Pollard stood between the body shapes and considered the service ramp. It was about eighty yards away and sloped directly toward her. Pollard had an uninterrupted view of the ramp, but she knew this was in broad daylight with no cars parked in the area. Perspectives often changed in the darkness.
No marks remained to locate the positions of the cars, so Pollard opened the map that appeared in the Times. The three cars were pictured under the bridge in a loose triangle between the east columns and the river, with the car at the top of the triangle extending past the north side of the bridge. The car at the left base of the triangle was completely under the bridge, with the last car angled across its rear and a little bit to the east to form the right base. The bodies in the drawing were located relative to the cars and columns and were labeled by name.
Mellon and Ash had been together at the back of Ash’s radio car, which was the car at the top of the triangle. A six-pack carton of Tecate had been found on their trunk with four of the bottles missing. Fowler’s car was the left base of the triangle; completely under the bridge and nearest the river. His body was shown near the right front fender. Richard Holman’s car formed the right base of the triangle, with his body midway between his car and Fowler. Pollard decided that Mellon and Ash had arrived first, which was why they had parked at the north side of the bridge, leaving room for the others. Fowler had probably arrived second and Holman last.
Pollard folded the map and put it away. She studied the four steam-blasted spots on the concrete, no longer drawings on a page but the fading residue of four lives—Mellon and Ash together and Richard Holman nearest the column. Pollard was standing next to Fowler. She moved away and tried to picture their cars and how they were standing at the moment they were shot. If the four men were talking, both Fowler and Holman would have had their backs turned to the ramp. Fowler had probably been perched on his right front fender. Holman might have been leaning against his car, but Pollard couldn’t know. Either way, they were facing away from the ramp and wouldn’t have seen someone approaching. The shooter had come from behind.
Pollard moved to stand with Mellon and Ash. She positioned herself where their car had been parked. They had been facing south toward Fowler. Pollard imagined herself leaning against their car, having a beer. Mellon and Ash had a clear view of the ramp.
Pollard moved away to circle the columns. She wanted to see if there was another way down to the north, but the walls were hard verticals all the way to the Fourth Street Bridge and beyond. She was still searching to the north when she heard the gate clatter like the rattle of chains. She walked back under the bridge and saw Holman coming down the ramp. Pollard was surprised. She hadn’t told him she was coming to the bridge and hadn’t expected him to appear. She was wondering what he was doing here when she realized she had heard the gate. Then she heard the scruffing his shoes were making on the gritty concrete surface. He was half a football field away, but she heard him walking, and then she knew why. The towering walls trapped sound just like they trapped water and channeled it like the river.
Pollard watched him approach, but didn’t say anything until he arrived, and then she gave him her expert opinion.
“You were right, Holman. They would have heard him coming just like I heard you. They knew the person who killed them.”
Holman glanced back at the ramp.
“Once you’re down here there’s no other way to see it. And at night it’s even more quiet than this.”
Pollard crossed her arms and felt sick. That was the problem—there was no other way to see it, but the police claimed they saw it another way.
25
POLLARD WAS still trying to decide what this meant when Holman interrupted her. He seemed nervous.
“Listen, we shouldn’t spend too much time down here. Those guys at the loading docks might call the police.”
“How’d you know I would be here?”
“Didn’t. I was up on the bridge when you came down the ramp. I saw you jump the fence.”
“You just happened to be up there?”
“I’ve come here a dozen times since it happened. C’mon, let’s go back up. I was going to call you—”
Pollard didn’t want to go back to the gate; she wanted to figure out why the police had overlooked such an obvious flaw in their case, and was thinking about something Holman had said.
“Waitaminute, Holman. Have you been here at night?”
Holman stopped in the edge of the bridge’s shadow, split in two by the light.
“Yeah. Two or three times.”
“How’s the light at that time of night?”
“They had a three-quarter moon with scattered clouds on the night they were killed. I checked the weather report. You could’ve read a newspaper down here.”
He turned back toward the gate again.
“We better leave. You could get arrested, being down here.”
“So could you.”
“I’ve been arrested before. You won’t like it.”
“Holman, if you want to wait up at the gate, go on. I’m trying to figure out what happened down here.”
Holman didn’t leave, but it was obvious he wasn’t happy about staying. Pollard circled the murder scene, trying to picture the cars and the officers on the night they were killed. She changed their positions like mannequins in a store window, turning each time to stare at the ramp. She rearranged the cars in her mind’s eye, thinking maybe she had missed some obvious explanation.
Holman said, “What are you trying to figure out?”
“I’m trying to see if there was some way they wouldn’t have seen him.”
“They saw him. You just told me they saw him.”
