Inkslingers Ball (A Forensic Handwriting Mystery)

by Sheila Lowe

  “Okay. I’ll scan the journal so I can keep working on it.”

  ***

  After Jovanic left, taking Shane Oliver’s journal with him, Claudia sat at her computer and opened the PDFs she had made of the seventeen pages. She had scanned them in color at 300 DPI, which ensured that she had the next best to original quality.

  Like a diary, most pages had a date written at the top. The first was dated a week earlier. Starting on page one, she read through the notes Oliver had scribbled in black ink, most in his own personal shorthand. There were a few lines to a page, as if he wanted to remind himself of a general topic, leaving plenty of room to add more notes later.

  Under the heading “Dragon House,” he had made a list of names. Alvin Lester Rousch—Viper—topped the list, followed by Robert “Bad Bobby” Morgan, “Big Carl” Latu. Several other names were new to Claudia. Next to the unfamiliar names, Oliver had drawn a bracket connecting them, and the word “Skullz,” which she recognized as the name of the motorcycle club Jovanic had told her hung out at Dragon House.

  A few pages later was the heading “Under My Skin,” with Travis Navarette’s name underneath, and the note “Trained at DH.” Folded into that page was an article cut from an L.A. Times print edition published two days ago about the firebombing of the tattoo parlor, and Travis’s horrific death.

  Claudia pulled out her keyboard drawer and opened a Google browser, then typed in “Skullz.” Several articles came up with stories about various crimes that had put members in the media spotlight. She wondered whether Shane Oliver had gotten too close to some of the gang’s illegal doings while hanging around Dragon House.

  On page nine of the journal an underlined note read, “Inkslingers Ball,” and a date, underneath was written “Darla Steinman” and a new name, “Gerald Harris.”

  Back to Uncle Google.

  With a little research, Claudia discovered that the Inkslingers Ball was a body art and piercing convention scheduled for the upcoming weekend at the Pomona Fairgrounds. She guessed that Shane Oliver had planned to attend.

  She clicked on the two-minute video posted on the convention website, bemused by the spectacle of a Mohawk-haired young man demonstrating the sharpness of a series of razor blades. He sliced a sheet of paper in half before swallowing the blades whole, then pulling them back out on a string. Charming.

  Claudia picked up her phone and gave the voice command to call Joel. Since it was late, chances were, he was alone in the office.

  “How would you like a drive out to Pomona this weekend?” she asked.

  “What’s going on in Pomona?”

  “The Inkslingers Ball. It’s in Shane Oliver’s journal.”

  “The tattoo expo?”

  “You already know about it?”

  “It’s held every year at the Fairgrounds.”

  “Have you read the journal yet?”

  “I’m working three homicides, babe. Oliver’s editor says he’s probably chasing a wild hare, so the journal isn’t a high priority right now.”

  “I think he planned on going to the convention. So, I was thinking, it might be a good place to get some intel on Viper.” She paused. “And maybe the guy who inked Annabelle will be there.”

  “I had a feeling there was more to it.” Jovanic chuckled. “If you get your lovely little paws on that guy—like Mr. T. used to say, I pity the fool. Damn, I’m dating myself.”

  “So, what about Pomona?”

  “Okay. If there aren’t any other leads to develop here, it could be a good idea.”

  “We can take Annabelle and have her point out the guy if she sees him—Crash.”

  “You know she’d rather eat glass than go to a tattoo convention with us old fogeys.”

  “Don’t let her hear you say that; she’d eat it just to spite us.”

  “You’re probably right about that. Keep up the good work, Grapho Lady.”

  ***

  Shane Oliver had penned a brief chronology of Viper’s life: Born in Victorville, California; father convicted of the murder of his mother, a hooker. Moved in middle school to live with paternal grandparents in Santa Monica. He had not listed a criminal history for Viper, but if he had a juvenile file it would be sealed and unavailable to Oliver.

