of the body dump in broad
strokes. As she filled them in on the results from the autopsy, she pulled her computer closer and pushed the flash drive into the USB port. Then she clicked the drive icon and waited a beat to see
what was inside.
It was a single file—a video file. Sanchez killed the overhead lights. Then everyone leaned closer as it began to play on her laptop.
The images were recorded at night and so degraded, Lena felt certain that the camera had been a cell phone. By all appearances, the photographer was more than nervous, hiding between two parked
cars and unable to hold the lens still. The entire video only lasted five seconds, then looped back to the start and began playing again.
She could see a car parked in the shadows about twenty-five yards away. A building stood in the distance with a neon sign on the roof. A man with blond hair was tossing something in the Dumpster
by the car, then turning toward the lens and bending over a large object on the ground. The man’s face was blurred beyond recognition. The sign on the roof of the building, lost in digital
noise. But as the shot ended, the last frame flashed a bright white. And in that instant, the large object on the ground took on definition.
The man was leaning over Jennifer McBride’s body.
“Jesus Christ,” Barrera said. “We’ve hooked a witness.”
“Or they’ve hooked us,” Rhodes said. “You think that was her purse going into the Dumpster?”
Lena glanced at McBride’s license on her desk, then looked back at the screen as the video recycled to the beginning and the man tossed the object into the trash.
“That’s her purse,” Barrera said.
Lena agreed, her eyes riveted to the screen. When the man turned back toward the camera, she clicked the pause button on the media player and the image froze. The man’s face remained out
of focus, but it was there. And he was wearing something around his neck. Something that glistened in the darkness. A medallion of some kind.
Barrera moved closer to the screen. “Madina thinks he’s a surgeon?”
“Someone with military training,” she said.
He shook his head, his face losing its color. “A doctor back from the war.”
Barrera’s voice died off. Lena could guess what he was thinking. After the autopsy, she had talked it over with Madina. If they were searching for a doctor with military experience, there
was a good chance the man had passed through USC Medical Center. Since the beginning of the Iraq War, the Department of Defense had been training medical teams in the hospital’s emergency
room. Because of the city’s high crime rate, this was the closest a surgeon could get to real combat experience. Saturday nights at the trauma center had all the living urgency of a
mass-casualty war zone. More than two thousand people were carried into the hospital with knife or gunshot wounds every year.
USC Medical Center might be a step in the right direction, but they would need more than a guess or a hunch before they made it. Some way of narrowing down the man’s identity.
Barrera glanced back at the video on the computer. “It looks like that could be a restaurant in the background. Any ideas where this is?”
“It could be anything,” Sanchez said. “The quality eats shit.”
Rhodes nodded. “We need to get this upstairs and see what SID can do with it.”
Barrera stepped back, chewing it over and looking at Rhodes. “You and Tito are in court this week. You’re on the same case, right?”
“We’re due back at the courthouse in an hour.”
“Who’s the prosecutor?”
“Roy Wemer,” Sanchez said.
Lena glanced at her watch. “And I’m ten minutes late for a meeting with the chief.”
“About what?” Barrera asked.
“The autopsy.”
“Forget it,” he said. “We’ve got a victim and an address. You and Rhodes are on your way to Venice. Tito, you’re going to the courthouse on your own. I’ll run
the video upstairs and check this
strokes. As she filled them in on the results from the autopsy, she pulled her computer closer and pushed the flash drive into the USB port. Then she clicked the drive icon and waited a beat to see
what was inside.
It was a single file—a video file. Sanchez killed the overhead lights. Then everyone leaned closer as it began to play on her laptop.
The images were recorded at night and so degraded, Lena felt certain that the camera had been a cell phone. By all appearances, the photographer was more than nervous, hiding between two parked
cars and unable to hold the lens still. The entire video only lasted five seconds, then looped back to the start and began playing again.
She could see a car parked in the shadows about twenty-five yards away. A building stood in the distance with a neon sign on the roof. A man with blond hair was tossing something in the Dumpster
by the car, then turning toward the lens and bending over a large object on the ground. The man’s face was blurred beyond recognition. The sign on the roof of the building, lost in digital
noise. But as the shot ended, the last frame flashed a bright white. And in that instant, the large object on the ground took on definition.
The man was leaning over Jennifer McBride’s body.
“Jesus Christ,” Barrera said. “We’ve hooked a witness.”
“Or they’ve hooked us,” Rhodes said. “You think that was her purse going into the Dumpster?”
Lena glanced at McBride’s license on her desk, then looked back at the screen as the video recycled to the beginning and the man tossed the object into the trash.
“That’s her purse,” Barrera said.
Lena agreed, her eyes riveted to the screen. When the man turned back toward the camera, she clicked the pause button on the media player and the image froze. The man’s face remained out
of focus, but it was there. And he was wearing something around his neck. Something that glistened in the darkness. A medallion of some kind.
Barrera moved closer to the screen. “Madina thinks he’s a surgeon?”
“Someone with military training,” she said.
He shook his head, his face losing its color. “A doctor back from the war.”
Barrera’s voice died off. Lena could guess what he was thinking. After the autopsy, she had talked it over with Madina. If they were searching for a doctor with military experience, there
was a good chance the man had passed through USC Medical Center. Since the beginning of the Iraq War, the Department of Defense had been training medical teams in the hospital’s emergency
room. Because of the city’s high crime rate, this was the closest a surgeon could get to real combat experience. Saturday nights at the trauma center had all the living urgency of a
mass-casualty war zone. More than two thousand people were carried into the hospital with knife or gunshot wounds every year.
USC Medical Center might be a step in the right direction, but they would need more than a guess or a hunch before they made it. Some way of narrowing down the man’s identity.
Barrera glanced back at the video on the computer. “It looks like that could be a restaurant in the background. Any ideas where this is?”
“It could be anything,” Sanchez said. “The quality eats shit.”
Rhodes nodded. “We need to get this upstairs and see what SID can do with it.”
Barrera stepped back, chewing it over and looking at Rhodes. “You and Tito are in court this week. You’re on the same case, right?”
“We’re due back at the courthouse in an hour.”
“Who’s the prosecutor?”
“Roy Wemer,” Sanchez said.
Lena glanced at her watch. “And I’m ten minutes late for a meeting with the chief.”
“About what?” Barrera asked.
“The autopsy.”
“Forget it,” he said. “We’ve got a victim and an address. You and Rhodes are on your way to Venice. Tito, you’re going to the courthouse on your own. I’ll run
the video upstairs and check this
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