The Pain Scale (19 page)

After Jen and I watched the DVD that had been the only thing in the safe, I could guess. And I was betting that Bradley denying any knowledge of the safe or its contents was the beginning of a carefully constructed legal strategy to avoid conviction for the murder of his wife and children.

The recording started innocuously enough. Three people were seated at one end of a large conference table. Two women, one young and one older, dressed in appropriate business attire, sat opposite a man with dark-gray hair in a dark-gray suit.

The man identified himself as John Willis, an attorney for Sternow & Byrne, gave the date and location, and then introduced the two women.

The younger woman, who had been identified as Heather Cassidy, had a weary weight hanging about her that seemed to tug downward on her facial features and curve her shoulders and spine forward in the manner of a much older woman. She did most of the talking.

Her attorney, Gladys Hernandez, established through a series of straightforward and simple questions that Heather had been employed by Bradley Benton III and his wife to work as a nanny for their young children during the summer of 2008. We watched another five minutes of the Q&A between the women; then the older woman asked, “Would you tell us what happened on August twenty-seventh, seventeen months ago?”

“It was pretty much just like any other day up until the end of it,” Heather said. “We stayed home that day. But the kids had a lot to do in the house. They swam for a while. Then they played inside most of the afternoon. Bailey’s friend Janine came over, and they watched videos. Jacob played with his Bakugan toys. He loves those. It was pretty much what we always did in the summer.”

“What happened that evening?” Gladys asked.

“Well, Mrs. Benton was out for the day. With her friend in Irvine, I think. And she wasn’t supposed to be back until late, so when Mr. Benton came home, I was supposed to be done for the day. He brought home food from P.F. Chang’s for everybody. Said there was too much for him and the kids and that I should stay. He’d always been really nice to me, so I did. I was a history major, but I was thinking about switching to prelaw. So he asked me all
kinds of questions about what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go to law school and all kinds of stuff like that. After the kids ate and went back to playing, we kept talking and he offered me a glass of wine. I didn’t know if I should. I was only twenty and I was his kids’ nanny, so I was worried what he’d think of me. He insisted, though, and went over to the wine cooler in the kitchen and poured two glasses. After I drank it, I started feeling tired. Later, I realized he must have put something in my drink. Roofies, maybe? It was way more than regular wine. I didn’t feel right.”

Gladys said, “What did you do?”

“I told him I didn’t feel good. He said I should lie down in one of the guest rooms. So I did. I dozed off a little bit. But then he came into the room.”

“Mr. Benton?” her lawyer asked.

“Yes.”

“What did he do?”

“He came in and sat next to me. Then he talked to me. And then he started touching me. I think I told him no, but I was so sleepy and out of it. He started taking off my clothes. I remember thinking that I should try to stop him. I knew I should try. I think I did. But I couldn’t. He tore the buttons off of my jeans when he pulled them down. I don’t remember much after that.”

“What’s the next thing you do remember?” she asked.

“Waking up when it was dark. I was still feeling funny, but I was alone, so I found my pants and put them on, and my shoes. My bag was still in the dining room. He wasn’t there, not anywhere that I saw him. I remember having to hold my jeans up with one hand while I ran outside. I knew I shouldn’t drive, but I just wanted to get away.”

“And then?”

“My apartment then was only about ten minutes away, so I went straight there. I wanted to take a shower and go to bed, but Crystal, my roommate, wouldn’t let me. She made me go to the emergency room.”

“You’ll see in the records we copied to you the results of the rape kit, which provided viable samples of DNA and Ms. Cassidy’s urine test, which confirmed the presence of Rohypnol.”

Gladys Hernandez had a look of triumph in her face. Willis was a blank slate. And Heather looked so broken that no matter how much they paid her to drop the charges, it could never have come close to replacing what she had lost.

After we played the DVD for Lieutenant Ruiz and the rest of the squad, we batted theories back and forth like a beach ball.

“Maybe he really doesn’t know about it,” I said.

Marty said, “Could be she was thinking about using it in a divorce proceeding. Hold it over him, threaten to release it to the press.”

“Maybe.” I could see the thoughts progressing through Jen’s mind as she spoke. “Or he could know all about it and is just thinking ahead to a possible legal defense strategy.”

Ruiz went next. “Or the Cassidy girl could be fabricating the story. We have a report of the rape?”

“No,” I said. “But the Bentons have plenty of juice. They could have had the record disappeared.”

Marty spoke. “Yeah. But if Junior really is gearing up for a campaign, this would be a hell of a threat to hold over him.”

Dave ate another donut. I thought we’d run out.

I asked, “Then why was Shevchuk killed? He had the safe. Was he refusing to deliver it?”

Jen said, “Or was it because he and Turchenko screwed up and killed the kids?”

