by L. A. Fiore
Cap stood and paced. “So our three murder cases are linked to a thirty-one year old suicide case that may have been a murder.” He rubbed a hand over his head. “That is thin.”
“Very, but it’s all we got. We’d like to go to LA. Katrina Dent still has family there. We can ask around. Get the files on the case, maybe even talk to Breen and get his gut feeling on it.”
“There are no other leads?” Cap asked.
“Nothing. Emily was collateral damage. Frank and Samantha have no other points that cross. We’ve already talked to Milton Teller. He wasn’t able to give us much, and, digging deeper into him, there are no links to Harris,” I offered.
“But we’ve got a killer who isn’t afraid of taking out an entire apartment building to destroy evidence,” Cap said. “Okay. I’ll call the LAPD, to clear the way. And will work to get you in with Breen.”
“How you going to do that, Cap?” Zac asked.
“By calling in a few favors.” He moved back to his desk, reached for his phone. “Make the arrangements.”
“Thanks, Cap,” Zac said, as we stood.
We were halfway to our desks, when he called after us, “Economy class!”
Zac grabbed his chest in feigned pain. “So close.”
Los Angeles was like a different world. A uniform officer met us at the airport. LAX was pretty spectacular, and the drive to headquarters was incredible: palm trees, beautiful people, and the Hollywood sign. I couldn’t help looking into some of the fancy cars we passed, hoping to see celebrities. We pulled into a building that was all glass and looked like a high-tech computer firm. Inside was light and spacious, nothing like our station house.
We were brought to the homicide division, stopping at the break room. Whereas ours had vending machines and old coffeemakers that burned coffee if it sat too long, theirs had an espresso machine, a smoothie maker and plates of pastries. I looked at our escort and asked, “What’s the occasion?”
I knew by the way he glanced back that there was no occasion. They always had fresh pastries.
“I think I might need to make a change,” I teased.
We got our coffee before we were led to their captain, a Timothy Carson. He greeted us with a smile. “Welcome to Los Angeles,” he said, offering his hand.
“Thanks for having us,” Zac said.
“When your captain called, I must admit, I was intrigued by the case. We’ve pulled the case file.”
“Thanks.”
“The coroner who worked on the case is retired, but…” He reached for a folder on his desk and handed it to Zac. “His name, number and address. I reached out to him, told him you’d be stopping by. The information on Laurence Breen is in there, as well, as is the address and number for Katrina Dent’s parents.”
“This is great. Thank you,” Zac said.
“Like I said, this case is curious, but if we got it wrong, all those years ago, we need to do what we can to set it right.” Timothy Carson was alright. “You need anything, you’ve got my resources at your disposal.” He gestured to the officer who brought us to the station. “Officer Dobbs will take you to your hotel. There’s a car there for you. All I ask, if this gets dicey, call us in. The paperwork involved in shootings from officers out of their jurisdiction is tedious.”
“Will do,” Zac replied.
“Thank you,” I said.
He took his seat and smiled. “Happy hunting.”
Zac waited until we were outside before he said, “I say we get some shut eye, start fresh in the morning.” It was eight in the evening, our time, but in LA, it was only five. We’d been on the go for over twelve hours. Starting fresh was smart.
“Sounds good to me.”
Our hotel wasn’t far from the station. As soon as we checked in, Zac put the Do Not Disturb sign on his door. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
He had the right idea. “Night, Zac.”
I got ready for bed in record time and was out seconds after my head hit the pillow.
“She was such a beautiful child. Always happy. Always smiling.” Ellie Dent touched a picture of a young Katrina, the following day during out visit. Her eyes were bright, a tissue clutched in her hand. “The camera loved her. Always had.”
Tony sat across from me; Zac next to him. It had been thirty-one years, and still, their pain was clear to see. Looking around their spacious and elegant living room, it was a shrine to their daughter. Her picture was everywhere: framed on the mantel, over the hearth, the walls, a collection of shots covered the top of the white baby grand.
“Why are you looking into this now?” Tony asked, his voice unable to hide the pain.
“Katrina’s case came up during our investigation into another crime.”
“I don’t understand how,” Tony said.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Is there anything you remember from back then? Anyone who was giving Katrina a hard time? Any crazy fans?”
“No,” Ellie said, looking up from the photo album, “she was loved.”
“What about her fiancé, Jason Benjamin. Do you know what happened to him?”
Zac and I didn’t miss the look that passed between Tony and Ellie. We’d hit a nerve.
“We lost touch with him after…” Ellie didn’t finish the thought.
“I know this is difficult, but was Katrina the type to take her own life?” Zac asked, as gently as that question could be asked.
Another look was shared between Katrina’s parents, before her father said, “Katrina was a beautiful soul, eager to please everyone, to be loved and accepted. Hollywood is difficult, particularly for women back then. Did the pressure get to her?” He paused, as if he was forcing the words out. “Yes.”
