Guilty

Chapter 3

Thursday morning - Three weeks earlier

The sun was beating down unforgivingly as Lieutenant Tragg stood over the body sprawled in the grass. At first glance, the scene looked innocuous, as though the prone figure were doing nothing more than sunbathing. But this was far from the case. The female jogger who had discovered the victim sat a few feet away on one of the park benches, emergency personnel trying to calm her hysteria. Her screams had quieted, but she was still shaking and crying.

Several yards away Sergeant Brice was attempting to keep onlookers at bay. Reporters circling the cordoned off area like vultures ready to swoop in and devour the carrion were jockeying for position, trying to get pictures or statements from the police. Beside the very much deceased person, the coroner was doing his best to examine the body, or rather, what was left of it.

Tragg thought he had seen all the cruelty humans could do to one another. He had survived the trenches in France, the mayhem the bootlegging era ushered in, even the barbaric slaying of domestic crimes. Yet the sight before him was etched in his brain, certain to haunt him for the rest of his days. Pushing his battered fedora back on his head, he took a handkerchief out to mop the beads of sweat from his brow.

Looking away from the sight on the ground to gaze out over the manicured lawn of Griffith Park to the city below, he tried to rationally analyze how this happened.

How did that madman manage to get to him? With all the security I had in place, he should have been spotted—apprehended, even. What went wrong? And what the hell happened to the men guarding…

"Lieutenant Tragg?" The coroner's voice broke into his thoughts.

He turned his attention back to the body and the doctor. His eyes were dark under the shadow of the fedora's brim but were just as sharp as ever. "Yes?"

"I can't tell you much, not until he's on my table. But I can tell you with certainty that he was not murdered here. There is no evidence of blood under or around the body. And with cuts like these, your suspect would have had to have time." He dusted off his pants at the knees to buy himself a moment before he concluded, "Lieutenant, you're dealing with a sadistic man. Your victim" he didn't have the heart to call him by name, "suffered. The sooner you get this man, the sooner I'll be able to sleep at night."

"Understood. Thank you, doctor." Tragg met and held his eyes, then allowed himself a small sigh.

The coroner took one last look before placing his hat on his head and walking away. A moment later a police photographer stepped forward with his camera raised, only to lower it and immediately turn away to gag. A second gag prompted him to dash for the nearest bush to lose what was probably his breakfast. Tragg understood completely.

In life, Judge William Canfield had been a paragon of the court—fair, honest and unimpeachable. On the bench for 20 years, he had probably made his share of enemies. But Tragg knew who the enemy was in this case - Jason Ainsworth. And he knew the judge's death had not been an easy one.

The photographer sheepishly returned to the body and began his job. The body was in six pieces: the head, arms and legs having been severed from the torso, obviously done with surgical precision. Glaring up from the torso, the word GUILTY had been carved deeply into the skin. If all of this were not horrifying enough, a particular part of the man's anatomy was glaringly missing.

Tragg looked at the pale face of the photographer and sympathized. "As much detail as you can, Clemmons. When we catch up to Ainsworth, I want the evidence in Technicolor."

Clemmons gave him a short nod, straightened his shoulders, and set to work.

Tragg took one last look at the body and then removed his hat. "I'm so very sorry, your Honor. I tried." Placing the fedora back on his head, he walked to the edge of the perimeter and faced the throng of reporters, holding his hands up to get their silence.

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant, over here!"

He waited until the murmurs and shouted questions stopped, then announced, "I will make a short statement, but I will not be answering any questions. No pictures, boys. Anyone violating this request will be considered a person of interest and will have his camera seized as potential evidence."

There were loud grumbles but when Tragg remained silent, quiet ensued. There were already rumors circulating among the reporters as to the identity of the body. No one had been allowed within ten yards, so no one could say for certain, but the scuttlebutt had it that it was someone involved in the Ainsworth case.

"At approximately seven this morning, a female jogging in the park came across the body of a deceased male. Police were called in. The body has tentatively been identified as that of William Canfield. There will be no additional details until further investigation can be performed. Thank you for your cooperation, and please give my officers space to do their jobs."

The response was shocked silence, then the inevitable questions started. Tragg stood there, silent, determined, and unbelievably sad. One intrepid reporter snapped off a picture of him like that. He didn't even notice. After a full minute of stillness, he nodded to himself, then looked over his shoulder at the black bag being loaded into the coroner's van.

Abruptly he turned back to the reporters. "When you report this to the public, make sure you show the respect in death that you showed Judge Canfield in life. I think we owe him that. Thank you."

Walking away, his body sagged as if the weight of the whole city was suddenly heaped on his shoulders. He was already lost in his thoughts again, mulling over what steps he needed to do next, when a gentle hand gripped his arm.

"Tragg?"

He looked up into the intense blue eyes of the lawyer. He tried to give him half a smile, but it didn't make the grade. "I might have known you'd show up, Mason."

Perry dropped his hand and kept pace with him as they walked. "Paul heard something over the police scanner." He hesitated, then asked, "How did he get to the judge?"

Tragg didn't answer that right away. Instead, he admitted, "Perry, I've never seen such sadistic cruelty in my entire life. We are dealing with someone—I'm not even sure he's human."

"How did he get to the judge?" he asked again, searching the detective's face. "I know you had a protection detail on him."

"I don't know, Perry. That's another concern. We have no idea where the security detail is." He looked at the lawyer thoughtfully, then with a note of reproach, hedged, "Speaking of security…"

Perry smiled, pointing to where his car sat with Paul leaning against the fender. "He's on the job."

"Perry, I wish you'd let me give you some extra men. Even if Drake is a pain in the neck, I'd… well, I'd still hate for anything to happen to him." He met his eyes again. "Or you."

"It's okay. Paul called in reinforcements the minute we heard the news."

Tragg again looked back to the spot on the grass. "Just keep them close, very close. Or you could do me a favor and finally take an extended vacation. Europe must be nice this time of year."

Perry shook his head and gave the older man's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "No dice, Tragg. I have things I need to do. Other cases and clients. But I appreciate the sentiment." He paused, then added seriously, "And you keep Sergeant Brice close to you. I'd hate to have to train someone else."

"Get outta here," Tragg grunted, but for the first time all morning, there was an upward tick at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a smile, but at least it was something.

Perry chuckled softly as he headed back to his car, but there was no humor when he walked up to Paul.

"How bad was it?" Paul tossed out the cigarette he had been smoking, lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the overhead sun.

Perry shook his head. "Paul, how many men do you have on us?"

"Four."

It isn't going to be enough. An army might not be enough. "I want you to call in every operative you have in Los Angeles. I want two more on Della, two on Tragg and as many as you think necessary on Burger."

"Perry, that's—"

"He got to Judge Canfield."

"They will be in place no later than noon. Just one thing, Perry."

His friend studied his expression and waited.

"The more men I put on Della, the more obvious it becomes where she is. You promised to stay focused. With Ainsworth getting to the judge, you can't afford to get complacent."

"Putting security around Tragg, Burger and Della isn't complacency."

"No," Paul agreed. "But it isn't the best use of our resources. At some point, I'll need my men to be able to scramble, in case there's . . ." He didn't need to finish the thought.

In case there's a slip-up. In case Della or I am taken. In case . . .

Even with the unrelenting heat of a bright, clear Los Angeles morning, Perry felt chilled. Ainsworth was not some low-intelligence villain after a quick revenge. He was intelligent, cunning, and able to move around undetected. No amount of bodyguards would stop a man like that. He shivered. Fear, insidious and real, wormed its way into his mind, obscuring reason and overpowering his senses.

Now he was truly afraid.