by Hangman
“C’mon.” She motioned him forward. “I’ll guide you through it. You may not know it, Gabe, but you’re looking at a BMOC.”
CHAPTER SIX
BY THE TIME Decker broke for lunch, he had done enough phone work and legwork to ascertain that there had been no activity on Terry McLaughlin’s cell since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. Her major credit cards hadn’t been used other than daily charges put through by the hotel, and even those had been earlier in the day. Her name hadn’t appeared on any American or United flight manifest—either domestic or international—but Decker certainly hadn’t the means and the wherewithal to check every single airline and every single local airport. If the woman had wanted to sneak out, she could have done it in a thousand ways. More to the point, her car hadn’t been spotted. All he could do was wait for news and hope it wasn’t bad news.
Donatti wasn’t picking up his cell, either. According to Gabe, his father switched cells, often using throwaways. It could be that the number that Decker was given wasn’t the cell phone he was currently using. Decker did discover that Donatti had arrived on Saturday morning in LAX via Virgin America Airlines, the day before his meeting with his estranged wife. There was no record of his picking up any rental car. As far as locating where he had stayed before he had met with Terry, Decker started calling hotels, beginning on the west with the Ritz-Carlton in the Marina and slowly working his way eastward ho. When he was about to call the Century Plaza, there was a knock on his office door. He put down the phone. “Come in.”
Dressed in a wheat-colored shirt, brown pants, and rubber-soled flats, Marge entered his office. Her brown eyes were wide and her face was ashen. Decker felt his heart sink. “What?”
“A foreman at a construction site just found a homicide victim—a young woman hanging from the rafters—”
“Good Lord!” Decker felt sick. “Hanging?”
“From cable wire…at least, that’s what I’ve been told.”
“Any identification?”
“Not so far. The uniforms are at the scene, cordoning off the area.”
“Has any one cut her down?”
“No. The foreman didn’t touch her. He called 911 and the uniforms came quickly enough to preserve the scene. The coroner’s office has been notified.”
Decker looked at his watch. “It’s two in the afternoon. And the foreman just discovered the body? How long had he been at the site?”
“I don’t know, Pete.”
“What’s the location?” When Marge told him the address, Decker’s heart started racing. His brain flashed to Terry’s face with a noose around her neck. “That’s not far from where Cheryl Diggs was murdered.”
“I realize that. That’s why I’m telling you this.”
Way back when, when Chris Donatti né Chris Whitman had been a senior in high school, Cheryl Diggs had been his teen girlfriend. On the night of the senior prom, Donatti had been accused of murdering her, and soon after, he went to jail because of some noble but misguided notion that he was saving Terry McLaughlin from the ordeal of testifying at his trial. It turned out that Chris had been innocent, probably the only crime that he was ever innocent of.
Marge said, “I’m on my way with Oliver. Should I keep you updated or do you want to come?”
“I’m coming.” He picked up his jacket, his cell phone, and his camera. “I’ll take a separate car and meet you two there.”
“Anything I should be looking for?”
“Do you know what Terry McLaughlin looks like?”
“Last time I saw her, she was sixteen. A beautiful girl, as I recall.”
“She’s matured, but she’s still beautiful.” Decker slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. “Of course, if it’s her, she isn’t going to look pretty at all.”
CRIME WAS UBIQUITOUS, and while the community policed by the Devonshire substation had its share of assaults, burglaries, and thefts, it wasn’t considered high in the homicide department. So when murder did occur, it stood out as an anomaly. Hangings were as rare as L.A. snow.
Decker drove down the main boulevard, twisting and turning until he arrived at one of the more affluent residential areas. It was a planned community and the homes were two-storied with three-car garages and half-acre lots. There were a few architectural styles to choose from: Spanish, Tudor, Colonial, Italianate, and Modern, which was basically an oversize box with oversize windows. Several homes were in the process of being built.
At the given address, a sizable group of gawkers was milling about, craning their necks to see what was going on. One radio van had already arrived and no doubt several more were on the way. Decker parked about a half block away from the hubbub and walked over to the action. He flashed his badge to one of the uniforms and then ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape.
The two-story house had been framed: the rooms had been delineated, the windows were in, and the roof was on. The crowd was gathered toward the back, mostly uniformed officers, but Decker could also see flashbulbs discharging at frequent intervals. Marge, riding with her partner, Scott Oliver, had beaten him to the scene. Scott was his usually natty self, wearing a houndstooth jacket, black slacks, a black jacquard silk tie, and a starched white shirt. As Decker got closer to the corpse, the air had turned fetid, filled with the stink of excretion. A funnel of blackflies, gnats, and other winged insects was encircling the space.
Oliver was shooing the critters away. “Get lost, bugs. Go eat the carrion.”
From his breast jacket pocket, Decker took out a tube of Vicks VapoRub and dabbed his nostrils with the ointment. He waved a hand across his face to disperse the insects as he stared at the body swinging from the rafters. The woman’s face was so discolored and bloated that she was almost unrecognizable as human. She was nude, her long dark hair vainly trying to give her some modesty. Cable wire had been looped several times around her neck, the terminus of the ligature knotted on one of the ceiling joists. Her toenails—painted red—just barely cleared the ground.