Pollard went to the edge of the channel and peered at the water. The channel was a rectangular trough about two feet deep with a sickly trickle along its bottom. The shooter could have hidden down here or maybe behind one of the columns, but only if he had known when and where to expect the four officers, and both possibilities were absurd. Pollard knew she was reaching. The primary rule of an investigation was that the simplest explanation was the most likely. It was no more likely the shooter had lain in wait than he had jumped down from the bridge like a ninja.
Holman said, “Did you hear me?”
“I’m thinking.”
“You need to listen. I went to see Liz this morning to get the reports, but the police got to her first. They cleaned out Richie’s desk. They took the reports.”
Pollard turned away from the channel, surprised.
“How did they know she had the reports?”
“I don’t know if they went for the reports, but they knew she’s been helping me. They made it sound like they had to search his things because I had been there—like they wanted to see what I was up to. Maybe that’s when they saw the reports.”
“Who?”
“That detective I told you about, Random.”
“Random’s the homicide detective running the task force?”
“That’s right. When I was leaving, Random and three other guys jumped me. They told me Maria Juarez split and they’re blaming me for it, but I don’t think that’s why they jumped me. They knew we went to see Mike Fowler’s wife and they didn’t like it. They didn’t mention you, but they knew about me.”
Pollard didn’t give a damn if they knew about her or not, but she wondered why a homicide detective had taken robbery reports about Marchenko and Parsons. The same reports April told her were no longer available from Robbery Special because they had been pulled upstairs.
Pollard figured she knew the answer but asked anyway.
“Did you have a chance to speak with Mellon’s and Ash’s families?”
“I called after I left Liz, but they wouldn’t speak to me. Random had already seen them. He told me not to bother Liz anymore. Richie’s wife, and he warned me to stay away from her.”
Pollard then circled the crime scene again, shaking her head, careful not to step on the clean places w
here the bodies had dropped. She was glad Holman hadn’t asked her about them.
She said, “I want to see what’s in those reports.”
“They took them.”
“That’s why I want to see what’s in them. What did she say about Thursday night?”
Pollard circled back to her starting point, and realized Holman hadn’t answered.
“Did you remember to ask her about Thursday?”
“The floorboard of his car was messy with dirt and grass, she said.”
“So Richard was out with Fowler.”
“I guess. You think they were down here?”
Pollard had already considered the river and discounted it.
“There’s no grass and damned little mud, Holman. Even if they jumped down in the water and waded around, they wouldn’t pick up mud and weeds like we saw on Fowler’s boots.”
Pollard stared at the ramp again, then Holman. Where he was standing, he was perfectly split by the bridge’s shadow, half in light, half in darkness.
“Holman, you and I aren’t Sherlock-fucking-Holmes. Here we are in the kill zone, and it’s obvious the shooter could not have approached without being seen. He wasn’t hiding down here and he did not lay in wait—he walked down that ramp, came over here, and shot them. This is freshman detective work. Fowler, your son, Mellon, and Ash—they let him get close.”
“I know.”
“That’s the point. You and I aren’t the only two people who would see this. The cops who came down here would have seen it, too. They would know Juarez could not have ambushed these guys, but all their statements in the press claimed that’s how it happened. So either they’re ignoring the obvious or they’re lying about it or there is some mitigating factor that explains it, but I don’t see what that might be.”
Holman stepped back into the shade and was no longer split by the light.
“I understand.”
Pollard wasn’t sure he did. If a mitigating factor didn’t exist, then the police had been lying about what happened down here. Pollard didn’t want to let herself believe it until she had seen the reports. She still held out hope that something in the papers would make it all right.
She said, “Okay, here’s where we are. I went through the witness list from the Marchenko case and checked the witnesses against the calls your son and Fowler made. Here’s the bad news—Fowler called Marchenko’s mother two times.”
“That means they were investigating the robberies.”
“It means they were investigating the robberies. It doesn’t tell us whether or not they were doing it in an official capacity or doing it for themselves. We should talk to this woman and find out what Fowler wanted.”
Holman seemed to think about it, then looked away.
“Maybe tomorrow. I can’t do it today.”
Pollard checked her watch and felt a tick of irritation. Here she was, humiliating herself with her mother to help out Holman, and he couldn’t put himself out.
She said, “You know, I don’t have all the time in the world for this, Holman. I’m set up to help you today, so today would be a good day to do this.”
Holman’s mouth tightened and he turned red. He started to say something, then glanced at the ramp before turning back to her again. She thought he looked embarrassed.
He said, “You’re really going above and beyond. I appreciate this—”
“Then let’s go see her.”
“I gotta go see my boss. I haven’t been to work in a week, and the guy reamed me out today. He’s been really good to me, too, but Random went to see him. I can’t lose this job, Agent Pollard. I lose the job, and I’m fucked with my release.”
Pollard watched Holman squirming, and felt terrible she had pressed him. She also wondered again why Random was coming down so hard on a poor bastard who had just lost his son. She checked her watch again, then felt like an idiot for being such a slave to the clock.
