by Chris Carter
‘With the RHD, yes,’ Hunter replied, shaking Keith and Matt’s hands.
‘I’m not sure if “welcome” is the appropriate word but . . . welcome to the toughest detectives’ division in Los Angeles. So what have we got here?’
‘In the bedroom,’ Hunter said, and proceeded to explain everything he knew so far.
‘You’re definitely right about one thing,’ Keith said, approaching the bed and studying the woman’s position for an instant. ‘This suicide scene looks all wrong.’
Hunter paused his apartment search for a moment to observe both forensics agents at work. They took their time examining the body, the bed, and everything around it.
‘I know that her skin color and elasticity have completely changed,’ Hunter said. ‘Which makes identifying marks and bruises a lot more difficult, but do you think you would still be able to recognize any strangulation or ligatures marks . . . anything that could confirm that she suffocated prior to dying?’
Matt, the shorter of the two forensics agents nodded. ‘Using a UV light, probably. She’s been dead for three days, max. Decomposition hasn’t really started yet. As I’m sure you understand, death obviously interrupts processes like natural healing. So if she had any sort of bruise on her body when she died, it should still be there. Even with the skin color change, a high spectrum UV light should be able to detect it.’
He retrieved a hand-held, battery powered UV light from his case, switched it on, adjusted the intensity to a higher wavelength, and began studying the victim’s neck. After a few seconds, he lifted her head off the bed, and while Keith held her hair up, Matt shone the light on her nape.
Hunter waited patiently.
‘And here we have it,’ Matt finally said.
‘Have you got something?’ Hunter asked, feeling a tingle of excitement travel through his body.
Matt nodded. ‘Here, let me show you.’
Hunter moved closer.
‘See this long, darker mark here?’ Matt indicated the spot on the victim’s nape.
‘I see it,’ Hunter said.
‘OK, that would’ve been caused by something, or someone, applying strong pressure to the back of her neck.’
Matt lowered her head, returning it to its resting position on the bed.
‘And right here,’ he continued, now indicating a spot on her neck just about where a male’s Adam’s apple would’ve been. ‘We have the second mark.’
This one was oval in shape and much smaller – about half an inch in diameter.
Hunter had already put both bruise marks together in his head. The one on the front of the victim’s neck had probably come from a thumb. The longer one on her nape from the remaining four fingers in her attacker’s hand. While choking her, the attacker had kept the fingers close together, instead of spread apart.
‘I can tell you this right now,’ Keith said. ‘Whoever strangled her had pretty big hands. He only used one. There’s nothing here to indicate a double grip.’
Hunter nodded.
‘But she didn’t die from strangulation,’ Matt added.
‘Yes, I know,’ Hunter said. ‘But it could’ve rendered her unconscious.’
‘No question about that,’ Matt agreed. ‘All that was needed was a few seconds of the right amount of pressure and she’d be out like a light.’
Hunter left the two forensics agents to carry on in the bedroom and returned to the living room. Moments later, Officer Travis re-entered the apartment.
‘Anything from the door-to-door?’ Hunter asked.
The officer pulled out his pad and flipped it open. ‘OK, this apartment is sandwiched between apartments 2811 and 2815. The neighbor in 2815, Mrs. Peers, remembers some loud shouting coming from this apartment three days ago. She said the walls here are quite thin.’
‘Time?’
‘According to Mrs. Peers it was quite late, past ten in the evening.’
‘Is she sure about that?’
‘As sure as sure can be. She said she was already in bed, and she always goes to bed at ten.’ Travis shrugged and pulled a face.
‘Could it have been the TV?’ Hunter asked.
‘I did ask her that, and she said no. She recognized Helen Webster’s voice. There was also someone else here with her – a male.’
‘Sexual noises?’
‘I asked her that as well, and again, “no”. She said that they were pretty angry shouts from both parties.’
‘OK, how about apartment 2811?’ Hunter asked. ‘Did anyone hear anything?’
‘That apartment is empty at the moment. According to Mrs. Peers, it has been empty for some time,’ Travis explained.
