Rage

O
n a slow, chilly Saturday in December, shortly after
the Lakers overcame a sixteen-point halftime deficit and beat New Jersey, I got
a call from a murderer.

I
hadn’t watched basketball since college, had returned to it because I was
working at developing my leisure skills. The woman in my life was visiting her
grandmother in Connecticut, the woman who used to be in my life was living in
Seattle with her new guy— temporarily, she claimed, as if I had a right to
care— and my caseload had just abated.

Three
court cases in two months: two child-custody disputes, one relatively benign,
the other nightmarish; and an injury consult on a fifteen-year-old girl who’d
lost a hand in a car crash. Now all the papers were filed and I was ready for a
week or two of nothing.

I’d
downed a couple of beers during the game and was nearly dozing on my living
room sofa. The distinctive squawk of the business phone roused me. Generally, I
let my service pick up. Why I answered, I still can’t say.

“Dr.
Delaware?”

I
didn’t recognize his voice. Eight years had passed.

“Speaking.
Who’s this?”

“Rand.”

Now I
remembered. The same slurred voice deepened to a man’s baritone. By now he’d be
a man. Some kind of man.

“Where
are you calling from, Rand?”

“I’m
out.”

“Out
of the C.Y.A.”

“I,
uh . . . yeah, I finished.”

As if
it had been a course of study. Maybe it had been. “When?”

“Coupla
weeks.”

What
could I say?
Congratulations? God help us?

“What’s
on your mind, Rand?”

“Could
I, uh, talk to you?”

“Go
ahead.”

“Uh,
not this . . . like talk . . . for real.”

“In
person.”

“Yeah.”

The
living room windows were dark. Six forty-five p.m. “What do you want to talk
about, Rand?”

“Uh,
it would be . . . I’m kinda . . .”

“What’s
on your mind, Rand?”

No
answer.

“Is
it something about Kristal?”

“Ye-ah.”
His voice broke and bisected the word.

“Where
are you calling from?” I said.

“Not
far from you.”

My
home office address was unlisted.
How do you know where I live?

I
said, “I’ll come to you, Rand. Where are you?”

“Uh,
I think . . . Westwood.”

“Westwood
Village?”

“I
think . . . lemme see . . .” I heard a clang as
the phone dropped. Phone on a cord, traffic in the background. A pay booth. He
was off the line for over a minute.

“It
says Westwood. There’s this big uh, a mall. With this bridge across.”

A
mall.
“Westside Pavilion?”

“I
guess.”

Two
miles south of the village. Comfortable distance from my house in the Glen.
“Where in the mall are you?”

“Uh,
I’m not in there. I kin see it across the street. There’s
a . . . I think it says Pizza. Two z’s . . .
yeah, pizza.”

Eight
years and he could barely read. So much for rehab.

It
took awhile but I got the approximate location: Westwood Boulevard, just north
of Pico, east side of the street, a green and white and red sign shaped like a
boot.

“I’ll
be there in fifteen, twenty minutes, Rand. Anything you want to tell me now?”

“Uh,
I . . . can we meet at the pizza place?”

“You
hungry?”

“I
ate breakfast.”

“It’s
dinnertime.”

“I
guess.”

“See
you in twenty.”

“Okay . . .
thanks.”

“You
sure there’s nothing you want to tell me before you see me?”

“Like
what?”

“Anything
at all.”

More
traffic noise. Time stretched.

“Rand?”

“I’m
not a bad person.”

W
hat happened to Kristal Malley was no whodunit.

The
day after Christmas, the two-year-old accompanied her mother to the Buy-Rite
Plaza in Panorama City. The promise of MEGA-SALE!!! DEEP DISCOUNTS!!! had
stuffed the shabby, fading mall with bargain-hunters. Teenagers on winter break
loitered near the Happy Taste food court and congregated among the CD racks of
Flip Disc Music. The black-lit box of din that was the Galaxy Video Emporium
pulsed with hormones and hostility. The air reeked of caramel corn and mustard
and body odor. Frigid air blew through the poorly fitting doors of the recently
closed indoor ice-skating rink.

Kristal
Malley, an active, moody toddler of twenty-five months, managed to elude her
mother’s attention and pull free of her grasp. Lara Malley claimed the lapse
had been a matter of seconds; she’d turned her head to finger a blouse in the
sale bin, felt her daughter’s hand slip from hers, turned to grab her, found
her gone. Elbowing her way through the throng of other shoppers, she’d searched
for Kristal, calling out her name. Screaming it.

Mall
security arrived; two sixty-year-old men with no professional police
experience. Their requests for Lara Malley to calm down so they could get the
facts straight made her scream louder and she hit one of them on the shoulder.
The guards restrained her and phoned the police.

Valley
uniforms responded fourteen minutes later and a store-by-store search of the
mall commenced. Every store was scrutinized. All bathrooms and storage areas
were inspected. A troop of Eagle Scouts was summoned to help. K-9 units
unleashed their dogs. The canines picked up the little girl’s scent in the
store where her mother had lost her. Then, overwhelmed by thousands of other
smells, the dogs nosed their way toward the mall’s eastern exit and floundered.

