by E. E. Giorgi
A chrome faucet dripped in one of the sinks. Air vents hummed gently from the ceiling. The body was draped, an anonymous hump on a stainless steel table. An assistant pushed a cart of instruments to the table and lined up the tools for the cut. Clipped against the glass of a view box were Amy Liu’s dental records and a couple of pictures from the other victim, Charlie Callahan, found strangled six months earlier outside his home in Silver Lake. His face had also been marred with sulfuric acid, though in his case the damage had been inflicted postmortem.
“I don’t believe it! Detective Presius!”
Robed in green, Dr. Russ Cohen looked like a giant M&M rolling toward me. He pulled down his facemask and shook my gloved hand a little too enthusiastically. “Where I grew up they say, ‘Only the dead don’t come back.’ Of course that’s not true in my line of work, is it?”
He slapped me on the shoulder and roared with laughter. “I see you’re well prepared this time—paper cap and booties, too. ‘Cuz you know, If you’ve got a T-shirt with a bloodstain all over it, maybe laundry isn’t your biggest problem.” He winked and nudged me in the ribs.
I stretched my lips and faked a smile without putting too much effort into it.
Satish leaned closer and whispered, “Seinfeld joke, Track. You forgot all about that, didn’t you?”
“Gladly,” I replied.
Cohen wiped the grin off his face and cleared his throat. “So. We’ve all had our share of mutilated bodies.” He waved at the assistant and she lifted the drape off the body. “But I confess this is a first for me.”
The room fell silent.
The crime scene pics had not prepared me for the sight of Amy Liu’s disfigured features. Her face had peeled off the skull. In its liquid path, sulfuric acid had etched grooves along her cheeks and simmered in her orbs.
All bodies are naked. Yet, deprived of a face, Amy Liu felt more than unclad to me: she was bare, exposed, stripped of her persona.
The killer wants to erase his victims’ faces.
In my whole career, I could only remember one case that offered a worse sight—a John Doe found on the street. He’d loaded up with semi-jacketed hollow points and eaten his gun.
Cohen walked to the cart and picked up a magnifying glass. “Let’s start from the feet.” He stood at the end of the table and moved the surgical light to the victim’s feet. Bending the toes all the way back he pointed the beam at the right foot plantar.
“See these? Multiple lacerations, one-to-two centimeters long, only a few millimeters deep. You’d think he’d tortured her, but—”
“But there are no signs of restraints on the body,” I said.
“The cuts were inflicted postmortem,” Satish concluded.
Cohen nodded, his eyes grave. “They’re not deep enough to think he was attempting to mutilate her. Still. They don’t seem to serve any purpose.” He leaned closer and examined the whole plantar under the magnifying glass. “Was she wearing socks?”
Satish dipped a hand under the surgical gown and retrieved pen and notepad. “No. Sheer stockings.”
“Black?”
“No, Doc. Skin colored.”
“Interesting.” Cohen traded the magnifying glass for a pair of tweezers and retrieved a fine, black and curly filament from the edge of one of the cuts. He held the tweezers against the light and we all squinted at the filament.
Satish slid the tip of the pen under his paper cap and scratched his head. “Hard to tell if it’s a hair or a fiber.”
Cohen turned the tweezers until he’d examined all sides of the filament. “Right. I’m not seeing a root. The lab will be able to tell us.” He carefully passed the specimen to the assistant and added, “Did you see what he did to her scalp?”
We all walked to the other end of the table. Cohen turned Amy’s neck all the way to the right and exposed the scalped area behind her left ear.
“See this? This is a meticulous job. Shallow incision behind the ear and transversal to the back of the neck, forming a V.”
Satish took notes.
“He peeled the skin off starting from the lower edge, up along the temporal bone, and severed a triangular flap.”
Around the scalped area, bits of dried blood and tissue hung to the skull like red crumbs.
Satish leaned closer. “Have you ever seen something like this before, Doc?”
“Other than old Western movies, that is,” I added.
