I drove back downtown in a sour mood. I could feel the case stalling out, heading for unsolved purgatory. I was close to the truth, but I had no idea what to do next, how to take that final step to IDing the shooter. It was Friday evening, I was at a dead end, and I had only a few days left to work on the case. On Monday, Duffy would put me back on call, and I would soon be jammed up with another case, another cluster of characters to interview, another set of priorities and pressures, another mystery to unravel.
I pulled into the parking garage, walked to PAB, and took the elevator to the squad room. At my desk, I opened the murder book, but immediately shut it. I felt exhausted and couldn’t concentrate. If I could sleep for a few hours, maybe I would have the energy to return to the squad room and have another go at the case tonight. I locked the murder book up in the bottom drawer and returned to my loft. After undressing, I crawled into bed and closed my eyes. I tried to relax, but the horns, the squealing tires, the hydraulic hiss from the buses, the music blaring from passing cars kept me awake. I grabbed a pair of earplugs from the end table and slipped them in. But disconnected images from the case continued to flash in my mind: Relovich on the autopsy table; the crime scene photos; the blood splatter pattern on the wall; the netsukes and ojimes, their eyes glowing like coals.
In an attempt to relax, I forced myself to think about surfing, and tried to recreate the magnificent ride I had the morning at Point Dume with Razor. Finally, I dozed off.
I’m on the flank of a T-formation, searching for land mines and booby traps. My sergeant is in the center. The first thing an Israeli soldier learns is to fill his canteen to the top before going on a patrol because a sloshing sound can give him away. But I forgot. And now every step I take I hear the splash of water against metal. And every step it gets louder and louder and louder, until it sounds like huge waves pounding the shore with a deafening roar. Finally, my sergeant holds up his right hand, silently halting the unit. He grabs my canteen and pours out the water, steam rising from the desert sand. The steam becomes thicker and thicker. It soon envelops the unit. I hear footsteps in the distance, but I can’t see through the thick mist. I hear shouts in Arabic. Then the metallic click of a magazine shoved into an assault rifle. Then rapid-fire shots. Panicked, I run, but I’m blinded by the mist.
The ringing of my cell phone woke me. I bolted up, covered with sweat. Grabbing the sheet, I wiped my face, brow, and the back of my neck.
I picked up the phone. It was the vacuum metal deposition tech at the Orange County laboratory.
“Any luck getting a print off that desk handle?” I asked.
“It ain’t luck, my man,” the tech said. “We raised a latent for you.”
“And?” I asked.
“You don’t sound too excited.”
“Just a routine check. Probably a patrol officer at the scene.”
“It usually is. Give me a minute. I’ve got to find the file. Okay. I’ve got it right here.”
I yawned and wiped the sleep out of my eyes.
“A cop named Velang.”
“First name?”
“Sorry,” the technician said. “I can’t read my own writing. It’s Wegland. Wally Wegland. He’s a commander.”
So Wegland was at the crime scene. Why didn’t anybody tell me? That’s strange. But maybe it isn’t. He was good friends with Relovich’s father. When the old man retired, he asked Wegland to keep an eye out for his son. It would make sense for Wegland to head over to Relovich’s as soon as he heard about the homicide.
I remembered scanning the crime scene log, but couldn’t recall seeing Wegland’s name on the list. I decided to scan the names again. Maybe I’d missed Wegland. Maybe it would be worth looking through the log again and checking the other names on the list.
The murder book, unfortunately, was at my desk. I decided to walk over to PAB and read the log again.
I took a quick shower, shaved and dressed, and headed out the door.