No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  "Want some?" Deb had asked.

  Munch had devoured plateful after plateful, surprised at her need. But then, she had never tasted love before.

  And now Deb and Boogie were living in the country happily ever after and without her. After she hung up the phone, she said a quick prayer that wherever Deb was, she was safe and happy While she had the celestial line open, she added, "You made Sleaze, so do the right thing by him, too. Please."

  She often called her Higher Power "You," figuring any otherworldly force who could read her thoughts was also perfectly capable of sorting out when It was being addressed.

  * * *

  When Blackstone left the coroner's, he drove straight to the Sheriff 's Department crime lab. The facility was the best in the city—every bit as good as the Department of Justice's—and only a few blocks away He signed in at the front anteroom and was buzzed through the heavy door that led to a corridor decorated with past triumphs of forensic investigation. The first picture he passed was of a severed thumb on the floor of some room. Some miscreant's attempt, he knew, to conceal his identity Further down the hall there was another photograph of a bag of Cheetos with a pack of matches taped to the cellophane wrapper—a poor man's incineration device.

  The rogues' gallery continued. His favorite was of the reported suicide victim lying on the floor beside her own murder weapon. The gun was positioned close to her hand, but alert investigators had noted the blood on her palm. And how would the blood be there, the serologist had testified in court, if that hand had been wrapped around the butt of a pistol? Her husbands conviction date was noted in the caption.

  There were also several photographs of Sheriff 's Investigators standing on a wooden porch, shotguns resting in the crooks of their arms, the windows behind them shot out and yellow tape strung across the front door. It was taken right after the bust of a cop murderer who left two highway patrolmen's bodies dumped along the freeway The caption listed the suspect as DOA.

  Still holding the piece of binder paper by the corner, Blackstone entered the first door on his right. FINGERPRINTS was painted in black on the top glass half of the door. He was pleased to see that the technician on duty was Mike Kellman.

  "I need some prints lifted," he said.

  Kellman took the paper from Blackstone and set it on a rack in a glass aquarium.

  "Is this for a homicide?" he asked.

  "It's a long story Can I wait for them?"

  "Sure," Kellman said. "It'll take a little while.

  We'll need a set of your prints for elimination."

  "Just my thumb and forefinger," Blackstone said, inking and rolling his fingers on a Fingerprint card.

  "Give me all ten just to be safe," Kellman said.

  "You're the doctor."

  Kellman dusted both sides of the sheet of paper with carbon powder, using long tweezers to flip the paper over. He made little clicking noises in the back of his throat as he worked. Occasionally he said,

  "Hmm," and pressed his lips together.

  Blackstone waited a half hour before he asked, "Anything?"

  ''Just yours," the tech said, setting aside his magnifying glass. "But you got some indented writing B here." He held the paper with tweezers over the bright light on his workbench. "Take it on up to Questioned Documents and see what they can do."

  "Thanks." Blackstone vaulted the short flight of stairs two at a time to the second floor. When he entered the room marked QUESTIONED DOCUMENTS, he found the pair of techs who worked there hunched over a microscope arguing over the markings on a twenty-dollar bill. They were a real Mutt and Jeff team: one was tall, the other short and stubby Blackstone could never keep their names straight. Both had pale waxy complexions, dandruff, and were in need of manicures. He'd learned from past experience that prolonged greetings weren't necessary or welcomed.

  "You guys got a minute?"

  They looked up at him with glazed eyes. The short one leaned over and reached for the tweezers gripping the binder paper. Blackstone caught a strong whiff of scalp oil.

  "What you got here?" the taller one asked.

  "Blackmail? Extortion attempt?"

  "Possible accessory to murder," Blackstone said, embellishing a little. "Kellman thought there was some indented writing you might be able to lift."

  "If it's there, we'll get it," the shorter one said, breathing hard through his nose.

  "You guys really ought to try to get out more," Blackstone said, watching as they carefully suspended the paper over an ALS light.

  The taller one pulled the door shut and dimmed the lab's light. "Check it out," he said.