Cohen turned Amy’s head the other way, looking for more lesions. “Actually, the movies had it all wrong, you know? They made it look like scalping was a Native American custom, but it turns out, the white settlers were scalping even more than the Indians.” He checked the back of Amy’s head then reached for the laryngoscope. “Anyway, the answer to your question is no. The only case on my table happened by accident. A worker from a Santa Monica manufacturing plant got her left scalp ripped off by a the rotating bar of a spinning lathe. Couldn’t pull her out of the machine fast enough.”
I swallowed. “Now that’s a happy image.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t pretty.” Cohen sighed, waited for the assistant to return to the table and then pressed the record button on his handheld voice recorder. “Ok, let’s get started. Victim’s name is Amy Fang Liu, five-foot-two-inches long and weighs one hundred and five pounds. Asian descent, age thirty-four. Small tattoo, one and a half centimeters long, on the right shoulder near the collar bone. Red birthmark on left breast, adjacent to the areola. No evidence of sexual assault and no defensive wounds.” The M.E. dictated the general appearance of the corpse, describing the gory details of her facial injuries and the numerous lacerations on the soles of her feet. He handed the recorder to the assistant and proceeded to insert the laryngoscope down Amy’s throat.
“The tissue inside the oral cavity is abraded. Vocal cords are seared.” He waved, and the assistant paused the recorder. “We’ll examine closely the bronchi and esophagus for confirmation, but it looks like she swallowed the acid. Probably inhaled it, too.” He pointed a penlight down her throat. “In a way, he spared her a lot of pain by strangling her. I’m guessing he surprised her with a first splash, then poured more once she was dead.”
He palpated her neck and examined the ligature mark. “See how close to the jaw the ligature came? We’re looking at somebody at least a foot taller than her.” Cohen applied pressure at the sides of the scar and pinched it. “Black ligature mark. Straight line with raised edges,” he dictated into the recorder. “Except for the indentation, the skin around it is smooth and clear. No discoid bruises. Gail, pass me a scalpel number four, please.”
While he waited for the blade, Cohen pointed to the fine cloud of dark specks above and around the ligature mark. “These are petechiae,” he said. “In death by strangulation you usually find them in the eyes, too—tiny bruises that form when the capillaries break. Too bad we don’t have much of the eyes left in this case.” He took the blade from the assistant and started making a transversal incision about a quarter of an inch above the ligature mark. As he cut deeper into the tissue, a gooey smell of rust and decay stuck to my palate and refused to let go.
“First thing I always look at—fluid from the eyes. I can see everything through vit electrolytes. Time of death, general health, sexual orientation...” His eyes peered at us from behind his surgical goggles for a second to see if we’d caught on the last joke. He chuckled, we smiled politely. “Once I had a sudden death with no medical history. Young fella in his late thirties. Guess how I found what he’d died of?” He kept talking while smoothly working around the incision, carving out a triangle around the ligature mark on the left side of Amy’s neck.
“You asked?” I said.
Satish elbowed me in the ribs.
Cohen didn’t even notice. “The eyes. Exactly. From the vitreous electrolytes it was clear he’d died of non-ketotic hyperosmolar diabetic coma. You wouldn’t believe how common undiagnosed diabetes is.” He dropped the skin section from the ligature mark into a new ti
ssue cassette and pointed to the photo of Charlie Callahan’s neck clipped to the view box on the wall. In Callahan’s case the killer had poured the acid not only on the victim’s face, but also on the neck, burning away most of the ligature mark. Cohen drew our attention to little crescent-shaped incisions on the side of his neck spared by the acid.
“See those marks over there? They’re semicircular and one-to-two millimeters in length. Those are nail marks. Callahan tried to pry the ligature away from his neck. No such marks on Amy Liu’s neck. No skin underneath her nails, either.”
Satish nodded. “What about telltales? I can’t see any to the naked eye.”
Cohen shook his head. “None whatsoever. Smooth indentation, blanched out at the bottom, with clear edges. No fibers, either.”
The assistant leaned forward and measured the depth of the indentation with a probe. “One-point-five, Doctor,” she said.
Cohen pondered the information. “One and a half millimeters. Shallow, compared to what a nylon string or wire would normally cut into, but deep compared to a scarf.” He frowned. “I can see bruising in the tissue, all the way down to the strap muscles of the neck.”
