Intimate Relations: A Finn O'Brien Crime Thriller

by Rebecca Forster

  The doctor ran through the basics. Blood had been sent to the lab, but Paul didn't expect any surprises. Given the shape of the organs he doubted they would find drugs or excessive alcohol. The liver was pink and healthy, the heart free of obstruction, lungs were clear. She was missing her appendix and her thyroid. The thyroid was unusual for a person her age — which he put between eighteen and twenty-five.

  Musculature was in good shape, but she was no athlete. He speculated that she belonged to a gym because her muscles were long and lean. Her abs were taut, but that had more to do with her age than a strenuous workout. Bottom line, had she not been dead she would be the picture of health.

  The lower jaw was surprisingly intact considering the damage to the upper face. Pictures had been taken. The teeth she had left were well cared for. Braces had been applied. Paul found no evidence of fillings, root canals or other invasive dental procedures. If there was any it might have been done in the upper jaw but there the destruction was massive. He collected all shatters and shards of teeth and bone, and sent them along to the lab. He asked for an expedited report, but with such perfect teeth matching dental records was a dead end.

  "Now, let's move up a bit," Paul said.

  Both hands cupped the girl's face at cheek level without touching her, a gentle expression of care.

  "Right here is where it gets interesting. You see how the nasal, temporal and zygomatic bones are literally pulverized?" Cori nodded, knowing she would have to look up the word zygomatic, but she didn't want to stop him when he was on a roll. "The frontal bone here remains intact."

  Cori tiptoed up to peer to the other side of the girl's face.

  "But that only happens on one side. So did the perp come at her with a flat object and maybe she turned her head just when he swung whatever he used, and that's why the damage wasn't uniform?"

  Paul mimed the attack, clutching something in both his hands as he swung an imagined blow. He stopped as his hand hovered over the girl's destroyed face. Dissatisfied with whatever he was doing, he took two steps back. He swung his imaginary object again.

  "No, no, I don't think so." He did the motion again, and this time he smiled. "Cori, I believe whoever did this used something rounded and thick on one end, but tapered on the other." He held up one finger. His smile turned to a grin. Then that finger dived to the other side of her face. "This part of her face was also damaged, but not to the extent of the other side. So if you are standing where I am standing now—at the side of her head, and about this distance — and you raise..."

  He pulled his arms up again.

  "...And you strike."

  He brought down the invisible thing he was holding.

  "And you were my height give or take three inches. And this was the angle. The head of the murder weapon would demolish three-quarters of her face. The other quarter would show only trauma like you see here. That would be because the end furthest away from me has the most density and weight; the closer end is narrower. Even at a ninety degree angle, the heavier head of the thing would crush the bone with the blow. But because of the taper, the other end would give a glancing blow. To make the impact uniform, the heavier thicker end of the object would have to come down straight on the face. To do that I would have to take say two more steps back. This object had to be at least twenty four inches long."

  He stood up straight again.

  "You didn't find a baseball bat lying around, did you?"

  "Is that what we're looking for?" Cori said

  "Something along those lines." Paul nodded and dropped his arms.

  Cori held up her index finger. "Are you saying the person who did this was as tall as you?"

  "If the bed were as high as this table. Was it this high?"

  "No," Cori answered. "But it wasn't low to the ground. There was a platform, the bedframe, box springs and a very deep-pocketed mattress. It was all top of the line."

  "It also must have been quite firm. If it wasn't, it would have provided a cushion when the blow was administered. The damage would have still been horrific but not this bad."

  "I didn't lie down on it," she said. "It looked brand new. I doubt that anyone slept in it on a regular basis."

  "Was she in the middle of the bed or to the side?"

  "Middle," Cori said.

