by Rick Copp
“It’s only because I’m a coroner in L.A. If I were in Omaha, nobody would care. But here, I get to cut open lots of famous dead people.”
“Someday someone’s going to base a movie on your work.”
“Maybe they’ll get Lucy Liu to play me. People say we look alike.”
I was in no position to disagree. “You’re right. I didn’t see it until right now. It’s an amazing resemblance.”
“I loved watching her in that Ally McBeal show. But clearly, I’m not that bitchy.”
Again, I was in no position to disagree. “Clearly.”
Charlie was amused as he watched me suck up to Susie. He finished his salad, and sat back to enjoy the show.
Richard, the slim, handsome Italian waiter I never failed to flirt with when I came here, arrived with a fresh bottle of wine. But tonight I didn’t even glance his way. I couldn’t risk losing any momentum with Susie.
“By the way,” I said with about as much subtlety as Eminem at the Queen Mother’s tea party, “Thanks again for that autopsy report.”
She waited for Richard to pop the cork and fill her glass. He stopped half way, and she gave him an annoyed stare. “Keep going.”
He filled it to the rim, one of his eyebrows raised as he did it. Richard could say a lot with one eyebrow. He then tucked the bottle into an ice bucket and moved off to one of his other tables.
Susie took a big gulp of wine and laughed. “Well, Charlie said you were obsessed with finding some proof your friend was murdered, so we both figured it was the only way to shut you up.” Susie giggled and covered her mouth. “Oops. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”
“It was true. I was totally obsessed. But your report put my mind at ease.”
“Good. Glad I could help.” Her words were labored. It was getting harder for her to put them together. I reached over and poured her another glass. Charlie folded his arms, anxious to see where this was going.
“One thing did nag at me about the report.”
“What was that?” She took another gulp.
“Just a small thing. There were traces of soap found in Willard’s lungs. Charlie said he probably washed his face or took a bath and accidentally swallowed some, but I was curious. Could it be from something else?”
Susie set down her glass and thought about it. For a minute, I thought she might pass out and fall face first on the table, but then, she popped her head back up and giggled again. “He took a bath. Forensics found a ring of the same soap around the tub. Probably right before he fell into the pool.”
I had no idea where I was going, but I began to think out loud. “Let’s say, for the hell of it, it was a murder.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“Indulge me,” I said evenly as I filled her glass with more wine.
“Okay,” she burped.
“Isn’t it possible that someone could have drowned Willard in the tub?”
“It’s possible, but unlikely.”
“Why?”
“Because he was found in the pool!” Susie checked the wine bottle to make sure there was still enough in there for one more round.
“What if someone drowned him in the bathtub, and then dragged him downstairs, poured tequila down his throat, rearranged the patio furniture, and dumped him head first into the pool to make it look like an accident?”
“Why not just leave him in the tub?” Charlie asked.
“Because accidentally drowning in two feet of water seems highly unlikely,” Susie slurred, a glazed look in her eye. She was slowly but surely coming over to my side. I had her thinking.
Charlie knew he was losing Susie so he pressed on. “But there were no signs of forced entry, and if Willard was in the tub, how could he answer the door?”
“It was someone he knew. Someone who would have a key,” I said.
“Jarrod, this makes no sense,” Charlie said. “Do you know how hard it is to drown someone in a tub and not leave a mark? There were no bruises anywhere on him.”
Charlie had me. Richard arrived with our entrees and set them down. Charlie, with a self-satisfied smile, dug into his salmon. I started in on my blackened turkey breast, and Susie tried to eat her pecan-breaded chicken, but she was so drunk, her fork kept missing it.
“The Brides in the Bath Theory,” Susie managed to spit out in between fruitless stabs at her plate.
Charlie and I looked at her, waiting for more, but she was too determined to get any tiny morsel of her meal into her mouth. Finally, she managed to stab a lone green bean and triumphantly popped it between her lips.
