Pacific Homicide

by Patricia Smiley

  “Every investigation I undertake is meticulous.”

  “Be cool, Malcolm. You made big bucks suing the LAPD. The brothers in South Central may dig you sticking it to the Man, but my constituents on the Westside think you’re out to destroy the department. They gave me flak for appointing you. I don’t want the Richards case to give them ammunition to shoot down my chances for a second term.”

  “Then I have your backing?”

  The mayor nodded. “Just don’t screw this up.”

  For a fleeting moment Harrington wondered if Lloyd Gossett’s tepid endorsement might come back to bite him in the ass, but he quickly dismissed his concerns. After all, if you couldn’t count on your friends, then whom could you count on?

  Still, his pulse raced as he thought of the telephone call that would ignite the firestorm.

  9

  Wednesday morning Davie drove the Crown Victoria into the rear parking lot of the Los Angeles County Coroner’s office with Vaughn in the passenger’s seat. The call confirming the autopsy had come in shortly after she arrived at work. She was surprised the post mortem had been scheduled so quickly. Sometimes it took days for a body to be examined.

  Even before they stepped outside the car, a noxious odor began seeping through the windows, squeezing the air from her lungs. Vaughn reached for the tube of vapor rub in his jacket pocket, dabbing a generous amount of gel under his nose.

  “They must have a decomp,” he said. “I hope the ME doesn’t keep us here all day.”

  Davie’s father had once told her that in the old days, you could smell the dead from a block away. The county had cleaned up the place since then. Now the aromas were mostly chemical, but on the days they received a decomposing body, there were no compounds in the world strong enough to mask the stench. She had always been hypersensitive to unpleasant odors, so she forced herself to take a deep breath, knowing if she could keep it together now she would probably survive the ordeal.

  They followed two technicians wheeling a bagged body on a gurney up the ramp and into the building. Vaughn entered their names in the sign-in book in the reception area before they proceeded down the hall to suit up in blue paper protective clothing: pants, shirt, booties, an apron tied in the back like a hospital gown, gloves, and a face mask. Even though it was unlikely the medical examiner would ask Davie to touch the corpse, she would be standing over his shoulder watching as he made the cuts, so it was necessary to shield her body from any fluids.

  The elevator descended one floor to the windowless basement. When the doors opened, the overpowering crush of death was everywhere. So many bodies in one place, dozens of them lying on gurneys parked in the hallway at haphazard angles, like discarded grocery carts.

  A short distance down the hall was a rectangular autopsy room with five stations spaced a few feet apart, each with its own stainless steel table and sink. Once inside the room, Davie saw flashes of light from a photographer’s camera and heard the low rumble of conversation from the mix of detectives, lab technicians, and medical examiners standing near the bodies, which were each identified by a toe tag.

  Two post mortems were already under way. A toddler as pale as a porcelain doll lay on one autopsy table. A young Latino lay nearby. Five bullet holes had pierced his back, nearly obliterating the tattoo of a skeleton wearing a fedora and a fur coat, which Davie recognized as the symbol of Las Avenidas, the Avenues, a violent street gang associated with the Mexican mafia.

  Davie turned her gaze to her victim’s body, at least what was left of it. She lay on a table at the far end of the room near a wall shelf lined with jars holding a variety of parasites preserved in formalin. The collection belonged to Medical Examiner Jay Wray. Detectives called him “The Worm” because of the intestinal vermiform he’d collected over the years from bodies he had autopsied. Davie paused in front of a container that held a tangle of white worms, each more than a foot long.

  “As soon as the post is over,” Vaughn said, “let’s do lunch. I know a great Italian place … ”

  “I see you’re still the resident comedian, Detective Vaughn.” Davie turned and saw Doctor Wray walking toward them, swathed head to toe in a plastic suit that hung like a tent on his trim frame. Tucked under one arm was a matching hood. Under the other was a file folder. He adjusted his bookish glasses and gazed at the jars.