  Darla Steinman’s printed name appeared as the heading of a page in which another carefully folded paper had been tucked. This was a printout of another L.A. Times article. The date on the article was twenty years earlier, so it had come from the newspaper’s archives.

  It detailed the vicious beating of a twenty-two-year old named Gerald Harris, Jr., who had been hospitalized with serious injuries after an altercation with Alvin Rousch. Reports indicated that the two youths and their friends had arranged to meet in a deserted parking lot at Palisades Beach late one night, a tire iron on one side, a knife on the other. Rousch had sustained superficial knife wounds; Harris, broken bones and a head injury.

  Both men refused to press charges and declined to speak with police. With no stated victim, there was no crime to prosecute, and no additional ink was dedicated to the story.

  Claudia was not surprised by what she had read. Jovanic often complained about similar situations where those involved—most of the time gang members—did not even bother to lie about what had occurred. Pride, fear of reprisal, or in some cases an intent to later visit their own retribution on the other party, kept them silent.

  Wondering how long Harris had been hospitalized and whether his injuries had been life-threatening, Claudia Googled his name, along with some of the other pertinent information. Nothing else came up on him, so she gave up and resumed her examination of the journal.

  Travis Navarette rated a page to himself, along with two more folded articles. One reported on a break-in at Under My Skin during its opening week two months ago. There had been some minor vandalism, credited to “probable juvenile activity.” The second was an account of the fatal firebombing last Tuesday, which mentioned the earlier crimes and suggested a possible connection.

  Shane Oliver’s scribbled notes were cryptic and difficult to decipher, but Claudia figured that what looked like a checkmark might be a capital “V” for “Viper.” She was aware that Jovanic suspected Viper of ordering the arson, and it appeared that Shane’s own investigation was taking him in that direction, too. If Viper had caught on, it would not be much of a stretch to imagine that Shane’s life might be in danger.

  It was nearly one a.m. and she was still at the computer when she heard Annabelle’s bedroom door open. A few seconds later, the sleepy-faced girl padded barefoot into the office and flopped on the sofa, drawing her knees and arms into a fetal pose.

  Claudia got up and covered her with the afghan she kept folded over the armrest. “What’s up, sweetie pie? Trouble sleeping?”

  Annabelle closed her eyes and opened her mouth in a long yawn. “I was asleep. Mouser woke me up.”

  “What did he want?”

  Snuggling under the afghan, she opened her eyes halfway and looked up at Claudia. “He wanted to talk about Angel.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “He doesn’t have anyone else he can talk to. He was so sad. I felt sorry for him, even if he is kind of a jerk, so I just listened for a while.”

  “That was kind of you, sweetie, but I hope he doesn’t make it a habit. You should turn off your phone at night.”

  “One more day of school,” Annabelle countered. “Then it’s Saturday. I can sleep in.”

  “Any news from Jamie?”

  “I asked Mouser about her. She left out of town with some guy. She was trying to get Mouser to pick her up and give her a ride over here to get her car, but he said no. He still thinks it’s her fault Angel’s dead. Jamie told him if he didn’t come for her she was gonna have to go with this other guy
, and she didn’t want to. But he didn’t give a rat’s—he didn’t care. He hung up on her.”

  “Her keys are downstairs in her backpack. I didn’t want to leave it out in her car in the open,” Claudia said, rationalizing her actions to herself. “Did he say who the guy was or where they were going?”

  “Nope.” Annabelle yawned. “Is it okay if I sleep right here, Claudia? Even when you go to bed?”

  “Sure.” Claudia touched her hand to Annabelle’s cheek. “Sleep well.”

  For a few minutes she sat at her desk, watching until the girl’s breathing evened out and she sank back into a dream world where her friends were not murder victims. Claudia sighed, thinking of Jamie taking off for parts unknown with a strange man, and offered a quick prayer for her safety. She was not religious, but it made her feel a little less helpless, as if she were doing something. All Jamie had to do to retrieve her car keys was knock at the door. Hopefully, not in the middle of the night.