Contented, she rambled on. “Famous old murder case in England. This guy, George J. Smith, married three women. All of them died in the bathtub. Of course, the police were convinced George did it, but had a hell of a time making a case. There were absolutely no signs of a struggle and none of the victims had any bruises.”
“So how’d he do it?” Both Charlie and I were enthralled.
“A forensics pathologist conducted an experiment. He enlisted the help of an expert swimmer and had her sit in a full bathtub. They had a policeman stand at the end of the tub nearest her feet and grab her heels, yanking them up. Her feet flew up and the rest of her body slid under the water. The water filled her lungs before she even had a chance to hold her breath. She nearly drowned. And there wasn’t a mark on her.”
“That’s how the killer drowned Willard! He probably saw it on the Discovery Channel or something!”
Susie was getting excited. “He was already dead from drowning, so whoever did it decided to play with the circumstances to throw us off!”
In a surprise twist, Charlie’s ex-wife and I were bonding. Poor Charlie just sat there, dumbfounded.
I was pumped up. Susie had provided a plausible theory that would explain how the killer could have pulled off the murder. Now the only question was, who did it?
When the check came an hour later, I slapped down my American Express to cover it. Susie had more than earned a free meal. She was too drunk to drive, so Charlie took her by the arm and led her to his car. I had Richard the hunky Italian waiter call me a cab.
My mind raced all the way home, and it kept racing even after I entered the front door. Snickers scampered to my feet, panting with unbridled excitement. Since she wasn’t locked in the bedroom closet, I felt reasonably safe to roam about the house without fear of someone jumping me.
I flipped on the kitchen light, and found two messages waiting for me on the phone answering machine. One was from Laurette, wondering if I had thought any more about those personal appearance offers that were flooding her office. But all of them still wanted me to discuss my recent high profile arrest. The fighting spirit in Laurette’s voice was fading fast. So was the tabloid show heat. Laurette knew in her heart that I would never agree, but felt obligated as my manager to relay the offers to me anyway. I made a mental note to call her back as the machine played the second message.
“Hi, Jarrod, it’s Vito Wilde.” He didn’t have to tell me. I would have recognized the high-pitched feminine Laura Bush voice anywhere. “I need to meet with you as soon as possible. I know who murdered Willard Ray Hornsby.”
Chapter Eighteen
If someone told me I would be line dancing with a hardy, sweet-faced cowboy at a gay country-western bar in the Valley in order to hear some dishy information, I would have laughed in his face. But there I was on a hot Sunday afternoon at the Rawhide in North Hollywood, standing off to the side by myself nursing a Bud light.
Vito Wilde had told me to meet him here at six, and it was already five past seven. I was getting antsy and nervous and was about to call his pager when a big, lumbering sweetheart in a red and blue patchwork shirt and ivory cowboy hat cautiously approached me and held out his hand.
“The name’s Stuart. Want to have a go with me?”
I nearly choked on my beer. I was more at home in a bar pounding out the hits of Annie Lennox or even Gloria Gaynor, not Tricia Yearwood and the D
ixie Chicks.
“I’m sorry, I don’t line dance.”
“Awwww, come on, why don’t you just give it a whirl? It’s not so hard once you’re out there.”
His charm was overwhelming, and I had to keep telling myself I was in a fulfilling, loving, monogamous relationship. But then again, what was the harm of one tiny little dance? It wasn’t even dark out yet. I tentatively gave him my hand, and he led me out onto the floor where twelve same sex couples twirled and clapped and stomped their feet. I felt naked without the proper boots and Stetson, but I made the best of it, and Stuart wisely took the lead. He positioned me in front of him, slid his arm around my waist, took my left hand with his other and glided me out into the sea of line dancers. I wish I could say I adapted flawlessly, but Stuart’s throbbing feet would probably suggest otherwise. I nailed him with my heel three times before we even got through the intro of the song. I was facing away from him but I sensed that he was wincing in pain. Gentleman that he was, he never said a word. And he didn’t stop. He kept going. And I got him two more times. He slowed his pace, and tightened his grip on my hand, but still never complained, not once. God, I love cowboys.