  “Those are Ascaris lumbricoides—roundworms to you non-bug people. I extracted those beauties from the small intestine of a tourist who made the mistake of drinking water from a contaminated well in Guyana.”

  Vaughn nodded toward the body. “I don’t think our girl will add to your collection. Not much left of her.”

  “I can see that,” Wray said as he assessed Davie with his bronze-colored eyes. “You must be Detective Richards.”

  She nodded.

  “Just so you know. This is my world and these are my rules. Don’t tell me how to conduct an autopsy and I won’t tell you how to investigate a murder. Stick with the program, we’ll get along just fine.”

  “Thanks for the warm welcome.”

  “My pleasure. From your briefing on the telephone this morning, I gather this post has two goals: get DNA samples to compare with your missing person and find the cause of death. Right?”

  Davie was sure the victim was Anya Nosova. The braces, the tattoo, the fragile bone structure all matched the description from the missing persons report and the photo John Bell had given her. If Andre Lucien could identify the victim from the crime scene photos, DNA comparison would be a formality she would need only when the case went to trial.

  “I’m hoping you can find proof she was murdered.”

  “I saw the article about your Jane Doe in the Times this morning. The reporter claimed the death was due to ‘foul play.’ I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume she made that up. I make no guarantees that I’ll rule this as a homicide, but let’s get started.”

  Wray called in the photographer. As the lead investigator on the case, Davie guided him through the shots she needed for the investigation and later for trial.

  Wray placed the hood over his head and connected a hose from an oxygen canister to his breathing mask to avoid inhaling fragments of blood and bone. The getup made him look like an astronaut bound for the moon. Davie took notes as he measured, weighed, and inspected every part of the body.

  “There are no obvious bullet holes or stab wounds,” he said. “No ligature marks on the neck. Right arm is missing. No needle tracks on her left arm to suggest she was an intravenous drug user. We’ll do a toxicology work up, of course. In case she died from an overdose.”

  “That would simplify things,” Vaughn said.

  Overdose or not, Davie still didn’t believe the woman had stripped naked and jumped into a sewer voluntarily. Somebody dumped her there, either before or after she was dead.

  “She was murdered,” she said.

  The plastic hood could not mask Wray’s irritation. “I don’t fudge facts so you can make a case, detective.”

  “You’ll find the truth,” she said.

  “Whose truth?”

  Davie pointed toward the body. “Hers.”

  “Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

  Starting at each shoulder, Wray guided his scalpel toward a point at midchest and then continued down the center of the torso, forming a neat Y.

  When the cut was completed, Wray looked up. “How’s Frank Giordano? Don’t see him around here much anymore. Have you put him out to pasture yet?”

  “He’s supposed to retire in ninety days,” Vaughn said, “but on his last end of watch I expect to find him superglued to his chair.”

  Wray set the scalpel down and picked up what looked like a three-foot branch trimmer. “Frank loves the job. Leaving won’t be easy for him.”

  He cut through the victim’s ribs, pulling the breastbone back to expose
the chest cavity and releasing a fetid odor of rot that blossomed in the air. Davie felt her stomach churn. She glanced at the sink, wondering if she would have to make a run for it. Breathing through her mouth was an option, but filling her lungs with death vapors was more unsettling than breathing through her nose. As she blinked away the moisture that had accumulated in her eyes, she felt Vaughn’s elbow in her ribs. She glanced up and saw his outstretched hand holding the tube of menthol gel. She swiped some under her nose.

  Using a large syringe, Wray extracted blood from the heart. “The lab can use this to create a DNA profile. When will you have a sample from the missing woman for comparison?”

  “This afternoon,” Davie said.

  She planned to drive to Andre Lucien’s apartment immediately after the autopsy and collect any DNA samples—hair, saliva, or blood—Anya might have left in the apartment. If he wasn’t home or if he refused to cooperate, she would not be able to meet that deadline unless she found a judge to sign a search warrant.

