Comsky envisioned the new Hollywood Homicide—known as “HH2” around the station—as a proving ground for the highest-scoring rookies in the department. These green but undeniably brilliant detectives possessed a specialized education that, she felt sure, could be used to catch killers. Lucky candidates would be offered a once-in-a-lifetime promotion—swept to the front of the line, seniority be damned, straight to Homicide. There, they’d be paired with veteran murder cops who’d mentor and guide them in the art of field investigation.
The city council had gone for the idea but with conditions. First, the proposed homicide squad would have four members, not eight. Second, Lieutenant Bruce Gavin would be appointed as HH2’s immediate supervisor. Gavin was a council favorite, a man who thrived amid the triplicate forms and waxed linoleum halls of bureaucracy. His new role appeared to some as a conflict of interest: make Comsky’s team shine, maintaining a stellar closure rate and sending the message that committing murder in Hollywood was a losing proposition. That would in turn knock local stats back down to where they’d been a decade earlier. However, low numbers also meant the division’s homicide desk would likely again be rendered obsolete.
But Jarsdel knew it was a win-win for Gavin. If stats fell, he’d earn the gratitude of both the city council and Comsky herself, who was all but guaranteed to become the next chief of the LAPD. Getting on her good side would bump him up the ladder, probably to division commander. And if HH2 failed and stats remained high, well, the whole thing was Comsky’s idea, not his. He’d still be the council’s man, and they’d all agree he had done his best.
Comsky’s project had been a gamble, but so far, it was paying off. Jarsdel’s counterpart at HH2 was Detective Kay Barnhardt, who, before she put on a uniform, had been a practicing clinical psychologist. Gavin had matched Barnhardt with Detective Abe Rutenberg, who’d initially taken the pairing as an insult, forcing his new partner to endure weeks of tired psychotherapy jokes. But several closed cases later, Rutenberg freely acknowledged that Barnhardt’s insights had helped put away the bad guys. HH2 on the whole, in fact, had made arrests in nearly seventy percent of its cases. Of those that’d gone to trial, all had resulted in convictions.
Gavin embraced the team’s success, took credit for it, in fact, despite it being what he claimed was a departmental albatross, a Barnumesque gimmick that would have hobbled the career of a lesser man than he. Gavin had said as much during a long and ill-advised screed over a round of drinks at the Bigfoot Lodge. Everything about HH2 stank, from its doctoral detectives to its conspicuous formation just ahead of a mayoral race that would open a spot at the top of the LAPD. And though he’d never say it to her face, he thought Comsky was using a temporary spike in homicides to put on nothing more than a big show. Jarsdel and Barnhardt weren’t real cops, just actors sent in to soften the image of the police, making it more palatable for Hollywood intellectuals and leftist political donors. He would’ve almost admired the audacity of Comsky’s charade if he hadn’t had to participate in it.
And who was this Jarsdel guy, anyway? Who gave a shit about his scores on the detective’s exam? He didn’t look right. Didn’t look the way a cop should. He was tall enough, sure—six foot two, maybe even six three—but unimpressive, lanky and soft. And he had those round, wire-rimmed glasses and that schoolboy haircut and those rose-pink cheeks, like he’d just had his first kiss. What murder suspect would ever take him seriously?
“And you know what the worst part of all this is?” Here he’d stabbed a meaty finger into the tabletop and glared across at his cop buddies. “To be back in fucking Hollywood. Back in the shit. I was with you guys in the PAB, don’t forget that. You know how many years it took me to get there? Eighth floor. Could throw a rock out my window and hit city hall. And you”—he had pointed at Media Relations Commander Sam Schirru—“you greasy little asshole, you’re in my old office now, right? Well, don’t get too comfy. I’ll be back before you know it. Fuck it, no—keep the office. I’ll take the floor above you.”
