by Dan Ames
Ray shook his head and brought his mind back to the matter at hand. He stepped closer and peered down at the body.
The woman whose head was jammed between two railings reminded Ray of Christ on the cross, her shoulders slumped down and her feet trailed in the water, leaving small ripples and waves.
The pale white sheen of her skin was in severe contrast with the brown, murky water, and it seemed to glow.
Ray walked closer to the dead woman and squatted next to her head. His soft, black leather shoes sank slightly into the muck residue left by the raging water. Below him a turtle poked its head out of the water, then just as quickly ducked back under.
There were bruises near the dead girl's temples as well as on both sides of her face. The woman's upper body was perfectly clear, and Ray noted she was somewhat muscular and had probably been an athlete.
Her head was turned so that half of her face was hidden from his view, but the half Ray could see looked quite pretty, in spite of the torn lips and blood stains around her mouth. Other police officers who had arrived on the scene now stood a respectful distance away.
"Ray," a voice said behind him.
Mitchell turned and saw the short, stocky figure of Paul Casey approaching him. The crime scene technician held plastic gloves in one hand and an old-fashioned black plastic tackle box in the other.
"Morning, Paul."
Ray stepped away from the body and made the short walk down the bridge. His shoes made soft sucking sounds as he pulled himself from the river mud at the base of the path.
"You got company, Ray," Casey said with a nod over his shoulder.
Ray peered over the shorter man's shoulder and saw Nancy Bishop, the reporter and scourge of most detectives in Milwaukee's homicide division, approaching.
"Shit," Ray said.
With a nod toward the cop with the crewcut, Ray intercepted the reporter.
"As of right now, you are trespassing on a crime scene and interfering with a murder investigation," Ray said. He knew Bishop had seen the body so there was no secret Ray had a murder on his hands. "Officer, please escort Ms. Bishop back to where your partner is taping off the scene. If she takes one step over that line, arrest her." Ray turned on his heel.
"What's the matter, Mitchell, aren't you a morning person?" she shouted after the detective.
"Piss off," Ray said over his shoulder.
He could see the crime scene photographer busily snapping pictures. Ray had a lot to do. First he had to interview the jogger who found the body and go over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb. He had to interview the people who lived nearby to find out if they had seen anything.
For the young girl in the river, he hoped someone had.
Chapter 9
In Mike Sharpe's opinion, the idea behind the commercial was stupid. It was for Ulti Wax, a company that made car wax. The concept of the spot was that a woman, having applied a fresh coat of Ulti Wax to her car, pulls up at a toll booth and dumps her change into the bin. The toll booth attendant, so transfixed by the beauty of the car's wax job, breaks down the door of the toll booth, vaults the bar and chases down the car to find out what brand of car wax the owner had used to get that incredible shine.
Mike spent the morning breaking through a flimsy, paper maché version of a toll both wall. He spent the afternoon vaulting the restraining bar. And now he was on his thirtieth take of asking the woman what brand of car wax she used.
Finally, the director yelled "Cut! That's a wrap," and the crew, who had been languishing around apparently completely devoid of energy, suddenly sprang to life and began tearing down the lights and props with renewed vengeance.
Mike headed straight for the craft services table, dug his hand down through the bucket of ice and scooped up a cold can of beer. He popped the top and put it to his mouth in one fluid motion.
He couldn't get over this director. He thought he was Francis Ford Coppola, for Christ's sake. Strutting around on the set, yelling at the lowest members of the crew, bitching at his assistant, it was embarrassing.
Jesus, it's just a commercial, Mike thought, and a bad one at that.
Then again, there were plenty of commercial directors who went on to do feature films, but this guy was clearly going nowhere.
Looking at the craft table Mike quickly understood why Ulti Wax's advertising agency had gone with him. They apparently had no budget whatsoever. Mike had seen better food at the YMCA.
Well, tonight he was picking up his girlfriend Laurie and they were going to Campinale's on La Brea for a nice meal and a good bottle of wine. Mike had been there once before where he'd tried a Con Vento that was the best wine he'd ever tasted. And since he had actually landed a paying gig, the least he could do was take his girlfriend to a nice restaurant. It had been far too long since he and Laurie had gone anywhere nice, and she was too special a woman to not be treated to a meal of veal chops, red peppers in anchovy sauce, and crème bruleé for dessert, followed by a lovely cappuccino.
Mike's stomach rumbled at the thought of Campinale's menu. He slammed the rest of his beer and scanned the set for the director, spotted him talking on a cell phone and walked over to him. Mike debated waiting for him to finish the call but he knew the director would play the power game and delay his time on the phone to make Mike wait. So Mike took the initiative and held out his hand, which the director shook. Mike muttered a "Nice workin' with ya," and turned without waiting for an answer. He knew he was breaking Hollywood wisdom, which was to kiss everybody's ass. You never knew who would make it big, but it had been too long a day to put up with anymore of that bullshit.
He walked out to his Toyota Camry and pulled onto the freeway. In LA they say you are what you drive, but in Wisconsin the basic philosophy is that you drive what you can afford and since the Camry had been paid off six years ago, a car payment of zero fit his budget just fine.
