by P. A. Brown
“He was a cop,” Chris hissed. “A danger junkie. Every morning he went out the door and I never knew if he was coming back. Do you know how that feels?”
“He was not a danger junkie. He was always careful. He always tried to protect you from his world.
What’s wrong with that? He knew how ugly it could get.” Tears sprang up in Des’s dark eyes. “I know,”
he whispered. “I found out just how ugly it could be. He didn’t want you to ever have to face what I did.”
“Except I did, didn’t I?” Chris was shouting now. He didn’t know why Des was attacking him like this.
Des had always been the gentlest of souls. What had gotten into him? It had to be the drugs. “I did face it. He tried to kill me too. He would have raped me—”
“David saved you from that, didn’t he?”
“And you hate me for that, don’t you?”
“Oh God, Chris.” Tears rolled down Des’s face. “I don’t hate you. I love you. Can’t you get that through your thick head?”
“Hey,” Chris said weakly.
“Sometimes you are such an idiot. Don’t you know David was the best thing that ever happened to you?
He made you somebody.”
“What was I before? Chopped liver?” But Chris’s attempt at humor failed miserably. Des wasn’t laughing. He sniffed and wiped his nose, smearing snot all over the sleeve of his Adam Senn. Chris crouched down and took Des’s cold hands in his. He tried to rub some warmth into them. He remembered talking to Weiser about what Des would be going through as he recovered from his loss.
“You wish you had died instead of Kyle.” That was the big one: survivor guilt. It was all too common.
“That’s crazy—”
“Is it? Kyle died—” He ignored Des’s wince, “and you lived. That’s the hard reality. Face it. It’s not fair. Get over it. Life’s not fair.”
“Jesus, I know that.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you do.” Chris tapped his head. “In here.” Then his chest. “But not here. You loved him. I know that. He left you. That’s a hard betrayal.”
“He didn’t leave me. He died!”
“Same thing, isn’t it? Maybe it wasn’t his choice, but the bottom line is he left you alone to face this.”
Chris gripped Des’s hands so hard both their knuckles turned white. “But you’re not alone. I’m here.
I’ve always been here, Des. You have to know that.”
“I—”
Chris stood up and pulled Des up with him. He could feel Des’s shoulders shake and smelled his fear under the stink of booze. He wrapped his arms around his best friend. Des resisted his embrace for about ten seconds then he grabbed Chris like he was a drowning man. Sobs wracked his slender frame and his fists closed spasmodically on Chris’s shirt.
Chris patted his back, feeling his hot tears on his neck.
“It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this, hon. Trust me.”
Return to TOC
Chapter 4
Tuesday, 7:10 am, Forest Lawn Memorial Gardens,
Glendale Avenue, LosAngel es
THE SUN WAS just coming up over the headstones, heavy mist flowed between ghostly sycamores, eucalyptus trees, and stately Cyprus. Martinez looked around the cemetery and shuddered. For the first time since David had known him his partner crossed himself, proving you could take the man out of the church but not the church out of the man.
“Don’t like cemeteries?”
“Don’t like knowing all those worm feasts are under my feet.” Martinez grimaced. “It doesn’t bother you?”
David shrugged. In truth he didn’t think about it. David looked around the manicured lawns and carefully cultivated flower beds. “Nat King Cole is interred here. So’s Sam Cook.” David doubted if Martinez even knew who that was.
“And Lucille Ball. And Spencer Tracy. Who doesn’t know that?”
“Johnny Burnette.”
“Who?”
“Singer. Don’t worry about it.”
Martinez grunted. They spotted the pair of unis who had been dispatched after the 911 call. Earlier that morning distraught teens had gone into the memorial garden on a Halloween lark and found a real world horror.
Up a gentle incline, they passed one of the dozens of faux Greek mausoleums gracing the ornate grounds. The coroner was already there. The photographer struggled up the slope, his heavy camera in tow. Overhead a red-tailed hawk climbed with the rising air and circled, looking for something small and tasty. In a nearby sycamore a flock of starlings complained.