The PAB—Police Administration Building—was LAPD’s gleaming downtown headquarters at 100 West First Street. Tall, imposing, and flush with funding, it ranked with the likes of London’s Curtis Green Building and Hong Kong’s 1 Arsenal Street as one of the world’s great metropolitan police stations—a monument to order and sanity. Under the chief of police’s direct supervision, both sworn and civilian personnel went about their work with quiet, humorless efficiency. You wouldn’t find any movie posters or Walk of Fame stars at the PAB.
As HH2’s supervisor, Gavin ran his detectives with all the inspirational flair of a claims adjuster. Every decision was carefully weighed and assessed until two unspoken rules emerged into practice—anything that approached the bounds of academy doctrine was heresy, and it was better to make no moves at all than risk making a wrong one. Gavin was making it clear he was simply Comsky’s representative. If the unit tanked or fell into scandal, it wouldn’t be because Lieutenant Bruce Gavin had gotten creative.
Now, as Gavin sat across from Jarsdel and Morales, he leaned back in his chair—the only souvenir from his office at the PAB—and held up a hand.
“Stop, stop.”
“Sir?” asked Jarsdel.
“Go back and tell me that last part again.”
“I was just saying that our witness doesn’t think he’ll be able to make a positive ID.”
“No, before that.”
“That Mr. Sparks is addicted to Oxy?”
Gavin nodded. “There you go. That’s all you need that matters. ID or no ID, he’s an addict. You wouldn’t need a Century City hotshot attorney to blow apart his testimony, so he’s effectively off the table. Forget it. What else?”
“We’ll check with auto theft for any Dodge vans reported stolen, but that’s all we have for now.”
Gavin pinched the bridge of his nose. “So a guy was cooked, then dumped right in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, and all you’ve got is one unreliable witness who, in the end, may not have seen anything at all. Ever think of that? Could’ve just been trying to get rid of you.”
Jarsdel glanced at Morales, but finding no help there, he faced his lieutenant. “Dr. Ipgreve said he could squeeze our DB in this afternoon. We’ll know more then.”
“Okay, that’s a big no-no, Detective. We don’t say ‘DB’ anymore. Big no-no. You wanna talk like a cop from TV, then be a cop on TV. But if a grieving family or the media gets hold of you calling a dead body a DB, they’re going to think you’re insensitive. And if they think you’re insensitive, then the whole LAPD’s insensitive. Like it or not, you represent us out there. So it’s ‘victim’ or ‘decedent.’ Jesus.”
“I apologize, sir.”
“And unless there’s a note inside the guy’s stomach telling us who did it, I can’t imagine there’ll be anything of evidentiary value. Guy’s practically a mummy. DNA’ll be compromised, and any material we may get off the body could just as easily have come from the street.” He turned to Morales. “What do you think?”
Morales shrugged. “Pretty much the waiting game. Best bet is sit on Missing Persons, see what comes in. Guy hasn’t been dead long, so anyone who might miss him is probably just starting to get worried. I’m thinking we either get something in the next couple days or we get nothing at all.”
Gavin nodded and pointed at Jarsdel. “Twice-daily progress reports until it’s solved. We don’t know who the victim is, but the nature of the homicide has spooked a lot of people. I also want you to investigate possible ties to organized crime. I’m sure there’s a Thai mafia or something, so let’s look into how they kill their victims. I can get you a translator if you need one.”
Jarsdel opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated.
“Spit it out,” said Gavin.
“There is a Thai mafia,” said Jarsdel. “The Chao Pho—but they have no appreciable presence in the United States.”
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p; “Jesus Christ,” Gavin murmured.
“Encyclopedia Brown over here,” said Morales.
“Look,” said Gavin, “until you come up with something better, I’d love for you to explain who besides the mob is gonna take the trouble to do something like this. It takes time, manpower, privacy.”
“I agree,” said Jarsdel.
“I’m touched.”
“But I’ve never heard of anyone doing this before. Not even the bosses back in Thailand.”
“That’s not really gonna be the thing, though, right? I mean, just because you haven’t heard of something doesn’t mean we all—boom—slam on our brakes and wait for you to enlighten us.” He turned to Morales. “Anything you need from me?”