“Back to one of the first questions—what was the objective?” Ruiz asked. “Killing Sara or taking the safe?”

“Both,” I answered. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Punish the wife, get the evidence.”

Dave displayed his usual sensitivity. “So you’re saying Junior paid the dipshit twins to do the dirty work?”

“Him or someone close to him,” I said.

“The congressman?” Marty asked.

“The hitter on Shevchuk was a pro,” Jen said. “Maybe ex-military?”

Patrick hadn’t spoken at all until he said, “If the congressman’s involved, maybe he’s not ex.”

That stopped us.

“Fuck,” I said.

“What?” Jen and Marty asked in unison.

“When’s the last time a murder went down right in front of you?”

Everyone grumbled and shrugged. Then, one by one, the cartoon lightbulbs clicked on over their heads.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s why we were all staking out the same location at the same time. Whoever did Shevchuk had access to the same bank records we did.”

“If it’s the feds, there’s probably nothing we can do,” Patrick said. We were all at our desks back in the squad. Ruiz had kicked us out of his office and closed the door.

Dave grunted. “You really think the sniper was GI?”

“He had a suppressed M4,” I said. “One shot, no witnesses.”

“A government spook is gonna kill his wheelman?”

“The driver dropped the ball,” I said. “I wouldn’t have made the SUV from the shot alone. The rifle shot gave me the direction, but it was the screech of the tires and the hurry to get out of the lot that confirmed the ID. Shooter probably figured that the only way he’d skate was to go it alone.”

“He was probably right,” Jen said. “The driver wasn’t that good at his job.”

“Maybe they’re not as good as you think,” Marty said.

I asked, “How do you mean?”

“They get a top-of-the-line triggerman, but an amateur behind the wheel.”

“Limited resources?” I said.

Jen said, “Not that limited, if they can access bank records and maybe tap our phones and computers.”

Ruiz opened his door and came out. “They’re moving Turchenko into segregation.”

Judging by everyone else’s expressions, none of us had yet realized that if Shevchuk was killed because of his involvement in the Benton case, then his partner would likely be next on the list.

Every now and then, I like to be reminded that my boss knows what he is doing.

Jen, Patrick, and I went to the Rock Bottom Brewery for dinner. It was no one’s favorite place, but it was close and busy and loud, the kind of place that might offer a distraction or two. We landed a table by the window facing Ocean Boulevard and ordered Titan Toothpicks, Ball Park Pretzels, edamame, and beers all around. We tried to chat, but with all that had happened crowding out thoughts of anything else, the conversation never went anywhere.

I mentioned Tim Grobaty’s column from the
Press Telegram
that morning. He’d been impressed that Long Beach City College had made it onto Homer Simpson’s Southern California must-see attractions, but upset that it had been placed behind such other highlights as the Watts Towers, the El Toro Y, and the Cerritos Auto Square. No one else had seen it. Pat mentioned a book he was reading called
36 Arguments for the Existence of God
. We didn’t get too far beyond his explanation that it was a novel rather than something about philosophy or religion. But it
was about those things. But it was a novel. Written by a philosopher. Something like that.

When the food came, Jen slid the soybeans in front of her and left the other crap to Pat and me. We dug in.

A
NSWERING THE BIG
question was really out of our hands. How would the Shevchuk murder and that of the driver in Seal Beach be investigated? They were clearly linked to the Benton case, but what would really be the best way to investigate them? Of course, Jen and I wanted one investigation, treating the subsequent killings as part of the same case. The decision, though, on such a high-profile case was out of our hands. Especially with the congressman involved. The scenario had changed dramatically, and while we didn’t know everything that was involved, we knew it was bigger than either a home invasion or a thrill kill that had gotten out of control. There was some kind of criminal conspiracy and the involvement of hard-core organized crime. Those would not go over well with the politicians at any level. We hadn’t felt the pressure yet, but we knew it was coming. The brass would surely want to take Shevchuk and the driver out of our hands and to treat Sara, Bailey, and Jacob as an isolated set of victims. And even with all of the coverage, so far none of the news reports had connected the Seal Beach incident to the Bentons. We hoped to keep it that way as long as we could.

We’d gone back to Jen’s apartment after dinner. She lived in a building on Fourth and Elm that had been renovated a few years earlier. It was nice enough, but the developers remodeled most of the character out of the building, and she didn’t really feel completely comfortable there. For all of her talk about the financial
advantages of a buyer’s market, I believed that was the biggest reason why she was looking for a house. To find someplace that felt like home.

“How hard should we push back?” Jen asked.

“You know me,” I said. “I’m the king of pushback. It doesn’t usually do me much good.”

She took a sip of herbal tea from a Smith & Wesson coffee cup and gave me a quizzical look.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing. That just seemed like a surprisingly self-aware comment.”

I couldn’t decide if that was a compliment or an insult.