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Decker stood. A dozen doctors charged through the door, scattering themselves about where needed.
Trampling on evidence.
As if that were important at the moment. But down the line it would make his job harder. As yet, no one was in charge. Since there seemed to be enough medical staff, he figured he might as well take control. He called over some officers, flashed his badge.
“We need to secure the area. I want a fifty-yard radius around the place, two officers stationed at every entrance. No one will be allowed in, no one will be allowed out unless it’s medical personnel or Homicide detectives. And I mean no one. Not even survivors of this mayhem may leave until it’s cleared with me. As hard as it will be, don’t let in any family members. Be polite and sympathetic, but firm. Tell them I’ll come out, speak to them, tell them what’s going on. I’ll inform them of … of their loved ones’ conditions just as soon as we make identifications. Certainly no one from the press corps will be permitted on the premises. If they start asking questions—which they will—tell them someone from the department will hold a conference later. Reporters who break the rules get arrested. Go.”
From the middle of the restaurant, Decker surveyed the room—the disheveled tables, the knocked-over chairs, the pocked walls, and shattered window glass. Graceful wallpaper had been turned into Rorschachs of blood and food, gleaming parquet-wood floors were now deadly seas of spilled fluids, broken crystal, and pottery shards. His eyes scanned across the bar, the kitchen doors, the hallway leading to the rest rooms, the windows, and the front entrance. He took out a notebook, began dividing the area into grids. He heard someone call his name—or rather, his rank. He turned around, waved Oliver over.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” the detective said.
Decker regarded him. Scott Oliver’s naturally dark complexion had paled even through his six o’clock shadow; his normally wiseass eyes were filled with dread.
“We’ve got to ID the dead.” Decker ran a hand through sweat-soaked, pumpkin-colored hair. “Let’s start a purse and pocket search.” He showed Oliver his sketch. “I’ll take the left side, you do the right. When the rest of the team comes in, we’ll divide up the room accordingly.”
“There’s Marge.” Oliver beckoned her near with frantic hand gestures. She arrived ashen and shaking, her shoulders hunched, taking a good inch off her five-foot-eight frame.
“This is horrible.” She touched her mouth with trembling fingers, then pushed thin blond hair off her face. “What happened? Someone just started shooting?”
Oliver shrugged ignorance. “We’re doing a pocket and purse search for ID of the dead. Loo, what about interviewing the survivors?”
Decker said, “Scott, you do the search. Marge, you start interviewing on Scott’s side—Bert, over here!”
Martinez pivoted, jogged over to his team. “Mary Mother of God, I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Take a deep breath,” Decker said. “Bathrooms are in the back.”
Martinez covered his face with his hands, inhaled, then let it out slowly. “It’s just the putrid smell. Actually, it’s … everything. God, I’m …”
No one spoke.
Then Decker said, “Scott and Marge are working the right side. You work with me on the left.”
“Doing what?” Martinez picked at the hairs of his thick black mustache.
“Interviewing the survivors or IDing the dead. Take your pick.”
“I’ll do the survivors,” Martinez said. “Tom’s on his way. You heard from Farrell?”
“Got hold of his wife. He’s coming down.”
“Think that’s a good idea, Loo? Man’s got a heart condition.”
“Gaynor’s survived close to thirty years on the force, he’ll survive this. Besides, he’s a wonder at detail work … which is what we’re going to need … lots of detail work.”
“And the captain?”
“He was at a meeting in Van Nuys when this went down. Should be here momentarily.”
Decker started in the far left corner of the room, at a large round table for twelve. Two Asian men lay crumpled and unattended on the floor, spangled with bits of china and slivers of crystal. Loose flowers had fallen upon their torsos as if marking the grave site.
Decker did a once-over of the area. About fifty feet away sat a huddle of business-suited Asian males. Nearby were two Caucasians—one female and one male wrapped in blankets and bandages. He nodded to the woman, she nodded back. Her hands and face appeared cat-scratched, probably scored by flying glass. Decker shook off anxiety, gloved, and carefully kneeled down. He checked the bodies’ pulses.
Nothing.
He went through one of the men’s pants pockets. A portly man shot several times in the face and chest. He pulled out a wallet. Carefully, he wrote down the deceased’s vitals from his driver’s license.
Hidai Takamine from Encino. Black hair, brown eyes, married, and forty-six years old.
Decker winced. His own age.
He glanced up. Martinez hadn’t moved, was looking down, staring at the bodies with vacant eyes.
Gently, Decker prodded him. “Get to work, Bert.”
Martinez blinked rapidly. He said, “You in Nam, Loo?”
“Yep.”
“So was I. Sixty-eight to seventy.”
Decker said, “Sixty-nine to seventy-one.”
Silence.
Martinez took a swipe at his eyes, then got to work.
By the time Strapp showed up, Decker had finished identifying the bodies on his side of the restaurant. The captain had given up the pretense of maintaining a calm demeanor. His thin features were screwed up in anger, his complexion wan. Decker brought him up to date as Strapp tapped his toes, his right hand balled into a fist that continuously pounded his left palm.
“Seven dead on my side.” Decker rolled his massive shoulders, stretched his oversized legs as his kneecaps made popping sounds. The bending was doing wonders for his floating patellas. “I’ve identified the victims from driver’s licenses. I’ll go out and inform the next of kin just as soon as I get a body count and names from the other side.”