I saw Vito Wilde enter through the front door and cross to the bar. He wore a patchwork shirt just like Stuart’s, but Vito’s was green and yellow. He ordered a beer on tap and looked around for me. Sweat poured down his agitated face, and his weighty frame heaved up and down with labored breathing. I turned around and smiled at Stuart.
“Mind if we take a break?”
The look on Stuart’s face said it all. He was enormously relieved, but didn’t want to hurt my feelings.
“I’ll catch you on the next go around.”
Stuart limped off the dance floor to a group of pals outside on the patio.
I hurried over to Vito, who had just spotted me. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me close to him. He had an intense, foul odor, the kind a lot of big men get when they’ve exerted too much energy.
“Someone’s following me, I don’t know who, but I could hazard a guess.”
“Spiro?”
Vito nodded, then glanced at the door nervously, and fingered his beard. “He thinks I’m going to tell someone what I know.”
“What, Vito? What do you know?”
He swallowed his beer in one gulp, and then slammed down his plastic cup in front of the bartender for another.
“I didn’t want to tell you this before because of ethical considerations, but I’m afraid if something happens to me . . .”
“Please, Vito, tell me.”
He glanced around the bar, half expecting Spiro to appear at any moment. He took a deep breath, still debating with himself on whether he should break his confidentiality agreement. I didn’t want to push him anymore, but I wasn’t going to let him leave without telling me.
“For Willard’s sake, for the sake of the people who loved him and miss him, just say it!”
“Willard came to his session about a month ago. He was very upset. In fact, I’d never seen him so distressed.”
“Spiro?”
“Yes. Willard’s mother had invited Willard out to her weekend getaway ranch in the desert. I remember he didn’t want to go, but it had been weeks since he last saw his mother. I had been encouraging him to come to terms with his relationship with her, and suggested that it might be a good idea if he went.”
“So he did.”
“Yes. I was hoping they would talk, maybe start working on a healthier approach to their relationship, but I never thought . . .”
This was hard for Vito. He still wasn’t convinced he was doing the right thing. I, however, was.
“What happened, Vito?”
“Nothing the first night. They barbecued steaks on the grill, polished off a few bottles of wine and went to bed. Willard was actually feeling pretty good about making the trip. But then, the next day, Tamara drove down to Desert Hot Springs to get a massage at a spa, and she left Spiro alone at the house with Willard, and that’s when . . .”
I knew what he was going to say, so I finished his sentence for him. “. . . Spiro made a pass at Willard.”
“Yes. The bastard. Willard had gone for a swim. Spiro decided to join him. Basically attacked him in the pool. Willard pushed him away, and told him to never try anything like that again. His own stepson.”
“What did Spiro do after Willard rebuffed his advances?”
“Nothing at first. When Tamara returned home, Spiro just pretended it never happened. But Willard was a basket case. He feigned a stomach flu, and got the hell out of there. Drove back to L.A. that night. When he came to see me the following Tuesday, he was a mess. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He was literally shaking in my office.”
“How did you advise him?”
“I told him he had to tell his mother. He couldn’t just bury something like that. I was thinking of his mental well being.”
“Did he tell her?”
“I don’t know if he ever got the chance.”
“So you believe Spiro killed Willard?”
Vito’s voice dropped a few octaves, startling me with its sudden infusion of masculinity. “I know he did. After our session, I went outside for a smoke before my next appointment and I saw Spiro confront Willard in the parking lot. He had been following him. They argued. I couldn’t make out all they were saying, but I heard Willard threaten to tell Tamara everything. Spiro had this wild look in his eyes, like he was going to explode. He just kept jabbing Willard in the chest with his finger, warning him not to do anything he’d regret . . .” Vito took a swig of his beer before continuing in a sad, soft voice. “That was two days before he died.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police with this?”