“Nope. We’re good.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
They walked out of Gavin’s office. “Makin’ friends all over the place,” said Morales.
Jarsdel ignored him and went to his desk, where he unclipped his phone and brought up the new Sparks audio file. Like many detectives, Jarsdel recorded all his field interviews. His preferred method was a wireless microphone clipped to his tie. The mic, when paired with his phone, could be activated discretely and without spooking the subject. In every cop movie or TV show, the police always asked permission to record a conversation, so Jarsdel had been surprised when, as a cadet, he learned that hardly happened in real life. The law was clear—a citizen had no expectation of privacy from a police officer; anyone could be recorded, whether or not they knew it was happening.
Jarsdel emailed the file to himself and opened it on his computer. He created a new folder on his desktop, naming it “Brahma John Doe,” and dropped in the track. Then, plugging in a set of earbuds, Jarsdel listened to the interview again. It was only about four minutes long, and he realized that Morales and Gavin were right. There was hardly anything on it that could help. A white van. One man, no description.
He decided to follow up anyway, doing a quick search for any Dodge Ram vans reported stolen in LA County in the last few weeks. He came up with two, but neither were white, and one had already been recovered. The other served as a bus for transporting elderly congregants to Christ the Light in Rampart. It was described as purple, with the church’s name stenciled on both the driver’s and passenger’s sides. Jarsdel supposed the thieves could have repainted the van, but then he noticed the year of manufacture was listed as 1986. A check of Dodge models revealed that the ram’s head logo wasn’t introduced until the ’90s, and Dustin Sparks had made special mention of having seen it in his statement. That ruled out the church van definitively, and Jarsdel was back to where he started.
He checked his email’s inbox and found a zip file from FSD. He clicked on it and found himself staring at a thumbnail mosaic of hundreds of that morning’s crime scene photos. He began taking a virtual tour of the scene, first studying the pagoda, then moving on to the body itself—the brutalized husk of a man, the profane offering at the feet of the divine. Without the noise of the street and the helicopters above, it was easier to focus, but that didn’t make the answers come any more readily.
His phone rang, and he picked it up. “Jarsdel, Homicide.”
“Detective, this is Ken Peyser.”
“Oh. Yes, Councilman. What can I do for you?”
“I’m here with Mr. Chakrii Parnpradub, president of the Thai Association of Southern California. Mr. Parnpradub is understandably concerned about what happened this morning, and I’ve assured him you’re taking every available measure to keep the community safe.”
Jarsdel wasn’t sure what to say. Was that a question? “Of course,” he said.
“Do we know the ethnicity of the victim?”
“Not yet, but we’ll have more information this afternoon.”
“I don’t think I need to impress upon you the seriousness of the situation. Several of my constituents view the crime as an attack against Thai culture—the desecration of the, you know, the statue thing. If the victim also turns out to be Thai, we could be talking about a hate crime.”
“A hate crime?”
“Well, it certainly begs the question, doesn’t it?” asked Peyser. “A guy’s burned alive and—”
“Right, yes. We’ll explore all possible angles.”
“That sounds like a line, Detective.”
“A line?”
“Like something you’d tell the press.”
Jarsdel imagined Peyser grandstanding on the other end of the phone, eager to prove his relationship to the Thai community extended beyond the occasional order of pad see ew. Finally, Jarsdel said, “I’m not trying to be evasive. But we’re in the earliest stages, and I don’t have anything concrete yet.”
“I trust you’ll keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Talk soon.”
A shout went up from the direction of the station’s holding area, and three uniformed officers charged through the office, hands braced against their sidearms. They disappeared around the corner, and there was more shouting.
“Watch him! Watch him!” cried one of the officers.
“Stop resisting!” yelled another. There was the sound of bodies scrabbling against one another and the urgent squeak of shoe rubber on linoleum. Underneath it all, someone was growling in the deep baritone of an idling chainsaw.
“Do not even try to fucking bite me.”
“Get his head! Get his head!”
The growling grew strained and desperate, a sound closer to panic than rage.