  Claudia printed out the scanned journal pages and laid them out on her desk, going over each one again. She paused at the Inkslingers Ball entry. Whether Joel was able to break away or not, she resolved that she and Annabelle would go to the tattoo convention on Sunday.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jovanic was filling his coffee mug when Flynt ambled over with the fresh-eyed look of a man who had enjoyed a full night’s sleep.

  “You look like shit,” Flynt said. “Pull an all-nighter?”

  Jovanic rubbed his chin and felt the rough stubble under his hand. “Yeah, Flynt. While your fat ass was snoring like a baby, I was doing your work for you.” He took a sip of his coffee and even though it was lukewarm, wished he could mainline it. “You find anything new on Steinman?”

  “As a matter of fact, old buddy, I did turn up something pretty interesting.” Flynt grinned like the Cheshire cat. “Turns out Susie Homemaker has an old vice sheet.”

  Jovanic’s brows shot up. “Serious?”

  “Nailed for a ‘b’ when she was nineteen; got probation.”

  “No shit. And she’s been clean since then?” Jovanic let his skepticism show. He wondered whether Darla’s parents were aware of the prostitution charge. It might be what Marilyn Sanders had referred to that she believed had hastened her husband’s death.

  “Straight and narrow.” Flynt shrugged. “Didn’t get caught again, anyhow.”

  “Who was she working for?”

  The grin widened. “You’re gonna love this. She spent a lot of time at Alvin Rousch’s tattoo studio, but they could never make anything stick.”

  Jovanic whistled under his breath as he thought about the implications. Darla Steinman had renewed and maintained her ties to Viper. And it appeared she had kept the association secret from her family. So, where did Shane Oliver come in?

  ***

  Jovanic was sitting at the table with Robert Morgan, struggling to stay alert, when someone from dispatch knocked on the interview room door and rousted him. A call had come in. He left Morgan writing out his statement on a yellow legal pad and stepped into the hallway, glad of the opportunity to stand up and stretch.

  A body had been discovered under the Santa Monica Pier. There was no ID, but from the description, Jovanic instantly knew whose body it was. In the victim’s pocket was a scrap of paper with the phone number for Pacific Division scrawled on it, along with his and Colin Flynt’s names, and a plastic room key from the Cozy Suites Hotel.

  Jovanic took a good, hard look at the picture on the driver’s license in Shane Oliver’s wallet. The journalist was forty-seven, five-eight, one-sixty. Then, using his iPhone, he pulled up Oliver’s Facebook page.

  The sole photo was a three-quarter view of a man standing by the motorcycle that Jovanic had seen parked in the Cozy Suites parking lot. Oliver wore jeans, motorcycle boots, and a T-shirt that showed off full-sleeve tattoos on both arms. Dark glasses concealed his eyes. His hair, which was largely covered by a black baseball cap worn backwards, was scraped back into a ponytail. He looked the part of a biker and it was easy to imagine him fitting into the Skullz scene at the tattoo parlor.

  Shrugging into his jacket, Jovanic ruminated on what might have led the man to his death. He stopped at the 7-Eleven on Lincoln and picked up a liter of Coke, then drove the quick five miles up to Santa Monica Pier, a sick feeling roiling in his gut along with the overload of caffeine. Four homicides in one week, all connected to Alvin Rousch could not be a coincidence.

  If he could convince the D.A. that Bobby Morgan’s statement would stick, he would be halfway home. But Viper’s history of slithering out from under serious charges reminded Jovanic that it would be stupid to presuppose a slam dunk this time. Any weak points in the case would have to be shored up to make it immune to attack. That meant making sure they had good evidence that corroborated Bobby’s story about Angel. Preferably Carl Latu’s testimony. The case had to be airtight before he took it to the D.A.

  ***

  Shirley Lorraine, the coroner’s investigator, drove into the parking lot next to the Santa Monica Pier right behind Jovanic. At ten-fifty a.m. on a Friday, the place was already pretty packed.