Zac handed Tony his card. Ellie didn’t see us out. Her focus was on the photo album. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
The door closed at our backs with a decided thud. I stood on their front stoop and looked out at the acres of land surrounding their estate. Zac was looking at the Greek revival home we’d just walked out of.
“This place must cost a mint,” he said. “According to what we learned, Ellie doesn’t work, and Tony worked as a scientist. Retired now.”
“You think they’re using their daughter’s money.” That left a bad taste in my mouth.
“We need to look closer at Katrina’s finances.”
We started for the car. “That living room bugs me,” I said. “It’s a shrine. And I understand they lost their daughter, but she died thirty-one years ago. Took her own life.”
Zac stopped at the car and looked at me from over the roof. “What are you thinking?”
“I got more of a guilt vibe than a mourning vibe.”
Zac looked back at the house. “If they’re living off of her dime, that might be why they feel guilty.”
“Yeah, maybe, but it seemed almost difficult for Tony to admit that Katrina was capable of taking her own life.”
“You picked up on that, too? We weren’t getting the whole story. We need to find the fiancé,” Zac said, climbing into the car.
I joined him and reached for the seatbelt. “He seems to have vanished.”
Zac started up the car. “So he’s either on the run because he had something to do with her death, or he’s dead, too.” It was like Pandora’s box. Zac put the car in gear. “Let’s go see the senator.”
The show of wealth that we passed on the way to the senator’s was insane, particularly knowing, only miles away, there was poverty and people struggling. The stark contrast was unsettling. The senator’s house was a massive one-story rancher that sprawled over acres. Horses grazed in the distance. Palm trees lined his drive, a fountain in the center of the circular driveway. Large stone urns flanked the ornate gold door, overflowing with colorful flowers.
We knocked, and in s
econds, a woman, wearing a black dress and white apron, opened the door. “You must be Detectives Ashton and Donahue. Please this way.”
She walked us through the foyer of black and white marble tiles, a black concert grand piano tucked in the corner of it, and through a living room with windows along the back wall, bringing the sunlight into the space done in all white, to a door that led to an office of oak paneled walls and floors with book cases all around the perimeter. A massive desk sat in the center of the room and behind that desk was the senator, Laurence Breen.
And to think he was a public servant thirty-one years ago.
“He stood and smiled, gesturing to the leather chairs across from him. “Please sit. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks,” Zac answered for us both.
“That will be all, Maddie.”
The door closed quietly.
Breen leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “You want to know about Katrina Dent.”
“Yes.”
“I still see it,” he said, his focus turning to the window. “It’s been so long, but I still see her in that bath tub. There were no signs of a struggle. There was no forced entry. The medical examiner said the wound angles supported self-inflicted. She had a history of mental illness. It was textbook.”
Zac leaned up in his chair because he sensed the but, too. “But?”
Breen looked back at us, the expression in his eyes that of a cop. “It was almost too textbook.”
Shit.
“So you think it’s possible she was murdered?” Zac sought confirmation.
“Yes, but it was a high profile case and everything pointed to suicide.”
“And the fiancé, did you look at him for the murder?” I asked.
“Unofficially, yeah, but he had an alibi for the time of death.”
“Any idea where he is now?” I asked.
“No. That was another flag, one that was brushed under the rug. He disappeared shortly after Katrina’s death. Cleaned out his bank accounts and disappeared. If you were to look into him now, you’d likely find nothing, no activity of any kind.”
“Taking off so soon after her death makes him look guilty,” Zac said.
“Or he was scared,” Breen added.
“You think Katrina wasn’t the target?” I said incredulously.
“I’m just throwing out theories because that’s all it is after all this time, but her case was ruled a suicide, so why the hell would he run?”
“But if she was a warning…” I said, following Breen’s logic. “What did Benjamin do for a living?”
“Outside of running Katrina’s career, nothing stood out.”
“So what was he involved in that made him a target?” I asked.
“That was what tripped me up, too. Can I ask why you’re looking into this after all this time?”
“A case we’re working on is linked somehow to Katrina Dent.”
We both saw the curiosity burning in his eyes, the cop intuition kicking in. “I wasn’t sorry to leave death behind. It’s a hard job to do day in and day out, but I’m not going to lie. I am curious how your case links to a thirty-one-year-old one.”
Zac held his stare and confessed, “So are we.”
Unlike the others we’d seen that day, the coroner who handled Katrina’s case, Jackson Kilburn, didn’t live in the hills. His modest apartment was in the city, not far from the Chinese Theater. We were settled in his small living room, drinking iced tea. The man was old, had to be pushing ninety. His hair was all white, but he still had a full head of it. His face was lined with wrinkles; he had a hunch to his gait, and he was sweet. Friendly.
“You’re a long way from home,” he said, as he pulled a blanket from the sofa and dropped it over his lap. “Have you gotten to look around?”
“We’re hoping to see a bit of the city after we finish the interviews,” Zac said.
“You should. All work and no play is not healthy,” he said, reaching for his glass of tea. “I know why you’re here. I’ve been waiting.”
Zac and I shared a look.
