The interrogation rooms doubled as interview rooms, the name just depended on who was sitting inside. There were eight of them, packed into a narrow hallway on the second floor, and a viewing room overlooking two rooms through one-way glass.
In room seven, Bullock sat across from a woman in a steel chair. She wore a stained gray hoodie and threadbare jeans. Maybe mid-forties, but the drugs had sanded down her age. Could've been thirty, could've been sixty. Her posture was relaxed, her eyes drifting casually around the room as if she were reminiscing. He wasn't surprised. She'd probably been in here before. Knew the drill. Looked more bothered than afraid, like she'd been forced to come forward.
A tape recorder rested between them. He hit record and recited the boilerplate, eyes fixed on her.
"State your name."
"Tisha Tamberlyn—go by Nessie," she said, with attitude.
"And what did you see?"
"Saw that girl they pulled from the dumpster—young, maybe eighteen, Asian—running down the street, screaming her lungs out. She stopped, slumped against a lamppost. Then this motorcycle came out."
"From where?"
"Tight alley just past the Turn," she said, pointing like she was standing there. "She ran and jumped in a dumpster. Motorcycle guy hops off, lifts the lid, peeks in, then lets it drop. Runs to a payphone. Makes a call. Then bolts."
"Which direction?"
"North."
"Where were you?"
"Across the street. In an alley."
"Just hanging out in the alley?"
"No. I was sucking off Eddie the Falcon."
Bullock stopped the tape. "Jesus Christ. Why the hell would you say that?"
"You asked, didn't you?"
"Who the hell is Eddie the Falcon?"
"One of the homeless guys. Regular of mine. Got a falcon inked on his thigh."
"You're working the street taking money from the homeless? That's cold."
"Ain't no one else lining up to fuck 'em."
"You ever wonder why? They're broke."
"Some get VA checks they just too fucked in the head to get stable. Eddie was like a Marine or something."
"You catch a make of the motorcycle? Or get a look at him?"
"He took the helmet off to call, but was wearing a ski mask. His bike was black," she said.
"Right," said Bullock, standing. "Wait here."
"Got a cigarette?"
He pulled a pack from his pocket, handed her one, flicked the lighter. Held the flame out and stared at her.
"Why come forward now?"
She hesitated. Her eyes darted, searching for an answer. Not the truth just something that would pass for it.
"Felt like I should say something."
Bullock stepped out. The hallway stank of old dried coffee. Footsteps echoed from the stairwell. He looked up. Fritzy, halfway down the hall. Blue uniform, no belt, and a manila file in his hand. One eye swollen shut, deep purple spreading across his pale skin.
"Got something for you, Harv," Fritzy said.
"It can wait." Bullock pushed into the next room. Chen and Rusty were in mid-conversation.
"No-no-no, the stripper from the Emperor Club was friends with the hand they found. She mentioned a guy named Bayli," Chen was saying. "Rode a motorcycle, took Polaroids. But the photos were found in the dumpster girl's room. Hidden behind a nightstand."
"Dresser," Bullock corrected.
"So we got this guy named Bayli rides a bike and takes pictures of Lan Nguyen." Rusty asked.
"And a motorcycle rider chasing Annh Le who had Polaroids taped to the back of her dresser." Bullock said.
"Gotta be the same guy, right?" said Chen.
"Wait, how'd she die?" Rusty asked.
"Tox screen isn't back. But Gordon said no drugs in her system—maybe a drugs?" Bullock said.
"How would he know that without a tox screen?" said Chen.
They didn't answer. The silence said enough.
Through the glass, Fritzy was now watching the next room. Johnson sat across from Alvin Meltcher, who looked like he didn't belong there.
Unlike Tisha, his eyes were jumpy. His body fidgeting like he were guilty of a crime. Johnson read the standard intro and got to it.
"I was paged," Meltcher said. "Reports of a sulfur smell. By the time I got there, it was gone."
"You went into the sewer?"
"Yeah. Routine check. When I got down there I noticed bubbling. Not too weird—we've had cracks in the concrete lately. I get closer, flash my light, and that's when I see it."
"Saw what?"
"A hand. Floating. Scared the hell out of me. I grabbed it with my glove. Then called it in."
"Seen anything like that before?"
"No. Nothing. Oh—one thing. Forgot to mention it last night. The hand was holding something. Looked like skin. Thin and dry. Like when snakes shed."
"Clenched? Or stuck to it?"
"Clenched. Like the hand tore it off something."
"What happened to it?"
"Drifted off when the hand floated away. Lost sight of it."
"How big?"
"About a square foot," Meltcher said.
"Square foot of snake skin?" said Bullock, scratching his neck. He had no damn clue what to make of it.
"Shedded-skin," said Chen, "And you notice how he said 'last night'?"
Rusty nodded.
"What's that mean?" Fritzy asked.
No one answered.
"What've you got?" Bullock finally asked.
Fritzy handed him the file. "Lee got called into the field but left this for Gordon. It's about a sweater he found in the sewer. Figured it should go to you."
Bullock flipped through it. "Clay?"
Chen and Rusty read over his shoulder.
"Sediment. Clay-like substance found on the back of the sweater," said Bullock, slapping the file shut.
"Probably from wherever she was kept," said Rusty.
"You think she was held somewhere?" said Chen.
"Ligature marks on the hand, and that Annh Le went missing a week prior. Gotta be something like that. Guy probably scopes out that club in Little Saigon—what's it called?" said Rusty.
"Inferno," said Bullock, plucking a half-smoked cigarillo from his pocket and lighting it.
"Wait—the girl in the dumpster was from Little Saigon?" Fritzy asked.
Bullock took a puff, watching Fritzy's eyes maul something over. "Spit it out, kid."
"I've been updating missing persons for Mendez. He warned me that an old woman in a purple wool coat from Little Saigon stops by at least every other night. Keeps reporting the same girl. He told her to go to her local precinct, but she won't."
Bullock thought for a moment. "Find Al. Get her name. Number. Everything."
"He's not in yet."
"Then use your head. You've got his home number. Call him. Wait outside the fucking precinct door if you have to. I want that woman's info."
Fritzy nodded and slipped out just as Johnson walked in.
"Fucking rookie. Don't know why Pollack's got a hard-on for him," said Bullock.
"Give him a break," said Chen.
"Hope you got a better lead," Johnson said.
"Maybe," Bullock replied. "Tisha said the rider came out of that narrow passage just past the Turn. On the other side of that street is St. Luke's Cathedral."
"So?" Rusty said.
"Gordon said punks or goths hang out at abandoned Pinkney buildings. St. Luke's is one of them, and it hasn't been open in a decade. If that rider came from there, maybe that's where he was."
"How does Gordon know where a bunch of punks hang out?" Chen asked.
They stared at him.
"Oh. Right," Chen said.
"We can swing by," Bullock said.
"I've got a stack of vice cases. Besides, those kids see you, they'll know you're a cop. They'll run for it," Johnson said.
"We'll handle it," Rusty said.
"Your crusty mug ain't any better," Bullock said.
"Fuck you," Rusty shot back. "We're not walking in. I know a guy—sells weed, hits different joints in Uptown. I'll have him scope it."
"Alright then, I'll talk to the old lady," Bullock said.
As Rusty and Chen left, Johnson stopped Bullock.
"You should take Gordon."
"Chief said he's out until we decide."
"But until then, he's still a homicide detective. You said he did good with the family. He'll be useful."
Johnson was right, he should bring Gordon. There was something about him, a quiet restraint that made people cautious, yet somehow earned their trust. But bringing Gordon meant admitting something he wasn't ready to say. Not yet.