by Sheila Lowe
“Okay, sorry. Who’s the other vic?”
Mario nodded his head toward one of several gurneys lined up. Each held a sealed body bag that contained a corpse awaiting post-mortem dissection. “Name’s Darla Steinman. Female, thirty-seven, multiple GSW to the chest and head.”
Even as he marveled at Mario’s talent for memorizing information about the corpses in his charge, the story was ringing bells. The news item that had been playing on TV when he arrived home the evening before. His mind had been deep in his own cases and he had only half-twigged to what Claudia had told him about it. He dredged up what he remembered. “Cheviot Hills, right?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
Jovanic started over to the gurney “Whose case?”
“Detective Flynt caught it. He oughta be in any—oh, here he is now.”
Jovanic had a casual acquaintance with the stocky man in a bad suit who had just entered the autopsy room. Colin Flynt was part of the other detective team in Pacific Division.
“What’s up, dudes?” Flynt greeted them cheerfully as he suited up in a white gown like the one Jovanic was already wearing. He pulled on a hair net and mask. “You messin’ wit my vic?”
“Hey, Flynt,” said Jovanic. “Mario says yours and mine have similar tats. Mind if I take a look?”
Mario edged between the narrowly parked gurneys. He stopped at the one he had pointed out. “Not just similar, Detective. Identical.”
“This I gotta see,” Flynt said. “Busy day for you guys.”
“Four homicides, a suicide, and a home-alone,” said Mario.
Jovanic followed him to the gurney. Flynt got out his cell phone and flipped screens to the camera app. To ensure proper chain of custody before the attendant opened it, he bent over the body bag and snapped a close-up photo of the lock on the zipper. The photograph could later be used to prove that the bag had remained untouched since entering the refrigerator unit upon arrival at the morgue.
Having completed his photographic record, the detective motioned for the attendant to break the lock and unzip the bag. RaeAnn, a CSI photographer who worked for the ME, hovered around Mario, documenting every step of the procedure. A few feet away, in anticipation of the arrival of one of the medical examiners on duty, Sandra, another morgue assistant, was preparing to open one of the other pouches. In such a large and busy coroner’s office as Los Angeles, whenever feasible, each corpse rated its own ME.
Despite the cold air and the sophisticated filtration system, and despite the paper masks that covered their noses and mouths, the stench of human decay billowed from the heavy plastic as Sandra exposed what was inside. “Poor old guy,” she said, muffled behind her mask. “Croaked at home all by his lonesome. Nobody missed him for a few days.”
“Holy mother,” Flynt exclaimed, making a choking sound. “Glad I didn’t eat breakfast.”
The foul odor curled into Jovanic’s nostrils: something akin to raw meat in a month-old litter box. He knew from experience that even if he did not get close to the corpse, the smell would cling stubbornly to his clothes and hair. Before entering the autopsy suite he had brushed his teeth with strong peppermint toothpaste and was now chewing clove gum. It helped in most cases. He might have become inured to the stench, but he didn’t have to like it. And he was not about to wimp out like Colin Flynt and let everyone in the room know how he felt.
Like any dead animal, even a relatively fresh body like the one he was about to see now, Flynt’s victim, Darla Steinman, had an unmistakable odor.
Blonde, smooth-faced, slim. In death, Steinman looked younger than her thirty-seven years. She had been quite attractive. Except for the hole in the middle of her forehead, which reminded Jovanic of an Indian Tikala mark, she bore a resemblance to his victim, Angela Tedesco. Maybe it was just that both were blonde and dead.
Steinman was still dressed in the clothes she had died in. As Mario unzipped the bag further for their viewing, Jovanic could see a sleeveless pink knit top with a ruffle around the neckline. A splotch of dried blood stained the mid-section, where two holes close together told him that the first and second bullets had pierced the heart. That would account for the small amount of blood on her clothing—no pumping action. The third had bored into her skull once she was on the floor. Jovanic visualized her killer leaning over her, finishing the job.
With the photographer continuing to document his actions, Mario cut away Darla’s shirt in large sections along the sides. Once the shirt had been removed, it became apparent from the sooty stippling around the entry holes on the shirt, but very little on the skin, that the shooter had been close to his victim—less than six feet away. But what drew Jovanic’s gaze was the tattoo at the top of Darla Steinman’s right arm.
The sugar skull was slightly smaller than the one Angela Tedesco sported, but other than that, to his eye, as Mario had insisted, it looked identical.
Even though the CSI tech duplicated his movements, Jovanic took several close-ups of his own with his iPhone. He also took some at a greater distance to identify the body on which the tattoos were inked.
Two dead women who looked alike. Both murdered in the same week. Identical sugar skull tattoos.
Jovanic did not believe in coincidences.
***
Two hours later, after the autopsies were complete, Jovanic and Flynt walked across the street to the one excuse for a restaurant in the industrial neighborhood that surrounded the county morgue. Jack in the Box.
“You think we got a serial?” Flynt asked, chomping into a Sourdough Jack. His fingers were shiny with bacon grease and melted cheese.