“Any ID?” Decker asked.
“None so far,” Marge answered. “Is it Terry?”
Decker stared a long time. “I’d like to say no, but honestly she’s too distorted to tell.” He took out his notebook and began to make some sketches. “What cable company services this area?”
“American Lifeline does most of the Valley,” Marge answered. “I’ll call them up and get a schedule of who’s working in the area.”
Decker said. “Find out what kind of cable wire they use. Also get someone to start calling electronic shops and computer stores in the area and find out what kind of cable they sell.”
“I’ll do that,” Oliver said.
“No, get Lee Wang to make all the calls. You and Marge start canvassing the area. I’ll bring in a couple of other Dees to help you out.” Decker continued to study the body. “Do we have any ideas who this might be?”
“Wynona Pratt is making calls to the other station houses, finding out if any young women were reported missing.”
Decker rubbed his forehead and turned to the photographer, George Stubbs, a gray-haired, stocky man in his fifties. “Are you done with her?”
“Almost.”
“Did you take close-ups of her neck?”
“I took some. I can take more.”
“Do that. Also take several snapshots of the knot on the ceiling where the cable wire is knotted.”
Marge had gloved up and was studying the body, circling it like carrion. By law, no one could touch the body until the coroner’s investigator gave the okay. “This seems like a bloodless murder. No bullet holes, no stab wounds. No defensive wounds on her hands. Her nails aren’t chipped or scratched. Her French polish manicure is like new.” She looked up. “Happen to notice if Terry had on nail polish?”
Decker thought back, trying to recall Terry’s hands. Then he noticed the hanging woman’s feet—bright red toenails. “When Terry first spoke to me, her feet were bare and I don’t recall her toenails bei
ng polished.” A pause. “She could have polished them later, after I left, but how likely is that unless she had it done in the hotel’s salon.”
Marge said, “I’ll call up and ask.”
He stared at the face. “It’s not her.”
“You’re sure.”
“Almost certain.” He regarded her features, then shook his head. “Do we have any forensics—semen, fingerprints, shoe prints, maybe some tire tracks in the area? Lots of dust and dirt, we should be able to pull something from the ground.”
“I’ve been bagging garbage,” Oliver said.
“Marking the spots?”
Oliver held up some small orange cones with numbers on them.
Decker said, “What have picked up?”
“Mostly fast-food sandwich wrappers and junk from the roach coach. S.I.D. is on the way. So are a couple of investigators from the Crypt.”
“If it’s a construction site, where’s all the activity?” Decker asked.
“No activity because they’re waiting for the framing inspector to sign off. The appointment was for four o’clock in the afternoon. The foreman, who’s name is Chuck Tinsley, arrived here first and was going over the property just to make sure everything looked okay. He was waiting for the contractor and the architect to come down when he discovered the body. He called 911, then immediately called the contractor, who is on his way.”
“Where’s Tinsley?”
Marge pointed to a black-and-white. “He’s ensconced inside. Should I get him?”
Decker nodded as his gaze continued to fix on the swinging corpse. His thoughts were meandering to several places, and none were good.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE BACK PASSENGER door to the cruiser was open, a uniform standing in front of the space, keeping watch over her charge as well as the set of wheels. If Decker squinted, he could see a figure huddled in the backseat, his arms wrapped around his body as if his arms were straps on a straitjacket. As Decker approached the car, he nodded to the police officer and pointed to the open door. The cop bent down and spoke to the huddled man. When he emerged, Tinsley was average height, a tank of a fellow with long, muscular arms, dark eyes, a strong chin, and a face of controlled stubble. The officer led him to Decker, who glanced at her tag.
“Thank you, Officer Breckenridge, I’ll take it from here.” He extended his hand to the foreman, whose complexion was ashen behind the darkening of beard. He had brown eyes, a Roman nose, and thin lips. His hair was a nest of cowlicks. He appeared to be in his thirties. “Lieutenant Peter Decker.”
“Chuck Tinsley.” His voice was deep but held a slight tremble. “This is…I’m a little freaked out.”
“I do this for a living and I’m a lot freaked out,” Decker said.
Tinsley laughed nervously. “If you see a pile of vomit, it’s probably mine.”
“How’s your stomach now?” Decker asked.
He held up a soda can. “Someone was nice enough to give me this. I think it was the lady cop. I’m a little confused.”
Decker pulled out his notebook. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“Nothing much to tell. I came early to clean up before the contractor arrived.” He bit his lip. “I saw the body.”
“Can we back it up for a minute?”
“Sure?”
“When did you get to the site?”
“Around quarter to.”
“Quarter to what?”
“Oh, quarter to two. One forty-five.”
“And when were you supposed to meet the contractor.”
“Around three-thirty, four.”
Decker looked at his watch. It was nearly three now. “You came early?”