  Wray took out each organ and weighed it until the chest cavity looked like a carved out canoe. “No obvious abnormalities so far.”

  Davie’s paper suit crackled as she leaned over his shoulder. “What about those scratches on her face and chest?”

  “They’re definitely antemortem.”

  Davie moved in closer. “So she was beaten before she died?”

  “I doubt that. The abrasions are superficial.”

  “But they could be consistent with some sort of physical attack, like somebody shoving her against a rough surface?”

  “Perhaps, but if she was alive when she went into the sewer, debris could have just as easily abraded her skin.”

  Vaughn smirked. “Maybe it’s a rug burn.”

  She figured Vaughn’s juvenile humor was some sort of coping mechanism, but his lame jokes were interrupting her train of thought.

  “Chill, partner,” she warned.

  “Lighten up, Davie. I’m just trying to get through my day.”

  The pungent odor of scorched bone filled the air as Wray circumscribed the head with an oscillating saw. The remnant piece of skull made a sucking sound as he separated it from the head. A moment later, he removed the brain and held it up to the light.

  “No signs of trauma, so she wasn’t bludgeoned to death.”

  Davie continued peppering Wray with questions and pointing to oddities she didn’t understand until he grew impatient. Her hopes ebbed as the post dragged on. If he failed to rule the death a homicide, Giordano would assign her to another case. Anya Nosova’s death would be filed away and forgotten except by those who loved her.

  Vaughn looked at his watch. “About done, doc?”

  “He’ll tell you when he’s done,” she said.

  Vaughn shot her a guarded look.

  Wray continued examining Jane Doe, probing around the neck.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  Davie focused on his gloved hands. “What?”

  “The cricoid cartilage appears to be fractured. I don’t know how I missed that before.”

  “Lay it on us, doc,” Vaughn said in a flat tone. “We’re on the edge of our seats.”

  Wray straightened his spine and turned toward Davie. “You’ll get my complete report in about six weeks, but for now I’m going to rule that the cause of death was manual strangulation and that a person or persons unknown dumped the body in the sewer postmortem. Congratulations, Detective Richards, your case is now officially a homicide.” He paused as he took off his mask. “And one more thing: your girl was pregnant.”

  10

  Vaughn drummed his fingers on the dashboard of the car. “The zygote changes everything. How’s this sound? Lucien wanted Anya to get pregnant, but after he knocked her up, he changed his mind. They fought and he killed her. Once the Worm types the kid’s DNA, we’ll nail him for Murder One.”

  “Interesting theory, but even if Lucien is the baby’s father, we still have to prove he killed Anya. Let’s hope he gives consent to search his apartment.”

  Davie jockeyed the Crown Vic through light traffic on their way to Andre Lucien’s place. Twenty minutes later they arrived in Westchester. Vaughn grabbed a small bag from the trunk of the car. It held a camera, gloves, evidence bags, and vials in case they found anything to collect for DNA analysis.

  This time when Davie knocked on the door she heard movement inside the apartment. A moment later, the dead bolt turned and the door cracked open as far as the security chain would allow, exposing a hollow-eyed and unshaven man. A moment later, the pungent odor of sweat rolled over her like a tsunami.

  “Are you Andre Lucien?” she said.

  “What do you want?” Despite Lucien’s French-sounding name, his accent was pure L.A.

  She held up her badge. “I want to talk to you about Anya Nosova. Can we come in?”

  Lucien glanced over his shoulder as if he were consulting someone inside the apartment. “Not now. The place is a mess.”

  “Is somebody with you?” Davie asked.

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Would you mind stepping outside, sir?”

  “I can’t talk right now. You should have called first. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  “I have a few questions. They won’t take long.”