  "Okay. Let's assume a fifteen inch box spring, eighteen inch pocket, another two inches with a pillow top. That brings her down by, what, four inches from the table? Even if you took precise aim, you wouldn't hit her straight on if you were standing within a foot. If the perp was standing say two feet back for the reach of such a weapon to land squarely on the face. But that distance would also affect the strength of the blow. Your perpetrator was close to the victim when it happened, as close as I am now. I'd also venture to guess they stood between five foot six and six feet tall. Only a guess, Cori. You'll need to look at the blood spatter. Was there anyone walking around with flecks of blood all over them? Crushing the skull would spurt the blood."

  Cori shook her head.

  "The guy we tagged was soaked in blood, but no spatter. He said he leaned over the bed and put his hands on her shoulders to wake her. He pulled her up and didn't realize she was hurt."

  "A little hard to miss."

  "The room was dark. Finn and I turned the lights on. The blood on his shirt was consistent with someone doing what he described. We've already got his clothes to the lab including his shoes. If there's spatter, they'll find it." Cori said. "What about his weight?"

  "I can't speculate on that, nor did I say it was a man. It could have been a woman. Any woman would be strong enough to do this if she had the right weapon and was angry enough. I know the weapon had to be heavy and shaped like a bat, but I've ruled out a bat," Paul said. "There aren't any splinters, shavings, or dust in the hair mouth or throat. Whatever hit her wasn't wood. Metal bats are strong, but they are also light. Aluminum wouldn't do this kind of damage."

  "What about a composite bat?" Cori asked.

  "Baseball fan?" Paul said.

  "I've been known to dig into a box of Cracker Jacks." Cori smiled.

  "Sorry to disappoint. Those things have a trampoline effect. They're tough, but there would be a bounce. This woman's face was pulverized."

  "Was there any sign of sexual assault?" Cori asked.

  "It didn't appear that she had sex recently, but she wasn't a virgin. I did a kit as a matter of course. Also sent along scrapings." Paul picked up one of her hands. "The other thing you should know is that there was no preceding struggle. Her legs were not askew as if she were trying to get away. There was no bruising to indicate that she was thrashing. No defensive wounds. It's as if she lay there and let it happen."

  "Could she have been asleep?" Cori asked.

  "Sure," Paul said. "If she were a deep sleeper someone could have come into the room, and that would be that. "

  "Or she could have pretended she was asleep. The whole party thing was a game so she could have been waiting for a lover," Cori said. "Maybe more than one. Bev said that consensual sex was part of the entertainment. This girl might have given her consent to who knows how many of the men that night."

  "Did you ask the men?"

  "They admitted to having seen her before, but they say she wasn't a guest that night," Cori said.

  "A party crasher." Paul's head did a little wiggle.

  "In more ways than one," Cori said.

  "Be that as it may, I think you're looking for one person and I am almost positive that person had second thoughts. Or they were horrified by what they'd done," Paul said. "It's no easy thing to do this kind of damage and not have some visceral reaction. Think about it, even if our friend here didn't cry out there would be the sound of bones breaking. That alone might give a normal human being a shiver," Paul said. "And the first blow did most of the damage. I would guess there were no more than two after that."

  "A jealous lover in a fit of passion who retreated when he realized what he had done." Cori mulled that t
heory over.

  "Very possible," Paul agreed.

  "The man who owned the studio was distraught," she said.

  "That's a place to start," Paul said.

  "And Bev," Cori said. "She was angrier than a nest of hornets. She's tall enough, and strong enough to do this."

  "I wouldn't want to be the one to go there," Paul said. "But I fear you must."

  "First things first," Cori said. "We need a name for our lady from The Brewery."

  "I wish I could oblige." Paul reached under the table and brought up a plastic bag. "Here are her things. A dress. No shoes—"

  "We've got the shoes, and let me tell you she was shittin' in high cotton" Cori said. Paul looked at her as if she were speaking another language. "She had money, Paul. Geeze, you Northerners."

  He sighed, and turned the bag a quarter turn.

  "No underthings. No jewelry. The little lady was very comfortable in her own skin. The dress is very well made. Custom I suppose since there was no label." Paul pulled up his lips, his shoulders rose too. "So there you have it, Cori."