Mike had changed into a pressed white cotton shirt with collar, a suede leather sport coat, and khakis. A pair of loafers completed the ensemble. You didn't have to get dressed to the hilt for Campinale's, but you didn't want to look like a slob, either. California had taken some getting used to for Mike. The first few months he was out here, he just couldn't put the sneaking suspicion out of his head that when he went to a restaurant, the waiters were snickering about the farm boy at table eleven.
Truth be told, he had acted a bit like the hayseed come to the big city. He'd never had a problem with his weight, nor with attracting members of the opposite sex, so for the first twenty-three years of his life he'd never really had to work out. But it was different in LA. After several comments about his pale complexion and lack of tone, he joined a health club, hit the weights, lost seven pounds and gained some rock-hard abs.
It wasn't really until he met Laurie at a party that he realized his wardrobe left something to be desired, too. After they started dating she would occasionally buy him a new shirt or a new pair of pants, shoes, belts, ties, whatever she saw that caught her eye, and she proved to have excellent taste. As his appearance was vital to his career, he soon began to consider clothes an investment.
With Laurie at his side, he quickly revamped his entire wardrobe, although because of his limited budget, they had hit the clearance racks at Nordstrom more times than he cared to remember.
He checked his watch and hoped traffic wouldn't hold him up.
The orange light of dusk was slowly fading to black when Mike pulled into the restaurant's parking lot, noting with wry amusement the way the parking valets reluctantly decided who had to park the piece of crap pulling up the drive.
There was a small, wooden bench to the left of the main entrance to the restaurant, and it was there that Laurie Bradford was seated. She was a tall, lithe brunette with a quick smile and loads of physical grace. Upon seeing Mike pull in, she stood and smoothed the folds of her sundress, meeting him halfway down the brick sidewalk. They embraced and he kissed her, giving her firm body an extra squeeze.
"Wh
at's that for?" she asked, smiling.
"That's for you and there's plenty more where that came from," Mike said. He took her hand and guided her into the restaurant where the maître d' steered them to a nice table, Mike noted with some satisfaction.
Mike opened the wine list and selected an Astralis.
"What's the occasion?" Laurie asked.
He leaned forward in his chair, reached across the table, and took her hand into his.
"The occasion is that I’m able to take the woman I love out to a nice dinner."
Laurie smiled as the waiter brought the bottle of wine and popped the cork, then poured a small amount into Mike's glass. He sipped it, the lush flavor spreading slowly across his tongue, and he nodded to the waiter.
Mike raised his glass.
"A toast to the most beautiful woman in Los Angeles, who is now going to tell me about her day."
"Thank you, Michael. Salud," she said and took a sip of wine. "Yum. Okay, the model was late, the light sucked and now I’m hoping I can turn it into something decent in retouching."
"Wow," he said.
She laughed. "Actually, it wasn't that bad. I was testing a new lens and I think I'm going to get some good stuff out of it eventually.”
"How's Frank doing?" he asked. Frank Marconnet was her rep, a flamboyantly gay man whose ostentatious manner disguised a relentless salesman.
"Good, he's got a couple of projects he wants to talk about with me on Monday."
The waiter came and they ordered. Their talk quickly turned to the upcoming weekend. After the grilled salmon with almonds and chicken and shrimp Creole had been cleared away, Laurie held her cappuccino cup in her hands and eyed Mike.
"I can tell something’s bugging you,” she said. “Talk to me."
He set his cup down and looked her in the eye.
"I just wish I could accomplish something I'm proud of." He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling, running his eyes along the slim lamps suspended from taut stainless steel wired around the room.
"I bust my ass on these stupid commercials that don't get any attention, and if they do, it's probably bad. I mean these things are horrendous!"
He looked away from Laurie.
"What?" she asked.
"And you."
"Me?"
"I don't want to act like the insecure male, but Jesus, look at us," he raised his arms in an exasperated gesture.
"You're a successful photographer spending your time with some goofball cheesehead who drives an old Toyota with a hundred and twenty thousand miles on it." He pointed in the general direction of the parking lot for emphasis.
Laurie leaned forward and took Mike's hands into hers.
"Think before you answer the following questions," she said firmly.
Mike nodded.
"Is it really your dream to be an actor in feature films?"
"Yes," he answered quickly.
"Are you doing everything you possibly can to be successful at that endeavor?"
He answered quickly again in the affirmative.
Laurie paused and looked searchingly into his eyes.
"Are you a good actor?"
He let his eyes drop to the tablecloth and he noted the subtle etching on the side of his coffee cup. He thought for a long time, then slowly nodded.
"I can't hear you."
Mike smiled in spite of himself.
"Yes, I'm a good actor."
Laurie smiled and sat back in her chair as the waiter brought the check. Mike signed and Laurie took his arm as they headed out to the parking lot. They didn't say anything until they reached the Toyota.
"I'm sorry if I was being needy," he said to her.
"Forget about it," she said. "You just needed to be reminded that you're working toward your goal and there's nothing wrong with that."
He kissed her and leaned closer to her ear.
"I love you," he whispered.