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  Davie noted the shift in his story. Lucien’s behavior was setting off alarm bells. She wondered if he was in the processing of destroying evidence of a murder. The urge to kick down the door and search the place was strong, but as much as she wanted to hook him and book him, she needed probable cause to force her way into the apartment. Right now she had no proof Lucien had done anything but report his girlfriend missing. Her only option was to keep him talking and hope he would invite them inside.

  She struggled to keep a measured tone. “If you’re not feeling well, maybe you should come outside. Get some fresh air.”

  “I don’t want fresh air. I want to be left alone.”

  “You reported your girlfriend missing,” she said. “Why won’t you talk to us? Don’t you care what happened to her?”

  “You cops are all alike. Always hassling people.”

  “You told Missing Persons that Ms. Nosova had a spiderweb tattoo on her elbow,” Davie said. “Did she serve time in prison? Maybe in Ukraine?”

  Lucien moved to close the door. Davie jammed her shoe into the opening, pushing with her shoulder to test the strength of the security chain.

  “We found the body of a young female,” she said. “We think it’s Ms. Nosova. We need you to identify her.” Davie pushed harder on the door. The chain pulled away from its mooring and the door swung open.

  Lucien lost his balance. He groaned as he hit the ground.

  “Jeez, partner,” Vaughn said under his breath. “Leave the guy some dignity.”

  The apartment reeked of unwashed clothes and the faint odor of marijuana. Davie reached out to help Lucien to his feet. His hand was spongy, almost boneless. His tremor vibrated up Davie’s arm.

  Lucien’s driver’s license listed his age as forty-three, but his stooped posture made him seem older. Dark circles under his eyes were in harsh contrast to the pasty white of his unshaven face. It was hard to imagine why Anya Nosova had found him attractive.

  Lucien massaged his lower back. “She’s dead?”

  Davie slipped the Hyperion crime scene photos from her notebook. “I have to warn you, Mr. Lucien, these are hard to look at, but we’re hoping you can tell us if the woman in the photos is Anya Nosova.”

  Lucien grimaced as he stared at the photos. A moment later, he handed them back to Davie. “It’s her. It’s Anya. What happened?”

  “She was murdered,” Davie said. “Any idea who might have wanted to harm her?”

  He stared into midspac
e, his face muscles slack. “I found a letter on the dresser this morning. I checked my computer. It was typed on Saturday, the night she disappeared.”

  “Where is it?”

  Lucien didn’t answer right away. “She was leaving me. I assumed she hooked up with her old boyfriend. He was upset when she dumped him for me. He told her if he couldn’t have her nobody could. If she was murdered, you should talk to Troy Gallway.”

  “Today is Wednesday,” Vaughn said. “She disappeared on Saturday. That’s four days ago. Why didn’t you notice the letter before?”

  “I’ve been gone for a few days.” Lucien picked up a piece of paper from the kitchen counter and handed it to Davie.

  It was definitely a Dear John note, but it was computer-generated and unsigned. The language on the page was stilted and awkward, as if the writer wasn’t a native English speaker. The message claimed Anya had found love elsewhere, but Gallway’s name wasn’t mentioned. Davie glanced toward the kitchen and saw a laptop computer and printer on the table.

  “How do I know you didn’t type this yourself?” she said.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because maybe you know more about your girlfriend’s death than you’re telling us.”

  The tremor she had felt in his handshake seemed to have spread to his entire body, rattling the timbre of his voice. “She was the best thing that ever happened to me. I would never hurt her.”

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Lucien?” Vaughn said.

  He hesitated. “Sales.”

  Vaughn moved closer to Lucien in an attempt to intimidate him. “Pharmaceutical sales?”

  “I know you checked my rap sheet, but those were misdemeanor possession charges. That was a long time ago. I don’t do drugs anymore. I sell rebuilt computers.”

  “To clients like Ray Anthony Falcon?” Davie said.

  “The movie star? I don’t play in his sandbox.”

  “Are you telling us you don’t know him?”

  Lucien’s face was glazed with sweat. “Only from the tabloids.”