Jarsdel glanced across at Morales, whose desk pressed up against his own. The detective was on the phone, a finger jammed in his other ear to block out the noise. Besides that, he showed no sign of being bothered by the scuffle. Even after years of law-enforcement experience, Jarsdel still couldn’t help his heart hammering, couldn’t help the steely finger of adrenaline in his guts whenever violence erupted. The most he could do was pretend he was unaffected, cool. He did so now, fixing his expression into something he hoped resembled boredom as Morales hung up.
“No adult males reported missing within the last forty-eight hours,” he said to Jarsdel. “Last one to disappear was Ghost Rider, and that was five days ago.”
“What? Ghost what?”
“Ghost Rider. You know, one of those street performers dressed up like a superhero. Wears a motorcycle jacket, head is just a skull. You had a ten-year-old, you’d know who he is. Anyway, it’s like I told the LT. We’re gonna have to wait.”
One of the officers ordered the rest to stand clear. “Get back! I’m gonna hit him!”
There was a pop, then a ticking sound, like the igniter on a gas stove but faster. A man howled.
“You with me, Prof?” asked Morales.
“Yeah, I’m just thinking,” said Jarsdel. “What about getting a forensic artist to come up with a rendering—recreate what he would’ve looked like before he died?”
“Good luck getting that approved. You’re talking a couple thousand bucks, easy. Unless your vic is someone special, there’s no way Gavin’ll spring for it.”
Jarsdel was baffled. “If we knew who the victim was, I wouldn’t need a composite.”
Morales shrugged. “Catch-22, I guess.”
A groan came from the corridor. “Gimme your arm! Gimme your fucking arm now!”
“I’m gonna hit him again! Stand clear!”
More rapid ticking, then a new voice wailing, “Oh Jesus! Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, I’m sorry…I’m sorry!”
“Gimme your arm!”
“I will, oh Jesus, I will. I’m sorry.” There followed a series of pathetic, hitching sobs.
“He’s done. Get him up,” someone said.
The sobs continued. “Oh gawd, I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”
“Pick up your feet.”
“I’m sorry.”
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br /> “Fuck it. Here we go.”
The man continued to cry, but the sound grew fainter as he was dragged away. A door latched shut, cutting off his voice entirely. They had dumped him in a cell for noncompliant arrestees. By the time he sobered up, he’d be facing a whole new set of charges on top of what he’d already been brought in for.
“Look,” said Morales. “You want my advice? You’re overthinking this. You’ve had this case, what, three, four hours, and you want it solved? Typical rookie bullshit. This ain’t TV. Things don’t happen that fast.”
Jarsdel pointed at his phone. “That was Councilman Peyser.”
Morales flicked a dismissive hand. “So what? He knows what’s up. Just gotta put on a show for the voters.”
Jarsdel looked up as two officers emerged from the hallway, faces red from exertion. He noticed one of them was missing the Taser from his belt. “Motherfucker,” he said. “Now I gotta fill out all that shit.”
Morales grunted in sympathy. Any use of force was meticulously documented. Even the Taser would be examined, a microchip inside the grip analyzed to reveal exactly how many jolts the officer had administered. He’d have to explain, if called upon in court, why he’d felt it necessary to shock the prisoner a second time. Like all LAPD, Jarsdel had been tased in the academy. It didn’t merely hurt; pain was something you could deal with, something you could tough out. For Jarsdel, it had seemed as if an invisible, godlike hand had thrown him to the ground and held him there. It was a terrifying, helpless feeling, and it always amazed him when suspects could tolerate more than one hit before surrendering.
“He misused ‘begs the question,’” said Jarsdel.
Morales blinked. “Huh?”
“Councilman Peyser. He said the body being burned alive ‘begged the question’ as to whether it was a hate crime. That’s incorrect.”
“What—”
“Begging the question is a very specific logical fallacy, a type of circular reasoning. Petitio principii is the Latin name for it. Burning alive may raise the question of it being a hate crime, but it doesn’t beg the question. I love it when people try to sound smarter than they really are.”
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