The body had been laid out on a grassy patch between two nondescript grave markers, directly south of an ornate cross with the name Roderick N. Parker, b. Jun 15, 1966, d. Oct 31, 1994. David noted the date on the cross.
“Last night.” He was deliberately ignoring the body at this point. Until Lopez was done he wanted to concentrate on the surroundings. They might give some context to the reason the body was there, and not under a freeway overpass on the Grapevine. “Significant?”
“Halloween always brings out the kooks,” Martinez muttered. “Some kind of ritual?”
David frowned. He finally let his eyes skate over the mutilated form on the nearly bloodless grass. He didn’t need the ME to tell him death hadn’t occurred here. Not enough blood. Ritual? Please don’t let that rumor start.
Every few years stories of devil worship and ritual sacrifice would surface and a kind of minimal hysteria would erupt, take over the voracious media only to fade away when the glamour and shock had faded.
The dead stayed dead and no cloven-hoofed demons were ever summoned forth to wreak havoc on a jaded populace.
He shot a quick glance around and wasn’t surprised to see the press had already started to arrive. A van from channel 5 unloaded a crew and he could hear the reporter’s commands to the cameraman who slung his equipment around to capture the activity.
David signaled one of the unis, a gray-haired two striper. “Let’s get a screen in place, Sergeant.
Preserve our scene as much as we can.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a flurry of activity as a second outer perimeter of crime scene tape was strung up to ensure the integrity of the scene. David got up to speed on what the unis had found on their arrival. Not much.
Three distraught teens who were now sitting in the back of the patrol car awaiting the detectives’
attention, a mutilated corpse and no visible weapons. No insect activity either. All signs pointed to the corpse being recently deceased and dumped.
They’d have to wait for the ME to give a more accurate time of death. Once they had that they could start looking at the how and the where. It might even get them a who and a why.
“Let’s go talk to our witnesses.”
David and Martinez retraced their steps and approached the black and white shop where three scared, white-faced teens huddled together in the back seat. David signaled the trio to follow them. The portable command center had arrived and they led the trio into the RV, shutting the door from the prying eyes and ears of the press.
After noting the time, their rank and the names and ages of their three witnesses David went first. What were they doing in the cemetery? What time did they enter the gardens? Did they see anything they would say was suspicious? Who spotted the body first? All routine. David had few doubts the teens weren’t involved. They were guilty of nothing more than trespassing and being unlucky.
The trespassing issue was in the hands of the Forest Lawn managers. The unlucky part was something they would have to deal with on their own.
Once both he and Martinez were satisfied no one was lying, he let them all go with a warning not to come back. David didn’t think that would be a problem. At least until the terror wore off and the bragging rights kicked in.
He watched the teens hurry across the lawn, only to be met by reporters outside the crime scene. They were all about to get their fifteen minutes.
Seeing the ME stand he broke away from Martinez and headed over to the body. Lopez looked up at his approach.
“What’s up?”
“Dead male, approximately twenty to thirty, white, no overt body trauma...” She caught the look David gave her, “All right, if you discount the missing body parts. Sorry, no idea yet why he’s dead. All his visible wounds are postmortem. Fully clothed. Oddly enough, his shoes are missing. He’s also not wearing socks. But very little body fluid on his clothes. Maybe he was redressed after he was dismembered.”
That took a cold deliberation. David scrubbed stiff fingers through his hair. “No ID?”
“No teeth to X-ray, no fingerprints. Good luck with that. We can run DNA and that may tell you something if he’s in the system, otherwise... I can tell you he was a natural blond. Whoever took his twig left his berries behind.”
David grimaced. Martinez came up behind him. “Anything good?”
“He’s definitely one of ours,” David muttered. At Martinez’s look he said, “He’s dead.” He shot Lopez another look. “He was murdered, right?”