Hunter nodded. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Yes, but it might mean nothing.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Mr. Grant in apartment 2808 said that he saw a tall male leaving this floor late on Monday night, the same night Mrs. Peers heard the angry shouts.’
‘Time?’
‘Around a quarter past midnight. Mr. Grant, who looks like a professional bodybuilder, was returning home after dropping his girlfriend at her place. As the elevator doors opened on this floor, the male in question almost rammed into him. Mr. Grant said that whoever the man was, he was in a hurry, and he looked nervous.’
‘Would he recognize the subject if he saw a photo of him?’ Hunter asked.
‘He said he probably would.’
‘Good job, officer.’
There was a knock on the door.
Hunter pulled it open. Standing there was a short, plump man. He had a bandido moustache and slicked-back black hair with touches of gray. Hunter couldn’t help but think that if he were wearing a sombrero, he would’ve looked like a professional mariachi.
‘Detective,’ Travis said, joining Hunter by the door. ‘This is Mr. Valdez. He’s the building’s superintendent.’
Mr. Valdez extended his hand. ‘Miguel Valdez,’ he said.
Hunter introduced himself. ‘Thank you for coming up Mr. Valdez. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’
‘Please, call me Miguel.’
‘OK, Miguel, did you know Ms. Webster well?’
Miguel bobbed his head from side to side.
‘Not very well,’ he said. ‘I know she was an interior designer. Very pretty and very nice – always polite. She always said “hello” whenever she saw me or my wife, and she always asked about my little girl. My little girl is five, you see? She has just started kindergarten.’
‘Congratulations,’ Hunter said with a warm smile.
‘Thank you. But that’s pretty much all I know about Ms. Webster,’ Miguel added. ‘There are thirty-five floors in this building, twenty-four apartments per floor, a lot of people, you know? And everyone is always very busy, rushing around to get somewhere or to do something.’ He shrugged. ‘Including me. There’s always something to be fixed, or cleaned, or changed, or something. When I cross a resident in the hallway, or bump into them in the elevator or somewhere, the conversations are always very quick, you see?’
Hunter nodded.
‘But you should speak to Rashana Lewis,’ Miguel said. ‘She lives in apartment 1514 on the fifteenth floor. She’s a beautician. She and Ms. Webster were friends. Rashana has many clients here in the building, including my wife, and I know that Ms. Webster was one of them too.’
‘1514, you said?’ Hunter asked.
‘That’s right.’
Hunter made a mental note. ‘Does the building have a doorman at all?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘CCTV?’
‘No,’ Miguel shook his head, a little embarrassed. ‘We don’t have that either.’
‘OK,’ Hunter said, checking his watch. ‘Thanks for your help, Miguel. I might need to talk to you again later.’
‘That’s not a problem, you know where to find me.’
As the superintendent left, Hunter’s phone rang in his pocket again.
Chapter 6
‘Robbery
Homicide Detective, Robert Hunter,’ he answered it.
‘Detective, this is Daniel Figueroa from Operations. I have the information on the subject you’ve requested earlier, but I don’t seem to have an email address for you.’
‘I don’t think it has been set up yet,’ Hunter replied. Thinking about it, he probably didn’t even have a desk or a computer set up either. ‘Just tell me what you’ve got.’
‘OK,’ Daniel said. ‘Mr. Jake Goubeaux, thirty-five years old, residing in Hawthorne, number thirty-one, West 129th Street. He works as a soundman in a place called Rooster’s in West Hollywood. They have live music every night.’
‘Yes, I know the place,’ Hunter said.
‘Well,’ Daniel continued. ‘Mr. Goubeaux has been arrested five times in the past four years – twice for drunk and disorderly conduct, and three times for assault. He put an ex-girlfriend in hospital, and that cost him five months in the CSP in Lancaster. According to the judge who sentenced him, one more strike and Mr. Goubeaux is going to be gone for a long time.’
‘Great job, Daniel. Have we got a mug shot of him?’
Daniel chuckled. ‘Yeah, we’ve got about five of those. The most recent is only about a year old.’
