Dr. Death

CHAPTER 35

IT TOOK A while for the sheriffs to arrive from the Malibu substation, even longer to assemble a squad to travel up to the ridge. A small army of nervous, itchy-fingered men in tan uniforms, each deputy assuming the shooter was still around, wouldn't hesitate to fire.

As we waited for the group to assemble, Milo hung out with the coroner, did his best to let the sheriffs feel they were in charge while managing to inspect everything. He asked me to comfort Tanya Stratton, but I ended up doing nothing of the sort. She shut me out, refused to talk, obtained whatever solace she desired by muttering to her sister over a cell phone and stroking her dog. I watched her from a distance. The deputies had shunted her away from the crime scene and she sat on the ground beneath a silver-dollar tree, knees drawn up, occasionally pummeling herself softly on the jaw. Her sunglasses were back on, so I couldn't read her eyes. The rest of her face said she was shocked, furious, wondering how many other mistakes she'd make over the rest of her life.

While we'd waited for sheriffs, Milo had inspected the cabin. No obvious trophies. Not much of anything in there. A careful search, carried out later in the day, revealed nothing of an evidentiary nature, other than the doctor's bag. Old, burnished leather, gold initials over the clasp: EHM.

Tanya Stratton claimed she'd never seen it. I believed her. Ulrich would have hidden it from her, produced it only when he was ready to use it. A while longer, and she might've lost the opportunity to make any mistakes at all.

Inside the bag were scalpels, scissors, other shiny things; a coil of I.V. tubing, sterile-packed hollow needles in various gauges. Rolls of gauze. Disposable hypodermic injectors, little ampules with small-print labels.

Thiopental. Potassium chloride.

The bag was taken into custody by a sheriff's detective, but he never bothered to ask what the gold initials stood for and Milo didn't volunteer the information. When the search party was ready, he and I rode along, sitting in back of a squad car, listening to nervous-talk from the two deputies in front.

The wounds-the way they'd passed through Ulrich at that distance, the size of the exits-indicated a high-velocity bullet, probably a military rifle, a good-quality scope. Someone who knew what he was doing.

How hard it would be to see the shooter if he'd chosen to barricade himself among the pines.

I knew he hadn't. He'd done his job, no reason to stick around.

Gaining access to the pines wasn't very difficult. The same road that had swept us past the property with the broken mailbox continued its climb for another mile before forking. The right fork reversed direction, descending back down toward the coast, but never completing the journey as it dead-ended at a forest preserve named after a long-dead California settler. A state-printed sign said scenic views were up ahead, but no path was provided, the curious were proceeding at their own risk.

The party fa

We followed him to the far end of the forest, where the outermost trees, granted the best light, grew tallest and thickest. Nice clear view of the ugly little cabin and adjoining acreage. Nice view of the ocean, too. As the cops talked, my eyes drifted toward blue. I spotted a steamer gliding across the horizon, dust specks in the sky that were probably gulls.

Waiting up here wouldn't have been that bad. How long had the shooter been waiting?

How had he figured it out? Coming across the same detail I had? His copy of the file-the original file. The case of Marissa Bonpaine.

He'd claimed to be flying up to Seattle. Just a few hours ago, I'd taken him at his word, figured he wanted to review the details of Marissa's murder, cross-reference with Michael Burke's med-school schedule, what he knew about Mate's murder. Discovery by hikers.

Had he flown back to L.A. to trail the "hiker," gotten here a wee bit faster than Milo and me?

Or had Seattle been a lie and he'd never left. Figuring it out by doing exactly what I'd done: harnessing the power of obsession. Then watching, stalking, waiting… He was a patient man, had persisted so many years, another few days wouldn't matter.

Kill-spot with a view.

Had he laid his rifle down lovingly on a rectangle of oilcloth while he ate a sandwich? Drank something from a thermos? Made sure the lens of the scope was clean?

His own little picnic. The irony…

The cops kept talking, convincing themselves they needn't search any further, no one else was going to get shot today. I turned away from the ocean, looked down at the cabin, now fronted by coroner's vans and squad cars, tried to see it as Leimert Fusco had seen it.

"Yeah, this has got to be it, the angle's perfect," said the Muir walker. "Look how it gets flat, and there's that rock he could prop his gear against. Maybe he left some trace evidence, let's get the techies up here."

The techies came. Milo told me later they found nothing, not even a tire track.

That didn't surprise me. I knew Fusco couldn't have parked too far from his vantage point and been able to make his escape that quickly. Driving to the left-hand fork and disappearing into hills laced with side roads, most of which ended in box canyons, a few feeding to the Valley, the freeway, alleged civilization.

He'd known which road to take because he was a pla

The main risk had been leaving his car at the side of the road. But even if someone had seen it, recorded the license plate for some reason, no big deal. It would end up traced back to a rented vehicle, hired with false I.D.

So, sure, he'd parked close.

No way he could've hiked far carrying all that gear- the military rifle, the high-grade scope.

Not with that limp.

"Easy shot," said another deputy. "Like picking off quail. Wonder what this guy did that pissed someone off so bad."

"Who says he did anything?" said another cop. "Nowadays, it doesn't take anything to get some nut going."

Milo laughed.

The men in tan stared at him.

He said, "Long day, fellows."

"It ain't over yet," said Muir-man. "We've still got to find the dude."

Milo laughed again.

CHAPTER 36

NOVEMBER is L.A. 's most beautiful month. Temperatures get considerate, the air acquires the squeaky, scrubbed flavor of a world without hydrocarbons, the light's as sweet and golden as a caramel apple. In November, you can forget that the Chumash Indians called the basin L.A. sits in the Valley of Smoke.

Late in November, I drove out to Lancaster.

A month and a half after the slaughter of Eldon Mate. Weeks after Milo had finished cataloging the contents of four cardboard cartons located in a Panorama City storage locker rented by Paul Ulrich under the name Dr. L. Pasteur.

A key found in Ulrich's bedroom nightstand led to the locker. Nothing very interesting was found in the house itself. Tanya Stratton vacated the premises within days of the shooting in Malibu.

The cartons were beautifully organized.

The first contained newspaper clippings, neatly folded, filed in chronological order, tagged with the names of victims. The details of Roger Sharveneau's suicide had been preserved meticulously. So had the death of a teenage girl named Victoria Leigh Fusco.

Number two held meticulously pressed clothing predominantly women's undergarments, but a few dresses, blouses and neckties, as well.