  "Guess it's back to work for me."

  "For both of us," Paul said. "I hope that ten more haven't come in while we've been shooting the breeze."

  Cori and Paul turned their back on the girl, leaving her naked and alone in the cold room. They walked to the front office and waited for the elevator together.

  "You know, Cori," Paul said. "I keep thinking about the differing force of the blows. That speaks volumes to remorse."

  "So does picking her up and holding her tight," Cori said, thinking of Enver Cuca and his blood soaked shirt.

  "Or grief," Paul said. "Maybe you're not looking at a real murderer. A crime of passion is different from intent to kill."

  "Oh, lordy, doc. Murder is murder if you've got one person alive and one person dead. That's the law. We can't afford to have soft souls."

  "Then may I make one suggestion if you need to question Beverly O'Brien again?" Paul said

  "What would that be?"

  "Keep Finn out of that conversation if you can."

  "You're preachin' to the choir," Cori said. The elevator door opened. She got in, put her finger on the down button, and said, "Thanks again, doc. Get some sleep."

  And Cori was gone.

  12

  There were quite a few things Finn O'Brien missed about Wilshire Division, and his office was at the top of the list. Modest as it had been, it had a door that he could close. The solitude let him focus on his work. That door also shut out the anger that flared when someone remembered the officer who had died by Finn's hand.

  The fact was, Finn missed Hollywood in all its iterations. Families, freaks, runaways, rising starlets rushing off to their auditions. He missed seeing Batman and Superman battle it out for prime space in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater even as they shamed tourists into paying for the privilege of taking their photograph. Finn missed the hills where the rich folk hid behind the walls of their homes and businesses and did unspeakable things to one another in their off hours. He missed the lowlands of Fairfax and Little Ethiopia, and the food booths at Farmers Market. He loved The Grove, the synagogues, and television studios. Finn O'Brien missed the crazy quilt of real estate. He missed the rainbow population that bubbled with dreams and disappointments.

  Most of all, Finn missed Captain Fowler. He had a deep and abiding respect for the man who had reluctantly taken in the tarnished detective. Fowler had given Finn a fair shot, and that was all he ever wanted. The captain was intelligent and unflappable. He was loyal to those he commanded until they betrayed that loyalty. Finn couldn't have asked for more in a captain.

  Now he and Cori were lent to a different division because money was tight after the riots. Ranks were diminished as disillusioned officers took their retirements. Where Wilshire Division had been a kaleidoscope, East L.A. was daguerreotype. It was a richly shaded, but it was a monotone of a place. Finn's office was a desk that faced Cori's. They could talk to one another across the expanse, but they could say nothing that wasn't meant for other ears. Until she got in, Finn was the lad on the school yard eating lunch alone. The cool kids kept their distance, but never let him forget they were there.

  Finn had made no friends by questioning Officers Hunter and Douglas's decision not to engage at The Brewery. But the two cops told a story of intimidation and high-handedness by the on-loan detective. It was passed on in whispers loud enough for Finn to hear. His colleagues cast sidelong glances, hoping to make him uncomfortable in their midst. Such an inflation of the events was not unexpected, Finn just found it wearying. He longed for a door he could close. It was mid-morning. He and Cori had slept well, grabbed breakfast when they woke and gone their separate way. Cori to a hearing; Finn to the office. Now Carol Smith, Captain of East Los Angeles Division, was at the door of the bullpen calling him away.

  Her name left no particular taste on the tongue. The woman herself left no particular impression on Finn and Cori. She had welcomed them by laying out their work load, addressing Finn's possible problems, and telling Cori she was the only female detective onboard. They had been assigned cars and desks and neither detective had seen hide nor hair of the woman until now.