“Can’t really say for sure. But how likely is it that he died of a natural cause and someone cut him up and decorated Forest Lawn with him?”
“What’s the significance of the date of death on the tombstone?”
“Prank? The killer knew this guy?” Martinez glared at the tombstone as though it held the secrets. “Or the victim knew him.” The only name they had was the dead man who was where he was supposed to be—in the ground. He watched a pair of cadaver dogs quarter the manicured lawn, sniffing in flower beds and around neatly trimmed bushes and tree trunks. So far nothing.
Had the appendages been taken to hide the identity of the dead man, or as some kind of macabre trophy?
David tapped his cell and met Martinez’s gaze. “We’ll have to take a look at all missing persons in the last little while that match the description.”
“Headless white men?”
“See any sign of any horses in the area?” They both looked up when Lopez interjected. “Legend of Sleepy Hollow?”
David groaned and threw a nervous look at the nearest reporters who were doing their best to see what was going on behind their privacy screen. “Please don’t say that too loudly.”
Lopez grinned. “Gotcha.”
“Flaming pumpkins and haunted trees,” David said.
“Happy fucking Halloween,” Martinez muttered.
After four hours of fruitless searching, the dog handlers called the cadaver dogs off. The evidence technicians and photographers had also finished and packed up. Lopez released the body and the coroner’s wagon trundled out to Glendale Avenue and south toward the Coroner’s office on Mission Road.
The news crew and their vans left soon after. Not soon enough.
On their way back to the station Martinez flipped on the news and caught the tail end of a report on the mutilated body at Forest Lawn. “Amid the peaceful and very private crypts holding the earthly remains of Gable and Lombard where over a quarter of a million people are buried, a brand new corpse was interred there. The headless body of a Caucasian male was found early this morning less than two hundred yards from the Graceland section most notable for being the resting place of Robert Young of Father Knows Best fame. Three teenagers discovered the mutilated corpse. Miguel Alano described the dead body.”
A new, much younger voice sounding tremulous told how they had found what they at first thought was a Halloween gag. Once they realized it was all too real they called 911.
“Police have not released the identity pending notification of family.”
Martinez snorted. “Like that’s the only thing holding us back.”
“Police also refuse to speculate on whether the body is part of a bizarre Halloween ritual.”
“And you’d love it if it was, wouldn’t you, Pendej ?”
“How much you want to bet there’s a run on guard dogs and handguns?” David said. He’d seen it often enough. After every freaky crimeAngel enos rushed out to arm themselves to the teeth with guns and badly trained dogs. It was always followed by a rash of dog attacks and accidental weapons discharges, some regrettably fatal. Domestic violence went up, but David never knew if it was the tension or the presence of more guns that triggered it. He just knew it was as inevitable as the tides.
After grabbing lunch at a local deli they began to pull missing persons files, narrowing them down by sex, race and age filed within the last six months. Martinez would have gone further back, but David argued they had no reason to believe the victim was a runaway—his age made that unlikely.
David started the murder book for John Doe 2650, which held little more than the location of the deceased and a few paltry descriptions of his clothes and his condition on discovery. More would come with the autopsy.
As he wrote he glanced across at Martinez, shelling and eating peanuts one nut at a time. His desk was a litter of peanut shells and skins. “The whole missing penis thing suggests a sexual angle.”
“Guy misusing his equipment?” David mused. “Or not using it right? Gay basher? Jealous lover?”
“How do you tell a headless man’s gay?”
It sounded like the opening to a bad joke. David bit. “I don’t know, how do you?”
“Check his toenails for a manicure.”
“You obviously never heard of metrosexuals.” David thought of his own very unmanicured nails. Chris, on the other hand would fit into that stereotype completely, and be proud of it. “That’s the best you can do?”
Martinez shrugged. “Hey, it’s an idea.”
“I’m sure Lopez will make a note of any physical abnormalities. She’ll look for any other distinguishing marks, too.”