‘Give me a sec,’ Hunter said, covering the phone’s mouthpiece with his palm. ‘Do you have a fax machine in your black and white?’ he asked Travis.
He nodded. ‘I do, yes.’
Hunter return to his phone. ‘Daniel, can you fax the most recent one of those to squad car . . .’ he looked at Travis, who mouthed the numbers eight, three, five, one, seven. Hunter repeated them down the line.
‘On its way,’ Daniel said.
‘Thanks, Daniel.’
Hunter disconnected.
‘Any developments?’ the officer asked.
Hunter quickly ran him through the news.
‘OK,’ Hunter said. ‘I need you to go down to your car, wait for the photo of Mr. Jake Goubeaux, and then return to apartment 2808 to talk to Mr. Grant again. Show him the photograph, and see if he can identify Mr. Goubeaux as the person he saw leaving this floor late on Monday night. I’m going to go down to apartment 1514 and see if I can speak with Rashana Lewis. I’ll meet you back up here in about half an hour.’
Chapter 7
The door to apartment 1514 was opened by a black woman in her mid-thirties. Her shoulder-length hair had been smoothed with a hair iron and whatever product she had applied to it, gave it a delicate shine. She was wearing a baby-pink bathrobe and flip-flops. Her toe and fingernails had been painted in a bright, lemon-yellow color. She looked distraught. In the background, a little girl of about four years old was playing with a plastic doll.
‘Are you Ms. Lewis?’ Hunter asked. ‘Rashana Lewis?’
Her gaze dwelled on Hunter for a few moments before she nodded.
‘I’m Detective Robert Hunter of the LAPD.’ He displayed his credentials.
‘Is this about what happened to Helen?’ she asked. ‘Miguel, the superintendent, told me she committed suicide.’ Her voice carried total disbelief.
‘Yes, it is about Ms. Webster,’ Hunter replied.
Rashana nodded. ‘Please come in,’ she said.
The apartment smelled of recently cooked food – fried onions, bacon, a little hint of garlic, and various spices. The living room was small, much smaller than the one in Helen Webster’s apartment, and lit by two table lamps at opposite ends of the room. They cast shadows just about everywhere. The two-seater sofa facing the small TV set was draped with a sheet that had once been red, but now, after so many washes, all that was left was a faded, pinkish tone. There was only one armchair, also draped with a faded red sheet.
‘Please, have a seat,’ Rashana said, indicating the sofa. She took the armchair.
The little girl stopped playing with her doll and looked up at the new visitor.
‘Hello,’ she said, waving her little hand.
‘Hello there,’ Hunter said, smiling.
‘What’s your name?’ the girl asked.
‘My name is Robert. What’s yours?’
‘I’m Rachelle, and this is Lenita.’ The little girl showed Hunter her naked doll.
‘Rachelle, baby,’ Rashana said. ‘Why don’t you go play in your room for a little bit? Mummy has to talk to the nice policeman here for a few minutes.’
The little girl pulled a worried face. ‘He’s not a policeman, Mommy. He’s not wearing a uniform.’
‘I’m a different kind of policeman, Rachelle,’ Hunter said, before whispering. ‘Like . . . secret.’
The little girl’s eyes went wide. ‘A secret policeman. How coooool.’
Hunter brought a finger to his lip and continued whispering. ‘Yes, but remember, it’s a secret.’
Rachelle nodded vigorously before pausing and facing her mother with a stern look on her face. ‘Are you in trouble with the police, Mommy?’
Hunter smiled. ‘No, Rachelle, your mommy is helping the police.’
‘Oh, how coooool.’
‘OK, baby. Now, to your room.’ Rashana pointed to the bedroom door.
The little girl disappeared through the door, while whispering something to her doll.
When the bedroom door closed, Rashana turned to face Hunter again.
‘I won’t take much of your time,’ he said. ‘Mr. Valdez, the superintendent, told me that you and Ms. Webster were friends.’