He looked around, saw that Tom Webster and Farrell Gaynor had arrived. Tom was interviewing survivors along with Bert. Farrell was going through the pockets of the corpses on the right side as Marge and Scott attempted to calm the distraught.
Strapp shook his head, mumbled something.
“Sir?” Decker asked.
“Nothing,” Strapp said. “Just cursing to myself. At last count, there’s something like twenty-eight over at Valley Memorial’s ER. This is just … I’ve got a slew of shrinks outside for support groups … some ER docs as well … in case someone has a heart attack or faints when the news hits.”
“Shall I do it now, Captain?”
Strapp was still hitting his palm with his fist. “We’ll do the dirty work together.”
“What about the press?”
“Okay, okay.” Strapp started bouncing on his toes. “You handle the press, I stay with the family members. Keep the vultures behind the ropes. No announcements until I’ve finished dealing with the next of kin.”
Decker said, “Here’s a partial list of the dead. I’ll bring you the completed list as soon as I can.”
Both of them stalled for a moment; then they went their separate ways.
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Though bandaged tightly, the arm was still leaking blood. But the waitress refused to budge, watching over her brood of eight teenage girls with hawkish eyes. Her face was damp with blood, dirt, sweat, and fury. “I am not leaving them until they’re safe and sound with their parents.”
Marge said, “That may take a while, Ms. Anger. You really need to take care of that arm.”
The man sitting with them was the kitchen’s assistant chef—Olaf Anderson. He was pale, but his eyes were steady and his manner stoic. “You don’t do any good if you make yourself sick, Carol.”
“I am fine, Olaf!”
One of the girls—dressed up in a pink mock-Chanel suit—spoke up. She had long permed hair and red-rimmed blue eyes. Her mascara had streaked down her cheeks. “We’ll be okay, ma’am. You should get fixed up.”
Immediately, the girl collapsed into tears.
The waitress hugged her with her good arm, looked up at Marge. “When can they leave? It’s inhuman to keep them here. Right now, everyone’s too hysterical to help you out.”
“It’s true,” said the Chanel girl. “No one was paying attention, we were just like … ducking, you know. And screaming. Everyone was screaming.”
“And praying,” added another.
“You’re …” Marge looked at the pink-suited girl, then down at the list. “Amy Silver?”
The girl nodded.
“You just ducked under the table when the shooting started.”
Again, she nodded. “And screamed. I must have screamed a lot. My throat hurts.”
“Everything hurts,” added another teen.
This one wore a navy suit. Marge consulted her list. Navy suit was named Courtney. “Do you need medical attention, honey?”
Courtney shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “We just heard like these pops. Then everybody like started to scream. Then we like ducked under the table and like hugged each other. And cried … but like quietly. We were real scared.”
“Too scared to look at anything,” Amy said. “Except that awful green jacket … moving like a blip on a radar.”
“I didn’t see a thing,” Courtney said. “I had like my eyes squeezed shut and was praying real hard—Please, please, just let this be over.” Her eyes overflowed with water. “I’d like to call my mom if I could.”
“When can we see our parents?” Amy asked.
“Soon—”
“How soon?” Carol demanded. “At least let her call her mother?”
“I’m sure she’s outside.”
“So tell her that her daughter’s okay, for godsakes! And when can I call my mother? She must be worried sick about me. She’s not in the best of health.”
“Please, Carol,” Olaf said. “The woman is just trying to do her job—”
“I know that, Olaf. We are all trying to do our job!”
“You must have patience—”
“I’ve been plenty patient,” Carol shot back. “Now I want some action!”
Marge said, “Let me consult with my boss. You all stay put—”
“Well, we can’t exactly go anywhere with the Nazis blocking the doors.”
Marge kept her expression neutral. “I’m so, so sorry. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is cause anyone additional pain. I’ll be right back.”
Carol’s face was still irate, but she held her tongue.
Marge tried out a smile, but Carol responded by rolling her eyes. Before Marge made it to the door, Oliver flagged her down. “You’re going to see Decker?”
“Yeah, we’ve got to start letting some of the people out of here. It’s not fair—”
“I’ll go with you,” Oliver said.
They both stepped into the cool night air, shielding their eyes from the blinding glare of the headlights. Marge quickly counted fifteen vehicles—police cars, press vans, ambulances, and several meat wagons. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows as she made out a group of people inside the tape barrier, off to the left. They’d been sidelined. She could hear their anger stabbing through the mist.
The family members.
The gawkers, along with the press, had been penned outside the yellow tape perimeter, at least fifty yards away.
Marge spotted Decker. His complexion had turned pasty, his big hands had been tightened into white-knuckled fists. She shouted his name. He stopped walking, turned, and came toward them.
Decker said, “You have the finalized list of the dead?”
Oliver showed him the ominous white sheet. “Give it to the captain?”
“Please. I’ve already delivered my allotment of bad news.”
Marge said, “I’ve got a group of teenage girls—”
Decker said, “Go tell their parents. See some tears of joy instead of tears of agony.”
Marge felt her throat tighten. “You all right? What a stupid question.”
“I’m lousy,” Decker said. “Not a fraction as shitty as the group I just left.”
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and looked upward. A starless foggy night, a crescent of moon floating in an endless gray sea. “I’ve got to deal with the press.” He turned to his detectives. “Anyone tell you anything useful?”
Oliver said. “Everyone ducked as soon as the shooting and screaming started.”
Marge added, “Lots of screaming, lots of praying.”