  In most cases Jovanic would have arrived long before the coroner’s office and be checking out the scene while he waited for the investigator to come and take possession of the body. He caught up with Lorraine as she climbed down from her SUV and swung into stride next to her. He knew better than to offer help with her bag. Shirley Lorraine’s independence was legendary.

  “You got a homicide hotline?” he asked. “How’d you get here so fast?”

  “On my way back to the office from another scene—a hit and run. I heard this one on the radio. I was closest, so I said I’d take it. Hey, I heard they found your name on the vic.

  “Yeah. I’ve got a pretty good idea who it is.”

  They walked across the lot, Shirley rolling her equipment bag behind her, and badged their way through the yellow tape. Jovanic told her about Shane Oliver’s call to Colin Flynt the day before, and his failure to show up for their appointment at the Casablanca restaurant.

  “It was pretty obvious he didn’t just go out for a stroll. It was past checkout and he left everything in his motel room. Except his cell phone. I didn’t find it in the room.”

  “Easy ID if it’s on him.” Shirley Lorraine shook her head gloomily. “I knew I should have called in sick this morning; almost did. I was gonna just veg and watch Good Morning America. But noooo, I get a whole string of DBs to process.”

  Jovanic knocked elbows with her. “Look at it this way, Shirl, your day’s going a whole lot better than theirs.”

  “When did you become Mr. Optimism?” She grinned up at him. “At least I don’t have to go looking for the lead on this one. Don’t go anywhere, hotshot.”

  A few yards away across a swath of sand, a group of uniforms stood waiting for them. The marine layer still shrouded the city of Santa Monica, a depressing pall that seemed fitting to Jovanic as they approached the access to the area underneath the hundred-year-old pier. The ocean made an eerie sighing sound, as if it were mourning the inhumanity that had brought them all there.

  The patrol officers parted for the two investigators and allowed them to make their way under the pier. Shirley Lorraine took a pair of vinyl gloves from her bag and snapped them on with a cheery, “Hey, fellas.” She did not need to introduce herself to the seasoned veterans who had responded to this call. They were acquainted from many other such scenes.

  While Shirley spoke with the first responder, Jovanic took a look around. He crossed the perimeter tape and stepped onto the wet sand, glad he wasn’t wearing his best shoes. It was obvious that the tide had washed away any trace evidence they might have collected, but he watched where he walked anyway.

  He already knew from the call out that an early morning treasu
re hunter searching the area with his metal detector had stumbled across the body half-hidden behind a wooden piling. Far from the parking lot entrance, it would not have been seen otherwise and could have washed out to sea without anyone being the wiser. The treasure hunter was sitting in a patrol car being interviewed by Detective RJ Scott, who would transport him to the police station to take a formal statement.

  Shirley Lorraine pulled back the tarp that covered the body. A faint odor of decomposition wafted upward as they looked down upon what remained of the man Jovanic identified from his driver’s license as Shane Oliver.

  The victim’s right shoulder was in the sand, his legs bent behind him, indicating that he had fallen backwards and made no effort to catch himself. He was wearing a leather vest, black jeans, and the boots Jovanic had noticed in his Facebook photo: lace-ups with a buckle and strap across the front, a series of dangling chains across the heel.

  His hands were bound with grey duct tape. Only Oliver’s left profile was visible. He had been punched in the face. “Need to get the toolmarks expert to make a mold,” Jovanic said, crouching to get a closer look at the deep wound on Oliver’s cheek. “It looks like some kind of pattern. The suspect was probably wearing a ring. Maybe we’ll get lucky and match it.”

  “Takes a really big man to hit a guy when he’s restrained,” Shirley said dryly. She got down on her knees and rolled the body. The vest flopped open revealing a black T-shirt with a silk-screened skeleton on a motorcycle across the front. It bore an oddly prescient slogan “Everybody Dies.”

  Shirley pointed out three holes in the leather vest, close together over the heart. “Medium bore.” She was referring to the ammunition. “Probably a thirty-eight.”