“Okay, we can go see Marchenko’s mother tomorrow. I know a man who might be able to help get the reports. I guess I could do that today.”
Holman looked back at the ramp.
“We should go. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
Neither spoke as they walked back, but their footsteps were loud in the silence. With every step, Pollard grew more convinced that the investigation into the murder of the four officers was bad, and she wanted to find out the truth.
Pollard thought about Detective Random. He was pulling the shades on Holman’s sources of information, which was never a smart move for an officer to make. Pollard had dealt with dozens of journalists and overanxious family members during her own investigations, and shutting them out had always been the worst thing to do—they always dug harder. Pollard felt Random would know this, too, but wanted to protect something so badly he was willing to take the risk.
It was a dangerous risk to take. Pollard wanted to know what he was protecting and she would keep digging to find it.
26
POLLARD LEFT Holman at the river, but didn’t drive far. She crossed back over the bridge, then followed Alameda north into Chinatown to a tall glass building where Pacific West Bank kept their corporate headquarters. Pollard believed she had only one possible way to see the reports Random had confiscated from Richard Holman’s apartment, and that was through Pacific West Bank—if she could pull it off.
Pollard no longer had their phone number, so she called information and was connected with a Pacific West receptionist.
Pollard said, “Is Peter Williams still with the company?”
It had been nine years, and she hoped he would remember her.
“Yes, ma’am. Would you like his office?”
“Yes, please.”
A second voice came on the line.
“Mr. Williams’ office.”
“Is he available for Katherine Pollard? Special Agent Pollard of the FBI.”
“Hold, please, and I’ll see.”
Pollard’s most dramatic bust during her time with the Bank Squad was taking down the Front Line Bandits, a team of four Ukranians who were later identified as Craig and Jamison Bepko, their cousin Vartan Bepko, and an associate named Vlad Stepankutza. Leeds tagged the Front Line with their name because of their size; Varton Bepko, the lightest, weighed in at two hundred sixty-four pounds; Stepankutza tipped the scales at an even two-eighty; and brothers Craig and Jamison clocked in at three hundred sixteen and three hundred eighteen pounds respectively. The Front Line hit sixteen branches of Pacific West Bank over a two-week period, and almost put Pacific West out of business.
The Front Line foursome were one-on-one bandits who operated as a team. They entered a bank together, joined the teller line, then intimidated other customers into dropping out of the line. They approached the available tellers en masse to fill the bank counter with a wall of flesh, then made their demands. The Front Line didn’t whisper or pass notes like most one-on-one bandits; they shouted, cursed, and often grabbed tellers by the arm or punched them, apparently not caring that everyone now knew the bank was being robbed. Each man stole only the money of his particular teller, and they never attempted to rob the vault. Once they had the money, they fled as a group, punching and kicking customers and bank employees out of their way. The Front Line Bandits robbed four Pacific West branches on their first day in business. Three days later, they robbed three more branches. It went on like that for two weeks, a reign of nightly-news terror that became a public-relations nightmare for Pacific West Bank, a small regional chain with only forty-two branches.
Leeds assigned the case to Pollard after the first group of robberies. By the end of the second group of robberies, Pollard had a good fix on how she would identify the bandits and solve the case. First, they were only hitting branches of Pacific West Bank. This indicated a connection to Pacific West, and most likely some kind of grudge—they weren’t just stealing money; they were trying to hurt Pacific West. Second, Pacific West tellers were trained to slip explosive dye packs disguised
as cash in with the regular money. The Front Line Bandits successfully recognized and discarded these dye packs before leaving the teller windows. Third, once the Front Line Bandits reached the tellers and demanded the money, they never stayed in a bank longer than two minutes. Pollard was convinced a knowledgeable employee of Pacific West had taught these guys about the dye packs and the Two Minute Rule. Because of the grudge factor, Pollard began screening the bank for disgruntled employees. On the morning of the day the Front Line Bandits committed robberies fifteen and sixteen, Pollard and April Sanders questioned one Kanka Dubrov, a middle-aged woman who had recently been fired as an assistant manager from a Glendale branch of Pacific West. Pollard and Sanders didn’t have to resort to torture or truth serum; the moment they flashed their creds and told Ms. Dubrov they wanted to ask her about the recent robberies, she burst into tears. Vlad Stepankutza was her son.
Later that day when Stepankutza and his associates arrived home, they were met by Pollard, Sanders, three LAPD detectives, and a SWAT Tactical Team that had been deployed to assist in the arrest. The general manager and chief operations officer of Pacific West, a man named Peter Williams, presented Pollard with their Pacific West Bank Meritorious Service Award of the Year.
“This is Peter. Katherine, is that you?”
He sounded pleased to hear from her.
“The very one. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember.”
“I remember those hulking monsters who almost put me out of business. You know what we nicknamed you after you brought those men down? Kat the Giant Killer.”