Jovanic, who had opted for tacos and a diet Coke, shook his head. “Not by the FBI definition. But it’s pretty obvious we’ve got three connected killings. Travis Navarette opened a tattoo parlor in competition with Alvin Rousch, AKA Viper. He gets the cocktail.”
“And dead,” Flynt interjected.
“And dead. Angela Tedesco is connected to both Travis and Viper. According to my source, she was supposed to hook up with Travis on Viper’s orders, but she disobeys and ends up in a trash dumpster. Then we’ve got your vic, Darla Steinman, with the same tattoo as Angela, shot to death. What’ve you got on her?”
“The husband—William Steinman—has a prior for domestic battery on her a couple years ago. Darla was killed sometime during school hours and he doesn’t have a good alibi. He’s in pharma sales, on the road a lot. Could have been there at the right time.”
“Knowing the kids would find her?”
Flynt shrugged and echoed what Jovanic was already thinking. “Lot of rage, shooting her in the face when she’s already down.”
“Two years ago for the battery. How bad was it?”
“He beat her up pretty good—black eye, fractured wrist. Didn’t do any time. The Judge let him off with AA and anger management diversion. She hasn’t filed a complaint since then. But, and here’s the interesting thing. Dear Darla did just file for divorce last week.”
“That’s interesting. Any weapons registered to Mr. Steinman?”
“Nope.”
“How about casings?”
“The shooter picked up two of them. We found one under the edge of a throw rug. Plus the chest wound was a through and through. We caught a break on that, the bullet was in pretty good shape. IBIS got a hit on the round the CSI retrieved. Weapon’s a Glock .357 reported stolen two years ago in a B&E.” Flynt wiped meat juice off his chin and set the last crumbs of his sandwich in its cardboard box. “What kind of joker leaves a gun lying around for some asshole burglar to pick up?” He sounded personally peeved by the stupidity of the citizenry.
Jovanic wrapped up the second taco and put it on the plastic tray with the trash, his mind going in another direction. He had just remembered that Jamie Parker wore the same tattoo as the two dead wome
n and was wondering whether that meant she was in danger. Did William Steinman have a connection to the two teenage girl’s tattoo that was the same as his wife’s?
“I’ll need to look at the murder book,” Jovanic said.
“Knock yourself out.” Flynt’s greedy eyes were on the taco. “You’re not gonna eat that?”
“Help yourself. I’ve had enough grease for one day.” Since getting shot in the gut a few months back, Jovanic had to watch what he ate or suffer digestive consequences.
Flynt unfolded the paper and bit into the shell. He chewed for a moment, then dropped it back in the paper with a look of disgust. “Shit, no wonder you tossed it. Anyhow, stop by my desk later, I’ll make you copies of everything we’ve got, which ain’t much so far.”
“Thanks. I want to talk to a guy who works for Alvin Rousch, AKA Viper. Gonna have his P.O. bring him in to piss in a cup. That way we’ll have him in an interview room and Viper won’t know we’re talking to him. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Jovanic called Carl Latu’s Probation Officer and set up the meeting for eight a.m. Friday morning. He then started digging for personal information to use in his interview with Viper’s Samoan bodyguard.
With a population of more than 50,000 Samoans in L.A. County, Jovanic already had a passing familiarity with the Island culture. He also had a good relationship with Latu’s PO, Adam Grant. Grant was ready to bend over backwards to help Jovanic prepare for his meeting.
In “Big Carl” Latu’s file, which Grant emailed Jovanic, was a copy of a multi-page letter from 2009 addressed to “Nana” back in the Islands. It had been written while he was incarcerated in Folsom Prison.
Jovanic was well aware that in Samoa, families—parents, children, married children, elderly relatives—live together in separate houses in a compound. Family elders are accorded high status, respected for their wisdom and the history they carry. He made a copy of the letter and faxed it to Claudia with a request for her comments on the handwriting.
The reply came via text message fifteen minutes later:
“Lacks boundaries, poor self-image, follower, strong loyalty. Smart but underachiever.”
Just as Jack Solis had described it, the Samoan-American’s face was inked with a symmetrical black tribal tattoo. It started high on his shaved head and framed angry eyes as black as beetles. Surrounding the broad brown cheeks, the ink met in a point under his chin. Intricate bands wove around biceps that strained against the sleeves of an oversized T-shirt. Knee-length nylon shorts dipped below an ample belly and revealed darkly tanned, ripped calves above white socks and a pair of new-looking athletic shoes.
Carl Latu glared at Jovanic, who stood a few feet from the open bathroom door behind his probation officer. With the two officers in the confined space of the hallway there was barely enough room to turn around. Adjusting his shorts after urinating in a small plastic cup, the big Samoan’s body language said he was already uncomfortable and embarrassed. Hell, who wouldn’t be? It had taken him a couple of minutes to produce the sample, and Jovanic couldn’t help feeling a twinge of sympathy. Not something he would want to do with a cop standing behind him, watching to make sure there were no shenanigans.
“What’s it gonna say, Carl?” Jovanic asked the Samoan. “We gonna have a problem?”
The man’s gaze was glued to his P.O. as he walked away with the cup to read the results. “Nuttin’ for me to worry about.”