He made a new incision starting from above the thyroid and running down across the ligature mark. He then came down to the side and cut out a triangular flap of skin, exposing the larynx in its full length. “It’s mind boggling, really. Usually one can pin it down to a group of ligatures, you know? Strings, ropes, scarves. This, however, has me scratching my head. Can’t be wire, as it would’ve cut through the tissue. You need something thicker to compress the carotids without severing them. A rope or a scarf will do, but those leave fibers and telltale marks. Ah, but see here?” He brushed his gloved finger along the U-shaped bone at the top of the larynx. It was cracked in the middle. “Fractured hyoid bone. There’s your cause of death—asphyxiation—and manner—strangulation.”
Satish scribbled on the notepad and blew through his facemask. “Now we just need to figure out the mode.”
* * *
A telephone cord, a nylon scarf, a computer cable, shoelaces, a fishing line, a climbing rope—all used at some point as lethal weapons. Next to each one, Satish placed a sticky note with the description of the corresponding ligature: telltale marks, depth of indentation, type of bruising. Rumors of the puzzle spread quickly across the squad room, and soon a small crowd of detectives ringed around our desks. The fact that Presius was back after a six-month sabbatical also added to the general curiosity.
The heat enhanced the overhanging concerto of male sweat, testosterone, gun oil rubbing against leather holsters, and cheap Formica furniture. Two rows of desks faced one another over old, linoleum tiles. All around, yellow walls were plastered with the ghastly faces of L.A.’s most wanted.
A smile dangling from his black mustache, Detective Oscar Guerra dragged a chair across the room, straddled it, and stared at the eclectic collection on Satish’s desk. He plucked a cigarette out of his breast pocket, stuck it between his lips, and spoke carefully around it. “What about a computer cable? Wouldn’t leave any telltale, would it?”
Satish clicked his tongue. “Too large.”
“A nylon string?”
I replied this time. “Too deep. We need something that has no fibers, leaves a perfectly smooth indentation, but doesn’t get too deep into the flesh.”
Oscar flipped his unlit cigarette up and down with his lips, thinking. “What if it didn’t get deep enough because your guy didn’t apply enough pressure?”
Satish shook his head. “The pressure is measured by the bruising. Our guy pulled to kill.”
Oscar sucked on his unlit cig, then leaned across the desk and gave me a brotherly slap on the shoulder. “Asshole,” he said. “Should’ve left this one to Satish. Let him puzzle over it for another six months, then you come back, as fresh as a quartered chicken.”
The door to the lieutenant’s office clicked and we all turned. Silence filled with anticipation fell over the room. Hands buried in pockets, Gomez shook his head. “Just got a call from the UCLA Med Center. They pronounced him dead at two-twenty-six. Michael Jackson is dead, guys.”
Oscar’s mustache swallowed the smile on his face. “Wow. The King of Chicken Hawks left us. I bet all those child molestation victims will come forward, now.”
Jo Kertrud, another seasoned detective who’d been with the RHD since the early ‘nineties, said, “Who knows. Maybe one of them just did.”
The LT waited for the general murmur to subside. “Heart attack, they think, but you know the drill, guys. Mayamoto and Garrison—let’s have you two go to the hospital and talk to the docs. I want you to report back immediately after. Next two on the callboard stand by.”
He bobbed his head, looked around if there were any questions. There weren’t, and he retreated back into his office. We shuffled back to our spots, all except Satish, who detoured to the vending machines in the hallway. Katie Cheng was sitting on my partner’s desk, casually fiddling with the strangulation props. She was a young Chinese-American officer permanently loaned to our division. She helped us deal with the estimated five thousand Chinese who lived in L.A. and didn’t speak much English beyond hello and thank you. Katie loved the homicide table so much that even when she wasn’t needed as a translator she kept herself busy doing desk work for us dicks.
“Wow,” she commented. “Jackson was going to turn fifty-one next month. Gee, I grew up with his songs.”
I stared at the paper in her hand. It bore the warm, acidic smell of fresh-out-of-the-printer ink. “What’s up, Katie?”