David’s desk phone rang. He scooped it up and listened for a couple of minutes, taking notes. Finally he met Martinez’s gaze.
“Couple of unis on patrol spotted a suspicious vehicle abandoned behind the tracks near Tyburn Street.
Noticed something leaking out of the vehicle’s trunk. Found several black garbage bags in the in place of the spare tire, a pair of bloody Nikes, plus a Stryker saw and a large serrated blade.”
Martinez perked up at that last two items. Strykers were a powerful oscillating bone cutting saw used during autopsies to open skulls. Not very good for cutting into flesh which would explain the blade. Start with one, finish with the other. He’d have to see if Lopez could match the cut marks on the bones for either instrument.
“Don’t tell me,” Martinez said. “The garbage bags held a number of body parts? Our missing head, hands and, er, other things?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Who’s got them now?”
“On their way to the ME. Maybe Lopez will take a look before the autopsy and tell us if we’ve got a match.”
“Make identifying him a whole lot easier.” David nodded and glanced at his notes. “Car, a Chrysler Neon, registered to a Frederick Bitterman. Reported stolen two days ago from Oak Park.”
“We’ll follow up with him,” Martinez said. “Maybe he’s got some freaky relatives or exes.”
A records check of DMV gave the address in Oak Park, Pala Mesa Drive. David grabbed his suit jacket and followed by Martinez, went to sign out a car.
Return to TOC
Chapter 5
Tuesday, 4:10 pm, Palm Drive, Beverly Hills
BY THREE-THIRTY Des had finally flagged and at Chris’s insistence had showered and allowed himself to be put to bed. Back out in the living room Chris sank into the love seat Des had vacated and dropped his head into his hands. His fingers rubbed at the headache that had bloomed behind his eyes hours ago.
Des hadn’t wanted to go to bed. He had clung to Chris and it was all Chris could do not to break down with his friend. But he knew that would be the worst thing he could do. He had to be the strong one. Des didn’t have anyone else right now. A lot of Des’s old friends had shared Chris’s aversion to Kyle, Des’s spoiled nihilistic wan
na be dancer/lover and had stopped coming to visit. With Kyle’s brutal death guilt trips had abounded. Everyone felt bad for Des, but no one would step up to the plate and offer Des anything but ‘so sorries.’ None of which did Des any good. If it wasn’t for his store, Samborra’s in Beverly Hills, Des would never have left the house. Chris couldn’t even talk him into going out for Osso Bucco at Dolce.
The cleaning service called back, informing Chris that Des had canceled them nearly two weeks before.
Chris told them to start up again and made sure they understood that if Des tried to cancel again, they were to call Chris first. He’d be sure they got paid, though he could ill afford it. Des needed a clean, organized home. Anything else would only drive him deeper into depression.
Only when he was sure that Des was sleeping off his drug and alcohol bender did Chris rest. He slumped in the love seat, stretching his jean clad legs out on the Tema table and leaning his head back on the seat cushion. He considered turning the TV on but was way too enervated to try and find the remote.
He had called Dr. Weiser earlier, leaving a message as the doctor was in a session. As the day slipped away, he began to think he wouldn’t hear from him, but when the phone rang shortly after four, it was Weiser.
He snapped to attention, all thoughts of headache and exhaustion gone. “Dr. Weiser. Thank you for calling back.”
“Is something wrong, Chris?”
“Des... Des is taking...” He flipped the pill bottle out and read the label. “Alprazolam. Did you know that?”
“No, I wasn’t aware. Did he tell you where he was getting them?”
“The label on the bottle says Dr. Forsyth. Do you know him?”
“No, but I’ll look into it.”
“Thanks. In the meantime, what am I going to do about Des? He’s not getting better. In fact, after today, I have to say I think he’s getting worse.”
“Tell me about today.”
Chris’s headache came back with a vengeance. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and took a deep shuddering breath.