“You been staying clean? You look kind of anxious.”
“No, bro. No probs.”
“Glad to hear it. Hey, you’ve got kids, don’t you? How’re they doing?”
Big Carl couldn’t keep the sheen of pride off his face. “They’re good.”
“How old?”
But he was savvy enough to know that the detective wasn’t going to make small talk with a con without a good reason. He said, “The little one’s eleven and Tommy’s getting ready to graduate high school. What do you care?”
“Seems like you’ve had some bad breaks. I bet your boy’s glad to have you home.”
“He’s a smart kid, got himself a football scholarship.”
“That’s fantastic, man. What’s he going to study?”
“Civil engineering.”
“Carl, that’s really something. Are your folks back in the Islands pretty excited?”
“What of it?”
Jovanic chewed the corner of his lip, giving him a look of regret. “I just hope you can be there to watch your kid get that diploma.”
Carl Latu went very still. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“I hate to break it to you, Carl, but you’ve got a whole lot more to worry about than the color of that cup.”
“What the fuck you talking about?”
“Then you’re okay if I ask where you were on Tuesday night?”
“Tuesday?” Carl looked up at the ceiling, as if he might find the answer there. “Um, I’m pretty sure that’s the night I was helping my kid with her homework. She has trouble with her spelling words, you know? I’m no good with numbers, but spelling, I do pretty good.” He was talking too much, adding too much detail. Jovanic figured he was buying time while he tried to calculate how much the detective knew.
“Help me out on this, Carl. What does the name ‘Angela Tedesco’ mean to you?”
Big Carl’s gaze flickered, but the movement was so slight Jovanic might have imagined it. “Whozat?”
Jovanic, who was a half-dozen inches taller than Latu, moved further into the other man’s space so that he had to back up against the wall. “C’mon now, Carl. You aren’t going to deny knowing Angel, are you?”
“Angel? You said Angela somethin’. Yeah, I know Angel.”
“How do you know her?”
“She’s just one of them chippies, hangs where I work. They come and they go.”
“You still work at Dragon House?”
“Yeah, man. You gotta know I do. What the fuck?”
“You got a beef with Angel, Carl?”
“Hell no, bro. We hardly ever even talk. I leave them girls alone. Don’t need none o’ that kind of trouble.”
“Where is Angel, Carl?”
Staring straight ahead, the Samoan shrugged. “Beats me.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Look, I need you to be straight with me. Tell me what happened to Angel.”
“Something happen to her?”
“We know you were there, Carl. Bobby already spilled his guts, so you might as well tell the truth.” Carl Latu didn’t need to know that the gut spilling had been overheard by Bobby’s younger brother and reported second-hand to Jovanic by Annabelle.
“That’s a batch of bullshit. Bobby wouldn’t say—”
“If it’s bullshit, you’re still in it neck deep, Carl. You know she’s dead and you saw it happen. But here’s the thing: I don’t think you’re a cold-blooded killer. I think you’re an okay guy who got stuck in the middle of something very bad. Am I wrong about that?”
Carl’s lips curled into a sullen pout. “I didn’t kill nobody.”
Jovanic nodded. “You know what? I’m tempted to believe you. But the problem is, you were there and you did dump the body—we have an eyewitness—and we’ve got Bobby Morgan. So, even if you didn’t kill her yourself, you’re an accessory to murder and a few other things, like obstructing justice.”
Jovanic had lucked out. The owner of the Handy Wash he and Randy had talked to after leaving Yvonne Lee the day before had left a voicemail while Jovanic was attending the autopsies. The security tape caught Carl Latu and Bobby Morgan washing and vacuuming their vehicle at 1:55 a.m. on the morning of Angel’s death. But Jovanic wasn’t
going to share with Carl what he had on him.
“I never had nothing against that girl,” said Carl with enough vehemence that Jovanic figured he was telling the truth. “I never touched her. Never!”
“C’mon, dude. You know we’ve got you on this.”
“I can’t—I got nothin’ to say to you, bro.”
“You’re willing to take that fall?” Jovanic pressed him, feeling the other man already weakening. “You’re already on probation. You want a murder rap? Think of your kids, Carl. Think of Tommy’s face when you miss graduation. And what about your Nana? How would she feel, coming all the way out to California and find her grandson in lockup?”
“Fuck you.” Big Carl’s spoke softly, but the menace came through loud and clear.
Jovanic tapped a finger hard on the massive chest. “No, Carl. It’s you who’s fucked.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Claudia left the witness stand feeling pleased with her testimony. Regardless of how the jury decided the outcome of the case, she was confident that she had done a credible job of establishing a foundation for her opinion: that the signatures on the medical sign-in sheets had been written in groups of sittings, rather than on different days as the defense insisted.
The five women and seven men tasked with deciding the multimillion dollar insurance case had appeared to be interested and engaged as she explained the elements of synchronous writing. There was a fine line between providing too much information and boring them, and just enough for them to understand what she wanted to get across. She told them how the pattern called ‘margin drift’ was created, and that when someone signed several times in a row down the page, those signatures demonstrated greater regularity than ones executed at different times, which showed no particular marginal pattern.