  "Here it comes," Chubby echoed.

  Blackstone looked over their shoulders and saw four groups of faint lines and squiggles. Seconds later those characters solidified into recognizable letters and numbers. Mutt and Jeff played with the angle of the light until each word could be read. On the top of the paper INVENTORY appeared. Below that, Canyonville, and next to that the words ace boon coon.

  "What's that in the upper corner?" Blackstone asked. "Those numbers?"

  "It's a date. Yesterday"

  "Thanks, boys," Blackstone said, slipping the binder paper into an evidence envelope. "Looks like the pieces are starting to fall in place."

  But who was she, he wondered as he left the building, his mystery woman? She obviously knew the deceased and cared about him enough to identify him. What was her connection to Canyonville? Did Inventory refer to some sort of contraband? Weapons? Dope? Stolen goods? What would her next move be? And what the hell did ace boon coon mean? Was it some sort of code? Did the first letters of the words, a b c, stand for something else? He pulled out his notebook and listed each question separately to be dwelt over later. He underlined the words: Who is she?

  When he returned to the station, he learned that Alex had already run the name John Garillo through CLETS, the California Law Enforcement Teletype System, and had gotten an instant hit. Jonathan Garillo had last been arrested in Venice on August 2nd. The charge was a 647F, public drunk. Alex had just pulled the hard copy of the arrest report when Blackstone caught up to him. The attached photograph certainly looked like their Doe; the fingerprint card would of course cinch the decedent's identity According to the arresting officers narrative of the incident, the suspect had been apprehended on Lincoln Boulevard after the officers observed him walking erratically Garillo claimed to be just visiting friends in the area and failed the field sobriety test.

  After a four-hour detainment, Jonathan Garillo had been released to a woman who identified herself as Lisa Slokum, his sister. The report also listed all calls the suspect had made while in custody There had been only two, but both were to the same number. Alex called the number and listened to a disconnect recording. He contacted the phone company and backtracked the listing. It belonged to Lisa Slokum and the billing address was in Inglewood.

  Blackstone phoned Sugarman and brought the coroner up to speed.

  "You think the sister might have been our uninvited guest?"

  "The thought occurred to me."

  "Are you going to try to find her tonight?" Sugarman asked. "I'll need her to come down and make an official visual identification. There's also the matter of funeral arrangements."

  Blackstone checked his watch. " could run out to Inglewood and be downtown by say seven." One of the women from the secretarial pool delivered a picture of Lisa Slokum—it was a booking photograph. Obviously she and her brother were cut from the same cloth. He also realized—looking at her sullen, chubby face—that the sister wasn't the woman he sought.

  "It can wait till tomorrow, if you want," Sugarman said. "Wait a minute, you're off tomorrow, aren't you?"

  "Yes." Blackstone dragged out the word, dangling an unsaid but on the end of it. He hated to delegate any part of his investigations, but he'd also been promising himself to get a life outside of job and he did have a chess tournament at mid-morning. "I suppose I can have two guys from the morning crew run out there and
see if they can locate the sister."

  As he spoke, he wrote out a memo detailing the situation to Tiger Cassiletti and Bumper Morris, the two dicks who worked Sunday morning.

  After they hung up, Blackstone made a copy of the arrest report and the sisters picture, adding them both to the steadily growing file of the homicide investigation. He made more circles on his blotter. In each he wrote names and brief titles. The top circle was given over to Jonathan Garillo—Victim. He drew a line connecting it to the second circle, Lisa Slokum—Victim's next of kin. With all these lowlifes involved, something was bound to break soon.

  10

  As SHE CLEANED her small apartment Sunday morning, Munch couldn't stop reliving sneaking into the coroner's office: the delicious thrill of being in a forbidden place before the shock of seeing Sleaze. Wasn't it just like God to pair those two things? Just as she was enjoying a taboo-breaking rush . . . Bam. Old friend dead, killed in action, a stark reminder of the inherent risks of her old life.

