view. If the yellow police tape left little doubt, the coroner's van abolished the remainder: another death.
He alighted from his trusty steed and approached his team. Colby looked up and nodded in acknowledgement. He interrupted David mid-sentence to make introductions.
"Don, this is Detective Harrisford, scene commander, LAPD. Detective Harrisford, Special Agent Don Eppes, FBI." The detective held out his hand.
"Agent Eppes," he said, and Don shook his hand.
"Detective Harrisford. What've we got here?" The detective motioned them toward the back of the trailer.
"Something indescribable. Routine traffic stop for a broken taillight, the officer got that feeling and called in backup. Driver tried to assault the officer with a baseball bat, but he's the one in the back of that bus over there." Don looked where the detective motioned and saw a burly man, cuffed and unconscious. He whistled lowly.
"I'm not trying to sound arrogant here, but why did you call the FBI?" Detective Harrisford pointed at the license plate on the tractor.
"The tractor is from Alaska, and the trailer is licensed for the entire country. We have no way of knowing where this crime occurred. . ." Harrisford trailed off.
"And interstate crimes fall under Federal jurisdiction," finished Don. As they neared the back doors, Harrisford held up masks.
"Trust me," he said in response to Don's questioning glance. The three agents donned masks and the detective opened the doors.
Don was nearly driven back by the fetid wave released from the trailer. He pulled on his latex gloves and accepted the flashlight that Harrisford offered. He played its beam over the interior, and at first glance, estimated roughly forty bodies littering the floor. He took a steadying breath and looked at the detective.
"Coroner been in here yet?" he asked.
"No. We needed to wait until you got here." Don nodded and climbed into the back of the truck, Colby on his heels. They stepped gingerly over the bodies of several young women, some battered beyond recognition. It made Don's stomach lurch. By the smell, he knew that at least a portion of the women had been dead for the better part of a week. A movement to his left caught his eye.
"Rough estimate of forty-five, Don," said Colby as he rose from his crouch. "As near as I can tell, they're all women."
"Head out and call the coroner over. Put a call in to the Bureau for extra help. We're going to be here for awhile," replied Don. He played the flashlight's beam to his left, but saw nothing aside from the carnage arrayed in the trailer. He turned to leave and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Something was very, very wrong.
Heading for the back of the trailer, he moved the beam of the flashlight over the scene in a methodical grid pattern. Again, he sensed a movement to the left. He concentrated his search to that area, and was rewarded when he saw a hand twitch. Dropping to a crouch, he carefully moved limbs out of his way and began checking the bodies for vitals.
The third wrist he put his fingers to jerked. He hastily closed his hand over the arm and began to extricate the victim from the horrifying pile of human debris.
"Get the medics over here now!" bellowed Don over his shoulder. "We have a live victim! Harrisford, get in here and give me a hand!" The detective hopped aboard and hurried toward Don.
Don returned to his task. He followed the left arm to a shoulder and placed his fingers to the victim's carotid artery. The pulse, weak and thready, was there. He doubled his efforts and was rewarded when he was able to free her head and right shoulder. Harrisford held back the pile of dead with his body as Don gently pulled the victim free.
Her head lolled from side to side, and her eyes were fevered slits. Don pulled her to a clear section of floor and laid her down gently.
"My name is Don. We're going to help you. You're safe," he said as he shucked his jacket and began to wrap it around her. He looked out the door and saw the EMTs struggling to get through the mass of people and cars. "Let them through!" he yelled.
He returned his attention to the wounded woman. The right cross that connected with his jaw took him off guard and he fell back on his heels.
The woman screamed and tried desperately to back away from him. Harrisford saw what was happening and immediately tried to reassure the young woman.
"I'm a police officer. We're not going to hurt you," he soothed. She backed up until she met the side of the trailer. Don gathered himself quickly and approached her slowly. She cried out and struck at him again, but he saw it coming and dodged it. Harrisford kept talking calmly, trying to comfort the frightened young woman. Don took advantage of the momentary distraction and restrained her bodily.
The medics arrived and Don held the screaming, thrashing young woman as best he could while they tried to examine her. Finally, the strength born from her desperation failed, and the woman passed out. The medics started IVs and oxygen before they gently transferred her limp form to a gurney and wheeled her to the ambulance.
As the siren wailed into the distance, Don stood and rubbed his jaw. He hoped Friday was cancelled.