‘Yes, we knew each other,’ Rashana replied. ‘You could say that we were friends. She was one of my clients, but we got along really well. I just can’t believe that she would kill herself.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘Three days ago. Monday afternoon. She came here for a full treatment – haircut, manicure and pedicure. She told me that she had a possible new client – someone quite rich, actually – that she was meeting on Tuesday, so she wanted to look her best. It makes no sense that she would kill herself.’
Hunter noted something down.
‘Did she seem depressed to you at all?’ he asked.
‘Depressed?’ Rashana breathed out. ‘Not even a little bit. I know that sometimes she would get depressed for no reason at all. She told me she was bipolar, but Monday wasn’t one of those days.’
‘Do you know if she was worried, or scared because of something . . . or someone?’
Rashana paused and pinched her bottom lip for a few seconds, clearly pondering something in her mind.
‘She was a little worried about her ex-boyfriend,’ she finally replied. ‘He was a good-for-nothing loser.’
‘Ex-boyfriend?’ ‘That’s interesting,’ Hunter thought. ‘Why was she worried about him?’
‘Well, she dumped his ass about two weeks ago. Just after Valentine’s. And she did the right thing, if you ask me.’
‘Did Ms. Webster tell you what happened?’
‘Yeah.’ Rashana crossed her arms over her chest. ‘They were out one night and he got too drunk, again. Apparently he is one of those men who just can’t handle his liquor, you know what I’m saying? He gets too drunk, and then he starts being mean to everyone around. Helen told me that they were in this cocktail lounge somewhere in Long Beach. She was chatting to an old friend – a guy. Well, Jake had one cocktail too many and that was it. He pushed the guy to the ground and dragged Helen out of the lounge like a caveman. He called her a “no-good whore”, a “dirty bitch” and worse.’ Rashana shook her head in disgust.
‘Do you know if that had happened before?’
‘It had,’ Rashana nodded. ‘Just before Valentine’s. You see, they hadn’t been going out for too long, and you know how it is, at first everyone is on their best behavior.’
‘The honeymoon phase,’ Hunter said.
‘That’s right,’ Rashana agreed. ‘And us women know that that phase lasts about three months before the real colors start to show. And Jake’s colors were ugly, let me tell you. But no matter, because after that day in Long Beach, Helen dumped his sorry ass for good.
’
Hunter noted something else down. ‘You mentioned that she was worried about him?’
‘Yeah. After she dumped him, he never stopped calling her. She told me that he called about four or five times a day, saying that he was sorry, that that night was the liquor talking and acting, not him . . . you know, the same old bullshit. But Helen stood her ground. And she did the right thing. No man is worth having to put up with that kind of crap.’ Rashana pulled a sour face. ‘But what worried Helen was that she had given him a set of keys to her place.’
Hunter wrote that down.
‘I told her to change the locks,’ Rashana continued.
Hunter knew that Helen hadn’t followed Rashana’s advice. He had checked the door locks in Helen Webster’s apartment. They weren’t new.
‘Do you know if Ms. Webster’s ex-boyfriend had threatened her at all?’ Hunter asked.
‘If he did, Helen never mentioned it,’ Rashana said. ‘But the guy was a psycho. Give him a few drinks and God only knows what he would do. Trust me, I know the type.’
Hunter wrote a few more notes down and closed his pad.
‘Thank you very much, Ms. Lewis.’ He stood up. ‘You’ve been of great help.’
Rashana walked him to the door, but as they passed the door to the kitchen, something caught Hunter’s eyes and he paused for an instant.
Flashback.
His thought process skipped from A to Z in a fraction of a second.
‘Something wrong?’ Rashana asked.
‘Not at all.’ Hunter smiled.
Chapter 8
Back on the twenty-eighth floor, Hunter met up with Officer Travis again.
‘Any luck?’ Hunter asked.
The officer nodded, handing Hunter the photo that was faxed to his car. Jake Goubeaux was an attractive-looking man, with short dark hair, a strong jaw, expressive eyes, and a hint of a cleft on his squared chin. A thin scar sliced through his right eyebrow.
‘It’s a match,’ Travis said. ‘Mr. Grant confirmed it. This was the man he saw leaving this floor late on Monday night. He even remembers the scar.’