She blinked. “Oh. Sorry. This is for you and your partner.” She handed me the printout, together with a whiff of body lotion and mint chewing gum.
* * *
Satish slid inside the Charger. “Where are we going?”
“Vernon Motel on Fifty-six. Couple blocks west of South Fig.” I whipped the car up the One-Ten ramp, merging into the steady flow of traffic. I had a Glock 17 tucked in my waistband holster and a five-inch M327 revolver for backup. I was wearing a tie and dress shoes as the brass gods demanded, and my badge, all polished and shiny, was safely stowed into my wallet. Little uncomfortable in the shoes, and already sweaty in the nice shirt, but other than that, I made one hell of an RHD dick. Satish wasn’t too bad either.
Not that anybody cared. In South Central what most people care about is survival. A ghetto of dilapidated apartment buildings, body shops, liquor stores, and cinder-block walls decorated in layers of graffiti, South Central has always been ruled by the Main Street Crips, the Hoovers, and their various street factions. Summers get pretty damned hot in this part of town.
“So, what’s the deal in South L.A.?” Satish asked.
“Katie found the guy who did the mosaic art on Amy Liu’s back patio. The work was done two months ago. Guy’s got no priors, but his nephew, who helped with the mosaic, is a Eighteenth Street with a tail. Ricardo Vargas, age nineteen.”
Satish tapped the car window. “A gang homeboy with a record. Interesting. What did he serve for?”
“Fly-by shooting when he was fifteen. Shot a guy in the face to prove to his gang he was a man. His prize was a ten-dollar bill—that’s all the vic had in his wallet. Been on parole since last January. His uncle’s trying to keep him off the street by having him help out in his handyman business. They redid Amy Liu’s back patio last March. Uncle claims he’s been keeping an eye on the boy and he’s clean.”
“I’m sure his Eighteenth Street pals are keeping an eye on him, too.”
Half an hour later, we left our vehicle and stepped into the sweltering heat of the small parking lot of a dingy, hot-sheet motel. By the street, skinny palm trees bowed under the sun. A man in a wheelchair peered at us from the sidewalk, his weathered face caked with layers of street life.
“Bro,” he called. We ignored him. “Hey, bro!” He wheeled toward us across the parking lot. “I got information for you. You uh… you got a buck or two?”
; Satish dipped a hand in his pants’ pocket and fished out a card. “We don’t handle information. Here’s the number to call.”
Black fingers gingerly reached out to pluck the card. He stared at it, not too troubled by the fact that he was holding it upside down, then gave us a toothless grin and turned his wheelchair around.
Satish sighed. “Cashed out. My last buck went into the vending machine at Parker.”
“A buck for a bag of stinkin’ Cheetos.” I turned my pockets inside out, found a crumpled dollar, and walked back to exchange it for another toothless grin. I got a God-bless as an extra bonus.
“There’s a reason it’s called City of Angels,” Satish said.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Only angels around here ain’t got wings and ain’t wearing white, either.”
I glanced at the two story-building spread out along the three sides of the inner court: pink, chafed stucco, tears of rust and bird droppings, green doors alternating to dark sliding windows, and the lingering smells of sweat, dog urine, and tired humanity. A maid in pink scrubs came out of an open door on the second floor, dumped a heap of dirty laundry into her cart, sent a disapproving glare at the wheelchair, now on the other side of the street, then vanished back inside.
“Luxurious place,” I commented.
Satish tipped his head toward the lobby. “Parole doesn’t make you rich.” He adjusted his belt and holster, put a hand on the door, and gave me a stern eye. “Now, the guy being a parolee and all, we have some leeway. Still, I’d like to talk to him alive.”
I flashed him my most innocent smile.
The lobby was as dingy and gray as the outside. Under our shoes, linoleum tiles popped with old grease stains. Yellowed photos of the Rose Parade randomly decorated the walls. The frames were all crooked and looked like they hadn’t been straightened since the ’94 earthquake. A full ashtray sat beside a brass plate claiming that smoking wasn’t allowed. Stale coffee percolated on a Formica countertop covered in blotches of maple syrup and jam. A radio blabbered in Spanish from somewhere at the back of the office.