“Yeah, to clean up. You know how it is with construction crews,” Tinsley said. “They throw their shit all over the place. I try to get them to clean up at the end of the day, but if it’s been a hard one, I let it go. It’s easier to clean up by myself when they’re not here. That’s what I was doing. With the inspection coming, you need a clean site.”
“So you came at one forty-five and…what did you immediately start doing?”
“Cleaning up stuff. Picking up nails, piling up loose lumber, gathering up tools left behind, throwing away trash…lots of trash.”
“Did you have a trash bag with you?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Where is the bag now?”
Tinsley’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Not sure. Probably I dropped it when I saw the body.”
“When you noticed the body, how long had you been at the site?”
“Maybe five minutes. I saw a lot of flies and figured there was a pile of dog shit that I needed to clean up. Not that I see a lot of dog shit inside the house, but I figured what else could be attracting so many flies?”
“Then what did you do?”
“I think I found a plastic bag or something to pick up the shit with. After that, things got fuzzy. I think I mighta screamed. Then I barfed. Then I called 911 on my cell.”
“You also called the contractor?”
“Yeah, I called him, too. He told me he was running late, and hopefully he’d make it before the inspector. But then I told him about the body and that I called the police and that he should cancel the inspection.”
“Then what did you do after you called the contractor?”
“I don’t really remember…the police showed up a couple of minutes later. Someone told me to wait in the car and that someone would be with me in a moment. I said I was feeling a little sick and someone got me a can of soda. And that’s that.”
Decker said, “Did you touch the body at all? Maybe feel for a pulse?”
Tinsley turned green. “I mighta. I don’t remember too well.”
“Did you get a good look at the face?”
“I just glanced at it…her. It didn’t even look human.”
“Did you recognize her as someone you know or have seen around the area?”
“Tell you the truth, I didn’t look that long.”
“Could you glance at the body another time, just to see if you can identify her?”
“I suppose so…”
Decker led him over to the corpse. Someone from the coroner’s office had given the go-ahead to cut her down. She laid her on a gurney with a sheet over her head. S.I.D. was printing her hands. Decker gently removed the blanket to expose the face. It was still red and puffy, but a bit less distorted.
The foreman stared at the face for a few seconds, and then averted his eyes. He appeared to be holding down his stomach. “I don’t know her at all.”
“Thank you for trying.” Decker guided him away from the scene, the two of them walking toward the cruiser.
Tinsley gave a sick smile. “At least I didn’t heave this time. When can I go?”
“We’re almost done,” Decker told him. “I’d like you to write down exactly what you told me, including that you don’t recognize the corpse.”
“Uh, sure. No problem.”
Decker handed him a tablet of yellow lined paper. “You can sit in the police car while you write. I’ll take the soda can if you’re through with it. Do you want another one?”
“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind.” Tinsley handed the can to Decker.
“It’s not a problem. Could you also give me the contractor’s name and cell number?”
“His name is Keith Wald. I have to check my cell for the phone number because right now, I’m too shaken to remember it even though I’ve dialed it a thousand times.”
“I’ll check your cell for the number. As a matter of fact, would you mind if I looked your cell phone over? I’d like to get the exact times of the calls you made.”
“Sure.” Tinsley handed him the phone. “You can even look over any of the numbers I used. That’s what you want to do, right?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“I guess it’s natural to suspect everyone. Most of my calls are business, but there are probably some to my friends. I’ll
tell you what number belongs to who. Anything, as long as it takes my mind off of that.”
Tinsley pointed to the house, assumedly to the body in the house. A moment later, Decker espied a mustachioed, dark-haired man charging across the lot, escorted by Officer Mary Breckenridge. The man’s face was all seams, ruts, and pits, with a strong cleft chin and a head of dark thick curls. His eyes were hooded by a jutting brow and he was walking bowlegged. He stood around five eight and seemed to be in his late forties.
“That’s the contractor, Lieutenant.” Tinsley yelled and waved his arms. “Yo, Keith! Over here.”
“What the hell happened?” Wald broke into a jog. “What’s going on?”
Decker said, “Officer Breckenridge, why don’t you escort Mr. Tinsley into the cruiser so he can write down his statement.”
“Yes, sir.” Breckenridge gently nudged Tinsley forward. “This way, sir.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Wald said out loud. “I need to talk to this man.”
“You can talk to him after you talk to me.” Decker introduced himself.
Wald stuck out his hand. “Okay. Could you tell me what the hell is going on? Chuck said something about a body hanging from the rafters.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“That it was a woman. God, that’s horrible.” Wald checked his watch. “The city inspector is supposed to come in about an hour.”
“You’re going to have to cancel that,” Decker said. “No one is allowed on the premises until we’re done.”
“The homeowners are going to blow a gasket. We’re already a couple months behind. Not my fault. Homeowners keep changing their minds.”
“Could I get the names of the homeowners?” When Wald winced, Decker said, “They’re going to find out. It’ll be best if it comes from someone official.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Grossman—Nathan and Lydia. He’s a doctor, so I mostly work with her.”
“Do you have a phone number?”
“Yeah…hold on.” Wald checked his BlackBerry, his mustache twitching as he moved his upper lip. “Here it is.”