  But still, it was hard to shake that feeling of excitement when the cops entered the room. She had even brushed by one of them, touched his sleeve on the way out the door like an Indian warrior counting coup. Even now the memory of that moment sent a thrill through her stomach. She chuckled out loud, envisioning the students who keeled over at the sight of blood.

  She was shutting off the vacuum cleaner when she saw her answering machine blink red as it answered a call. She picked up the receiver and silenced the outgoing message.

  "Were you asleep?" Danielle asked.

  "No, I had the vacuum on. What's up?"

  "Just calling to see how you were."

  "Oh, just lovely How are you?"

  "I went out with Derek last night."

  "How was it?"

  "I don't know. Okay I guess. Sometimes these guys on the program seem like such wimps."

  "I know what you're saying. It's like show some spine. I don't want to hear about your childhood."

  "Exactly"

  Munch looked out the window.

  "What are you doing today?" Danielle asked.

  She almost said waiting, but then Danielle would ask waiting for what. "I'm just going to hang around here. I've got a lot of stuff to catch up on."

  "All right," Danielle said. "Maybe I'll catch you later."

  "Sounds good."

  * * *

  Lisa's call came at twelve-thirty.

  "I didn't know who else to call," she said, her tone flat.

  "Lisa? What's wrong?" Munch asked, hating the necessity of her playacting.

  "He's been dead since Friday. John is dead."

  "How?"

  "He was shot."

  She heard the baby crying in the background.

  "You want me to come over?"

  "I'm not too proud to ask," Lisa said.

  Munch set down the phone, realizing too late that she should have asked Lisa if the cops were going to be there. That was all she needed, to be over at Lisa's house when the detectives arrived with their questions.

  At one o'clock, just before she left, Munch called the Snakepit again. This time a woman answered. Munch asked if Deb was there and the woman said to hold on. Munch took in a deep breath and noticed she had crossed her fingers.

  "Hello?"

  "Deb?"

  "Munch?" They both laughed with excitement.

  "Oh . . . my . . . lord," Deb said, her Southern drawl as pronounced as ever. "Where are you, woman?"

  "L.A."

  "How the hell are you?" Deb asked.

  "I'm good. Wow, it's good to hear your voice. How's my little Boogieman?"

  "He's growing like crazy" Deb said. "He asks about you. Shit, I thought we'd lost you forever. Nobody ever sees you anymore. What's taking you so long to get back to us?"

  Munch felt a twist in her stomach and wondered if it was possible to be homesick for a place she'd never been. "You say Boogie's gotten big, huh?"

  "Why don't you come see for yourself? Get your ass out of L.A. and come visit. Hell, come stay. You know there's always room for you here."

  "Doesn't he have a birthday coming up?"

  "Thats right. You haven't missed one yet. The Medford airport is about a hundred miles from here. You could be there in three hours."

  "I've got a job," Munch said.

  "Just tell Wizard you need some family time."

  "I don't work for Wizard anymore. A lot of things have changed."

  "I've got a lot to tell you, too."

  "Deb, I have some bad news. It's Sleaze. He's dead."

  Her words were met with silence.

  "I know," Munch said. "I still can't believe it."

  "It's worse than that," Deb said.

  Munch wondered what could be worse than being dead.

  "He was a snitch," Deb said.

  "Where did you hear that?" Munch asked, feeling a prickly sensation up the back of her neck. Did Deb feel that his murder was justified? Deserved?

  She was talking about Sleaze, not some stranger. Besides, Sleaze would never rat. "No way Who told you that?"

  "Oh, you can believe it all right. When's the last time you saw him?"

  Surely she meant alive. "He came by my work a couple of days ago."

  "You know about Karen?"

  'Yeah, I heard all about it. Lisa said Sleaze found her with the needle still stuck in her arm."

  "He changed a lot after that—weirded out on us."

  "I met his kid," Munch said.

  "I bet she's a cutie."

  "She is. It's gonna be rough for her, being an orphan and all."