The
search lasted six hours. Uniforms talked to each departing shopper. No one had
seen Kristal. Night fell. Buy-Rite closed. Two Valley detectives stayed behind
and reviewed the mall’s security videotapes.

All
four machines utilized by the security company were antiquated and poorly
maintained, and the black-and-white films were hazy and dark, blank for minutes
at a time.

The
detectives concentrated on the time period immediately following Kristal
Malley’s reported disappearance. Even that wasn’t simple; the machines’ digital
readouts were off by three to five hours. Finally, the right frames were
located.

And
there it was.

Long
shot of a tiny figure dangling between two males. Kristal Malley had been
wearing sweatpants and so did the figure. Tiny legs kicked.

Three
figures exiting the mall at the east end. Nothing more; no cameras scanned the
parking lot.

The
tape was replayed as the D’s scanned for details. The larger abductor wore a
light-colored T-shirt, jeans, and light shoes, probably sneakers. Short, dark
hair. From what the detectives could tell, he seemed heavily built.

No
facial features. The camera, posted high in a corner, picked up frontal views
of incoming shoppers but only the backs of those departing.

The
second male was shorter and thinner than his companion, with longer hair that
appeared blond. He wore a dark-colored tee, jeans, sneakers.

Sue
Kramer said, “They look like kids to me.”

“I
agree,” said Fernie Reyes.

They continued
viewing the tape. For an instant, Kristal Malley had twisted in her captor’s
grasp and the camera caught 2.3 seconds of her face.

Too
distant and poorly focused to register anything but a tiny, pale disk. The lead
detective, a DII named Sue Kramer, had said, “Look at that body language. She’s
struggling.”

“And
no one’s noticing,” said her partner, Fernando Reyes, pointing to the stream of
shoppers pouring in and out of the mall. People flowed around the little girl
as if she were a piece of flotsam in a marina.

“Everyone
probably figured they were horsing around,” said Kramer. “Dear God.”

* * *

Lara
Malley had already viewed the tape through tears and hyperventilated breathing,
and she didn’t recognize the two abductors.

“How
can I?” she whimpered. “Even if I knew them, they’re so far away.”

Kramer
and Reyes played it for her again. And again. Six more times. With each
viewing, she shook her head more slowly. By the time a uniform entered the
security room and announced “The father’s here,” the poor woman was nearly
catatonic.

* * *

Figuring
the video arcade attracted kids to the mall, the detectives brought in Galaxy’s
owner and the two clerks who’d been on duty, brothers named Lance and Preston
Kukach, acned, high-school dropout geeks barely out of their teens.

It
took only a second for the owner to say, “The tape stinks but that’s Troy.” He
was a fifty-year-old Caltech-trained engineer named Al Nussbaum, who’d made
more money during three years of renting out video machines than a decade at
the Jet Propulsion Labs. That day, he’d taken his own kids horseback riding,
had come in to check the receipts.

“Which
one’s Troy?” said Sue Kramer.

Nussbaum
pointed to the smaller kid in the dark T-shirt. “He comes in all the time,
always wears that shirt. It’s a Harley shirt, see the logo, here?”

His
finger tapped the back of the tee. To Kramer and Reyes, the alleged winged logo
was a faint gray smudge.

“What’s
Troy’s last name?” said Kramer.

“Don’t
know, but he’s a regular.” Nussbaum turned to Lance and Preston. The brothers
nodded.

Fernie
Reyes said, “What kind of kid is he, guys?”

“Asshole,”
said Lance.

“Caught
him trying to steal scrip once,” said Preston. “He leaned over the counter
right when I was there and grabbed a roll. When I took it away he tried to whale
on me, but I kicked his butt.”

“And
you let him come
back
?” said Nussbaum.

The
clerk flushed.

“We’ve
got a policy,” Nussbaum told the detectives. “You steal, you’re out. Top of
that, he
hit
you!”

Preston
Kukach stared at the floor.

“Who’s
the other one?” said Sue Kramer, pointing to the larger boy.

Preston
kept his head down.

“If
you know, spit it out,” Al Nussbaum demanded.

“Don’t
know his name. He’s here once in a while, never plays.”

“What
does he do?” said Sue Kramer.

“Hangs
out.”

“With
who?”

“Troy.”

“Always
Troy?”

“Yeah.”

“Troy
plays and this one hangs.”

“Yeah.”

Al
Nussbaum said, “Now that you know who they are, why aren’t you going after them
pronto, finding that kid?”

Reyes
turned to the clerks. “What does hanging consist of?”

“He
stands around while Troy plays,” said Lance.

“He
ever try to steal?”

Head
shakes from the Kukach brothers.

“Ever
see either of them with little kids?”

“Nope,”
said Lance.

“Never,”
said Preston.

“What
else can you tell us about them?” said Reyes.

Shrugs.

“Anything,
guys. This is serious.”

“Spit
it out,” said Al Nussbaum.