“They still think it was an accident. You’re the only one who’s convinced it was murder.”
I finally had a motive.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” Vito said. “But I’ve been struggling with all the implications.”
“Your client is dead,” I said. “You’re not obligated to keep his secrets anymore.” I was beginning to wonder if Vito’s Doctor of Metaphysics degree came from one of those Universities by mail.
“Well, I just really felt you ought to know before . . .” His pager went off. He glanced down and checked the number. “Office emergency. Would you excuse me?”
“Sure.”
Vito asked the bartender where the nearest pay phone was and lumbered off down a back hallway leading to the rest rooms. I ordered another Bud Light and tried to process all this new information. I had suspected Spiro all along, and now with Vito finally fessing up to the secret Willard discussed in his therapy sessions, a D.A. would be hard-pressed not to pursue a case against Tamara’s no good husband.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty. A buddy of Stuart, the sweet-faced cowboy, smiled at me from across the room. He was about to saunter over and ask me to dance, but I could see Stuart stop him and whisper a warning in his ear about my clumsy feet, so the guy demurred from taking any unnecessary risks.
After a half hour of waiting for Vito to return, I chugged the last of my fourth Bud Light and went in back to find Vito. He wasn’t there. My cell phone was in the car with a dead battery, so I picked up the pay phone, punched in my MCI card number, and dialed home.
Charlie scooped up the phone on the first ring. I told him I was on my way home after a quick pit stop in the bathroom. Charlie didn’t ask what I was doing at Rawhide. He already knew and chose not to make an issue out of it.
After hanging up, I pushed the men’s room door open and went inside. I unzipped at the urinal to relieve myself, and noticed in the bathroom mirror someone’s feet underneath the stall. They were angled out in an uncomfortable, distracting position. I was trying to remember if the black, scuffed shoes were the same ones Vito was wearing.
“Vito? Is that you?”
Silence. The man was either being rude or he was pee shy and couldn’t bring himself to carry on a
conversation while in such a compromising position. I finished and zipped back up, and then heard a thump. It was like a head hitting the metal door of the stall.
“Vito?”
I crossed over to the door and pulled on the latch. It didn’t budge. It was either jammed or locked from the inside.
I debated about what to do next. I could just leave the man in peace, or harass him some more. Naturally I chose the latter. I went into the next stall, leapt up on the toilet seat, and gripped the divider, pulling myself up far enough so I could peek over the edge.
A large man’s body was slumped over, his head resting against the stall door. I immediately recognized Vito’s green and yellow patchwork shirt.
“Vito, are you okay?”
I stood on the tips of my toes on the toilet seat so I could reach far enough down to touch his head. There was still no movement. I gently took a clump of his hair in my hand and slowly drew his head back. The first thing I saw was his eyes. They were wide open, pleading and horrified. His mouth was contorted into a silent scream, and dark blood drenched the front of his shirt.
Vito Wilde’s throat had been slashed.
Chapter Nineteen
Rawhide always buzzed with activity during its Sunday afternoon line dancing beer bust, but nobody anticipated the hysteria and panic that would spin out of control on this particular weekend.
I tried cordoning off the bathroom to keep patrons from entering until the police arrived, but this was a beer bust. You pay five bucks and drink unlimited amounts of beer on tap. My guess was the place was packed with roughly two hundred people. We’re talking two hundred bladders filled to capacity. There was no way I was going to keep Vito Wilde’s murder in the men’s room quiet.
The sleepy-eyed bartender with a very dated Flock of Seagulls haircut and a weathered brown leather vest that didn’t even try to cover his enormous belly was the first to confront me. Several patrons were complaining that I wouldn’t let anyone into one of the restrooms. A gay bar is one of the few places in the world where the men’s room line is longer than the ladies’ room line. With me pinned up against the door, guys started spilling into the empty ladies’ room. But the hallway soon clogged up and the natives quickly got restless.