  "Karen's people will take her, I guess, or Sleaze's. She's too young to know any different." Deb paused to cough. "How about you? You been good?"

  "You wouldn't believe how good," Munch said, wrapping the phone cord around her fingers.

  "Roxanne's been staying with me. C'mon, just hop on a plane and we'll pick you up. I've got my ol' man's truck."

  "Sleaze said you had an ol' man."

  "Forget about Sleaze. Here, Roxannes right here. She wants to say hi."

  Munch heard more shouting and laughing while the phone changed hands. She could almost smell the beer, picture the hazy veil of smoke hovering over the pool tables. "Hey" Roxanne said.

  "How's it going?"

  "You're coming up?"

  "I'm thinking about it."

  "Don't—" Roxanne was cut off as Deb grabbed the phone back.

  "This will be great, the three of us together again. We'll cause some fun."

  "What about your ol' man? Whats his name, anyhow?"

  "Tux. He's out of town right now, but he should be back by the weekend. He's a long-haul trucker." Deb laughed suggestively

  "Sounds good. How is he with Boogie?"

  "Real fine," Deb said. "He takes him with him sometimes on overnight runs."

  "Really?" Maybe he wasn't an asshole. "That sounds great. Do they ever get down my way?"

  "He goes all over. I know what you're thinking."

  "I just——"

  "Forget it, he's mine."

  "I've missed you, Deb."

  "Hey Munch?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Call me Deborah now."

  "Sure," Munch said, happy to see that Deb was obviously growing. "I'll see about coming to visit and call you back."

  "I can't wait."

  "Me either."

  * * *

  On her way to Inglewood, Munch stopped at the market and loaded up on supplies. She didn't get to Lisa's until after two. Juggling the groceries to one arm, she knocked on the frame of the screen door. Lisa's eyes were red and her face puffy and blotched when she appeared in the doorway She nodded once to Munch, unlocked the door, then turned around.

  "This is terrible. How did you hear about it?"

  Munch asked, following her into the dark living room.

  "Two pigs came over this morning with pictures. They pulled my name from his rap sheet." Lisa showed Munch the policemen's business cards and the
n threw them in the trash. "They wanted me to come down and look at the body" she said.

  "I'm sorry" Munch said. "That had to be the worst."

  "I didn't go."

  "Why not?"

  "What was I supposed to do with the kids? Take 'em with me?"

  Munch could see her point. "I brought some stuff." She pushed a bag of groceries into Lisa's hands. "Where are the kids?"

  "The girls are in their room. The baby's sleeping."

  Lisa took the bag of groceries into the kitchen.

  Munch sank down to the floor and began sorting the laundry piled there.

  Lisa popped open a beer and watched without interest. "They said I needed to make arrangements. You know, like the funeral shit."

  Munch stuffed a load of whites into the machine, sprinkled it with the detergent she had brought, and started the cycle, turning the controls to HOT.

  "When is the funeral? I'd like to go."

  "I don't have money for a funeral. That shit costs thousands."

  "So what happens now?"

  "They said the coroner had a release form for me to sign and then he'd take care of it."

  "Are you going to sign it?"

  "What difference does it make? He's dead, right? Buying some big expensive coffin ain't gonna bring him back."

  "Will they let you know where they bury him? I'd like to put some flowers on his grave."

  "Cheaper to burn him."

  "Yeah, you're probably right about that." Munch moved on to the sink and began washing the dishes stacked there. She turned the water on hot—as hot as she could stand it—and held her grease-stained cuticles under the rush. "I'd rather you didn't say anything to the cops about me going over to his place," she said.

  "I don't tell the pigs nothing," Lisa said.

  "Do you know something?"

  "Like what?"

  Munch scraped at something hard and yellow stuck to the inside of a coffee mug whose handle was broken off. "When Sleaze stopped by my work, he told me that he was fixing to split."

  "He was always going somewhere."

  Munch handed her a dish towel and a wet plate. 'Yeah, you got that right. How long was he in Oregon?"