  Finn didn't bother to cover the report he was working on. If anyone in the room wanted to see it, all they had to do was look. He walked by one empty desk, but at the next a detective glanced his way. The man looked as if he'd been with the force for a hundred years. He snapped a rubber band. O'Brien smiled at him. He snapped it again, and this time the darn thing flew across the room. If he had meant to hit Finn, the man was a poor shot. The captain had not waited, so Finn walked the long hall alone and went into the office where the assistant was nowhere to be seen. He leaned his head through her door and knocked on the jamb. Captain Smith gave him permission to enter with a crook of two fingers. She pushed a few measured inches away from her desk. Finn sat in a straight-backed wooden chair opposite her. On her desk he counted four stacks of papers, two pens, a coffee cup imprinted with the division logo, and one picture. The picture faced her so he could not see if it was husband, family, or dog she cared to remember during the working day.

  The woman's chin length hair was brown as were her eyes. Parentheses created by deep lines framed her small mouth. They seemed to be proof of age, not humor. She wore no make-up, but her skin was burnished brown as if she spent all her free time under the sun. It was difficult to tell if Captain Smith ever laughed or frowned. She was doing neither at the moment.

  "Let's talk about The Brewery, Detective O'Brien."

  Finn brought her up to speed. His report was to the point in regards to the first responders. He told it without judgment or asides. If Finn's assessment of his new captain was correct, she would read nothing into his words. He told her where Cori was, what she was doing, and that the autopsy had been completed. He went through his visit to The Brewery that day, and told her that they were hoping to identify the victim soon.

  "The other people in the building? What about them?" she asked.

  "All but one gave us their names and contact information. The women are accounted for. The four male guests are well-connected. I'll have my initial report to you by end of day."

  "Very good," Smith said. "Anything else?"

  "I have the name of a person seen visiting the location that is intriguing. I'll let you know if it pans out." Finn said. "We questioned the residents of the unit at length. The gentleman who owns it discovered the body and was in a state. He had blood on his person. Given the nature of the attack, his appearance was not consistent with the commission of the crime. Everyone knew the victim by an alias. We believe some knew her real identity, but they did not share this information."

  "That seems a bit odd, doesn't it?" she said.

  "Not considering that these people were guests of Asylum. The venue was rented, the owners stated they were unaware of what type of gathering it would be, and the building was a destination only. The rental was arranged th
rough a third party."

  Captain Smith allowed herself a small smile.

  "Asylum is interesting. Not my idea of a good time, but to each his own."

  "As you say, captain," Finn said.

  "Did you talk to the host?" she asked.

  "If he was there he didn't identify himself. The attendees were handpicked, and there was business to be done. It appears to be something outside of Asylum business, but I am seeing Ali Keyes, the owner, in another hour. I hope he'll be able to shed some light.

  "I'm further hoping Mr. Keyes can help us ID the victim. It appears there are strict rules about sharing personal information. I believe Mr. Keyes can break them under the circumstances."

  "Okay," Captain Smith said. "Hopefully we'll have a hit on the fingerprints soon, so don't push Mr. Keyes quite yet."

  "I've got all data bases looking including Homeland Security and Global Entry. She was very well turned out, I'm assuming she had money. That might mean travel."

  "Well and good, O'Brien," Captain Smith said. "I know we've had you running since you got here, and I appreciate the hard work. I have full faith in you, but this one is delicate."

  "It certainly encompasses a different class of folks if that's what you mean," Finn said.

  "That is exactly what I mean."

  Captain Smith picked up a pen and ran it through her fingers. Her nails were bitten to the quick and that surprised Finn. Somewhere inside, past the perfect calm, the woman was roiling. It was no easy task being a captain in any city, but this division must be particularly challenging.

  "This 'class of folks', as you say, have been busy trying to minimize last night's fallout."

  She raised the pen and put it to her lips before tossing it on the desk. The captain rested her arms on top, leaned into it, and laced her fingers together.

  "I got a call from the mayor's chief of staff. He informed me that he would like us to treat this incident with kid gloves. It seems that the mayor's very reliable intel indicates that none of the people at the party knew the girl. Nor did they have anything to do with the murder."