"Besides," she said, a twinkle in her eye, "I know in my heart, sure as everyone from Wisconsin smells like stale beer and old cheese, that you, my friend, are one day going to be a very famous man."
They embraced, got in the car and pulled away. Their taillights merged among the gently swaying palm trees and bright lights of Hollywood.
Chapter 10
The pathology lab was the last place in the world Ray wanted to be right now. The room gleamed with stainless steel from the gurneys and tables to the knives, scalpels, syringes and beakers. To the homicide detective it was all one shiny, sanitized symbol of death and decay.
Herb Kellen had been Milwaukee's head pathologist for as long as Ray could remember. He was tall, well over six and a half feet in height, but rail thin and tipped the scales out at one hundred thirty pounds at the most. He had a severe crewcut which only served to accentuate his gaunt appearance. Small, beady eyes and a very large, hawkish nose took up the majority of his face.
He had the physique of a long-distance runner, but Ray idly wondered if the reason Kellen was so thin had to do with his job. After all, when Ray attended one of these, he was so nauseated that he could eat nothing but salads for about a week.
"Late as usual, eh Ray?" Herb said, raising an eyebrow.
It was a long-standing joke between the two. Both of them full well knowing that Ray always arranged to be late to the autopsy as he just couldn't stand the sound of a saw cutting through human bone and tissue. To him, it was far worse than a crime scene.
"Looks like I missed all your handiwork," said Ray, feigning disappointment as he studied the remains of the woman they now knew to be Lisa Young.
She was now reduced to a mass of incisions and retractions, a shell of parts extracted for examination, like a car stripped before being sent off to the junkyard for final demolition.
"Funny how that always seems to happen," replied Herb, a slight smile on his face.
"What'd you find?" Ray asked.
"There was a deep bruise at the base of her skull that extended partially down her neck caused by a blunt object. It certainly would've knocked her unconscious."
Ray took out his notebook and began writing.
"There were also a series of bruises around her face, forehead and jawline. They are small, about the size of a man's fingertips."
Herb Kellen paused and shook his head.
"What?" Ray asked.
The pathologist moved to the head of the table and lifted the dead girl's lips.
All of her teeth had been removed.
"What the hell..." said Ray. At the crime scene, he hadn't seen the extent of damage that had been done to the girl's mouth.
"Judging by the size of the holes left, and the jagged nature of the tearing," said Kellen, "I would guess they were ripped out with very little fanfare."
His long bony index finger, protected safely inside clear plastic surgical gloves, pulled the dead girl's top lip higher, revealing more of the bruised gums, caked with blood.
"You can see here," he said, pointing to a small row of rough incisions, "that some kind of tool was used to extract the teeth. Probably a small pair of pliers, perhaps needle nose."
He removed his finger from the dead girl's mouth, and her lips plopped back into place.
Kellen walked back to the middle of the table, directly across from Ray.
"At first, it seemed very odd to me. But things became clearer when I put together the reason for the fingerprint bruises and what we got back from the stomach content analysis."
“Don’t tell me, I already know," said Ray.
He focused on the pathologist's tie clip. It was silver, matching the room, and was a miniature golf club.
"So how did she die?" he asked.
"Asphyxiation," said Kellen.
The pathologist picked up the clipboard again and flipped through some scribbled notes.
"Her larynx and esophagus show clear damage." The pathologist abruptly stopped as if he had just given Ray the necessary information.
"Look, Ray," he said,
“she was choked to death but it could have happened during the sexual assault. After her teeth had been removed."
Ray began pacing back and forth before he flipped his notebook closed.
"Call me when you find out more."
Kellen nodded.
Ray left the room and walked outside. The pathology lab was in the basement of the coroner's office kitty corner from the Criminal Investigations Bureau and just blocks from Lake Michigan. Ray turned his face toward the big body of water hoping to catch the lake breeze. The cool, fresh air was a welcome relief from the stale, clinging stench of death that lingered in Herb Kellen's domain.
Chapter 11
Hurtling along at 30,000 feet with a screaming baby in the seat behind her, Carrie DeMarinis reached a conclusion: neither condoms, the pill nor an IUD were as effective birth control methods as flying four hours on a cramped airplane.
She was scrunched into seat 14B on flight 247 from Newark to Milwaukee and for the last hour and a half, she had been forced to listen to the baby behind her screeching like a lunatic in an insane asylum. The girl in front of her who kept peering over the seat, trying to engage her in a game of peek-a-boo. But Carrie wasn't playing.
The flight had been delayed an hour and then they’d been stranded on the runway for another forty-five minutes. Finally, after they'd gotten up into the air, the baby behind her nearly shattered Carrie's eardrum with a howl that would make a pack of timberwolves jealous.
Jesus Christ, the thought of listening to that noise day in and day out was mind-boggling to Carrie. How had her mother raised six kids pretty much by herself? Incredible. She took solace in the fact that there was a brand-new box of condoms in her purse. No way was she leaving anything to chance.
Carrie was looking forward to hanging out for the weekend with Harriet, her roommate from college. Harriet was an attorney in Milwaukee who’d just finished a big case and invited her best friend for a weekend of fun and possibly some debauchery. So Carrie had decided to hop on a plane to Milwaukee.