“I worked as a coroner for thirty-eight years. Not an easy job, but every person who ended up on my table, I treated as if they were my own because, in a sense, they were.” He took a sip from his tea.
“Why have you been waiting for this visit?” I asked.
He placed his glass down on the table and folded his hands in his lap, before his gaze shifted to Zac and me. “Because Katrina Dent’s case is the only one of hundreds I worked on that I signed off on a cause of death I knew to be wrong.”
Silence followed that confession because of the ramifications of such a declaration. Shit, we didn’t have three bodies; we now had four, possibly five, if Benjamin wasn’t in the wind but dead.
“Why did you?” Zac asked.
“I had no evidence to support murder. Everything suggested suicide. I had other coroners look at the body, and they all came back with suicide. It all fit.”
“What made you think it wasn’t suicide?” I asked, leaning up in my chair.
“My years of experience. I’d been on the job for over twenty-five years when Katrina came to me. She’d been drinking. A bottle of wine and glass were next to the tub. That coupled with the nerves one would feel knowing what they were going to do. The cuts were too neat.”
“But the angle was right,” Zac clarified.
“Yes, but if someone made her hold the razor and covered her hand with their own…”
Which shined a light on her fiancé. No forced entry, no struggle, because she didn’t see it coming. Waited until she had enough wine in her…
“I always thought her fiancé was good for it, especially since he disappeared shortly after. He’d gotten away with murder, so why the hell not run. Start over elsewhere.”
“But from all accounts, they were happy,” Zac offered.
“It’s Hollywood. You see what they want you to see.” Jackson looked back out the window. “That case haunts me. She haunts me because, if I’m right, her murderer has gotten away with it for thirty-one years.” His focus shifted back to us. “Find out what happened to her. Before I leave this world, I’d like to know she’s at rest.”
“This case is from hell,” Zac said, moving into the late afternoon traffic on the San Diego Freeway. “We’ve more questions than answers.”
I turned in my seat to face him. “Both the investigating officer and coroner thought it was murder, so let’s assume Katrina was murdered. If it was her fiancé who killed her, why did he? What was his motive? They weren’t married, and even though they’d been living together for over three years, California isn’t a common law state, not even back in the eighties. So he has no claim to her money.”
“Yeah, and being unhappy seems like a stretch for murder,” Zac added.
“Financially, she was the breadwinner. Murder usually does come down to money,” I offered, then added, “But killing her, he takes out his source of income.”
“Exactly, so even though he had means and opportunity, motive is sketchy…” Zac let that thought trail off.
“Alright, so the other option is Katrina wasn’t the target,” I theorized. “She was a means to an end. So what was Jason Benjamin involved in that led to the murder of his fiancée?”
“No clue because no one knows shit about him, and he’s in the wind,” Zac said. “We need to find Jason Benjamin.”
For the rest of the ride back to our hotel, Zac and I were quiet, lost in our thoughts. We had one more day in Los Angeles and that would be spent poring over the case file, digging more into Jason Benjamin. We wouldn’t be getting in any sightseeing. Whatever happened to Katrina, someone was willing to kill to keep it quiet, even decades later. Was it her fiancé, afraid of the truth coming out? Or, was it possible, whoever killed Katrina did so to get to her
fiancé? And if so, why? What the hell were we walking into?
Salem greeted me, as soon as I closed and locked the door to my apartment. “Hey, buddy,” I said, hunching down to scratch his head. “Did you miss me?” He rubbed his head into my hand in answer.
My place wasn’t much, but I was glad to be home. I unpacked, made sure I had clean clothes for tomorrow, then settled at my desk in the living room and consolidated my notes. The more people we interviewed, the more questions we had. What was perfectly clear was someone was willing to kill to keep the secret of Katrina’s death. And now, we needed to figure out why.
I spent an hour getting my stuff together for the briefing the captain would want in the morning, and then I walked to the kitchen for a glass of wine. Dropping down on the sofa, I flipped on the television.
I caught the tail end of a story on the attempt on Gregory Enzi senior’s life. He was a known crime boss, dabbled, some said too much, in politics. Meaning, he had people at all levels of the government in his pocket, though that was never proven. I had enough in my head, didn’t need to think about the attempted murder of a crime boss, so I was switching to a movie when a familiar face filled the screen. My heart skipped, as I turned up the volume.
“Kade Wakefield’s annual masquerade party has a date.”
I entertained the fantasy of going to that for about three minutes, before I came back to reality and changed the channel.
“So the coroner and lead detective weren’t convinced it was a suicide, and yet, ruled it as such. And the one person who could shine some light on this mess is in the wind,” Captain summarized.
“In a nutshell,” Zac said. “For someone connected to the level of celebrity Katrina Dent had been, there is surprisingly little on Jason Benjamin.”
“Maybe that was intentional. Maybe he planned his backout strategy,” Cap said.
“Yeah, but why?” I asked.
Captain shook his head. “Good question. I’ll get the forensic division on it. They can reach out to their counterparts in Los Angeles, see what they can shake out.”
