Zero to the Bone

by Robert Eversz

  Maybe I stuck to the idea that he’d been murdered because if he’d killed himself, I was complicit in his death. I’d threatened to publish his name in connection with Christine’s murder, a final shove to someone already falling down. Maybe by calling me during his last moments he intended to let me know I’d driven him to suicide. I backed toward the bed and sat, feeling pretty rotten about myself. Certain things he’d said during our conversations jutted out at me. Even when I first met him, in the coffee shop on Sunset, no more than a mile away from the Chateau Marmont, he’d said it didn’t matter what I printed. Maybe he knew even then that he was going to kill himself. Maybe he’d been going back and forth about it, trying to work up the courage, and I’d showed up with my smart little threat to expose his connection to Christine, hoping to pressure information from him, and I’d pressured him right over the edge. What else had he said during that first meeting? That whoever sent the disk of Christine’s killing hadn’t been bragging about it. He’d wanted it to stop. But if he knew who did it and wanted them to stop, wouldn’t they kill him?

  Dougan swung the door open and stared down at me with what looked like suspicion and pity, as though he’d overheard me talking to myself, a bad habit I’d picked up in prison.

  “The bad news is I’ve been ordered to accompany you to Parker Center.”

  Parker Center. The administrative center of the LAPD.

  “What’s the good news, you’ll loan me a quarter to call my lawyer?”

  “You’re not under arrest, that’s the good news,” he said. “Can you get your partner to come out from behind his potted palm in the hotel lobby, take care of your dog for you? We’ll go in my car.”

  22

  DURING MY LONG and varied career as baggage in the Los Angeles legal system I’d never been treated to an escorted tour of the Parker Center, the stone-and-steel administrative heart of the Los Angeles Police Department, eight stories of concentrated law enforcement rising from the eastern border of the Los Angeles Civic Center. Dougan led me up the elevator and through corridors to an interview room where all the chairs had seats and the table wasn’t scarred by thirty-year-old cigarette burns. Most LAPD station houses are dives, not only unfit for the recently arrested, but overcrowded and decrepit places for the beat cops and detectives who work there, crammed into facilities designed for fewer than half their number. Though tarnished by the sun and smog, Parker Center was an aging beauty with good bones, built in the 1950s by the same architect who designed the Capitol Records building in Hollywood. Dougan asked me if I wanted coffee. I was experienced enough with cop coffee to say no. I expected the subtle humiliation of being made to wait and looked forward to the opportunity to lay my head on the table and nap, but before I could drift off Robert Logan broke through the door, a file under his right arm and a cup of coffee from Starbucks in hand. Dougan stepped in behind and waited for Logan to choose a seat before taking a chair on the opposite side, where he lifted the lid of his cup to let the coffee cool.

  “If I knew Starbucks had a franchise in the detective’s squad room,” I said, “I would have asked for a cup.”

  “You had your chance,” Dougan said, his smile so tight it looked braced by rubber bands. Under the circumstances, he didn’t want to make the mistake of being too friendly. “Could you state your name and address for the record?”

  Logan opened the file and glanced through his notes while I answered those and other basic questions, his left hand fidgeting with his tie, tugging at the lapel of his blazer, then brushing back and forth along the bottom fringe of his mustache until it finally anchored itself to the coffee cup.

  “You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions,” Dougan said. “Do you understand?”

  I recognized the phrase like the opening line to a familiar movie. “Wait a minute, why are you giving me the Miranda treatment?”

  Dougan glanced up at Logan, who merely nodded.

  “Simple precaution,” Dougan said. “In consideration of your record and your current parole status.”

  “You told me I wasn’t under arrest.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Not yet,” Logan interjected, and turned a page in his file.

  “So I’m free to get up and leave,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” Dougan said. “Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”

  I glanced around, spotted the video camera not-so-covertly hidden in the upper right corner of the ceiling, realized they’d be taping this in the event I confessed or said something incriminating. “Of course I understand, but I haven’t done anything.”

  “You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and the right to have an attorney present,” Dougan said. “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand?”

  “What’s the phrase? No good deed goes unpunished? I can’t believe you’re reading my rights. I’ve cooperated with you from the start.”

  “Do you understand?” he repeated.

  “Yes I understand, and I also understand that if I decide to answer questions now, I can change my mind and talk to an attorney anytime I want, and the way this interview is starting out that’s going to be pretty darn soon.”

  Dougan double-clutched, realizing at the last moment that I’d already answered the next question on his pro-forma list, and asked, “Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer our questions without an attorney present?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m willing because you made it pretty clear it would be in the best interests of my continued freedom.”

  Dougan shook his head. He didn’t like the answer but he could live with it. “I take that as a yes,” he said.

  Logan cleared his throat and looked up to catch my attention, his glance as friendly as a slab of concrete. A surveillance photograph of Stewart Starbal taken at Christine’s funeral lay face up in the file spread open before him. “I’ve asked around and from what people tell me you’re not a total scumbag, so I’m going to make the effort here to work with you on this. Don’t screw up the chance. If you screw up, I’ll make sure your parole is revoked. Is that clear?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong and that’s twice you’ve threatened me. I’m beginning to think you’ll have my parole revoked no matter what I do.” I winced, hearing myself speak. Just another self-pitying ex-con who can’t get a break in the world.

  “Do you know how to operate a video camera?” Logan asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “I find that hard to believe, you being a hotshot photographer and all.”

  “What you find easy or hard to believe is none of my business,” I said. “I can only tell you the truth and let you work it out for yourself.”

  He snorted at my mention of truth and decided to try again.

  “Have you ever operated a video camera?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever met Dr. James Rakaan?”

  “Once.”

  “Can you tell me about that?”

  “I went to his office the day after I got the video of Christine’s murder in the mail.” As I detailed my encounter with Rakaan I tried to guess where Logan’s line of questioning headed. He wasn’t asking random questions. He’d arrested Rakaan and presumably was trying to build a case against him.

  “You never met him before that?”

  “Never,” I said.

  “If you’re lying, I’ll find that out.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Of course you’re lying. The only question is where and how. Did Christine Myers ever mention Dr. Rakaan to you?”

  “Never.”

  “I understand why you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “You’re a photographer, she’s a model, she and her boyfriend like to have sex together on camera…” He settled back in hi
s chair and let his glance roam about the ceiling, as though imagining a scenario. “Sure, I can see how that would happen. The two of you get together, have a couple of drinks, she suggests you shoot some video of the two of them having sex together. Isn’t that what happened?” He dropped his voice and leaned across the table. “It’s not your fault Rakaan went too far. How were you supposed to know he’d kill her? It was supposed to be a harmless little game, dress up in sexy costumes and screw each other, something you could videotape for them—maybe you were even invited to participate when things got really hot. Only they didn’t get hot, she got dead. Again, that’s not your fault. You couldn’t know that was going to happen.”

  “That’s not only insulting, it’s stupid,” I said. “Obviously you’ve tripped to the fact that Rakaan and Christine weren’t alone in the room, if indeed it’s Rakaan underneath the rubber suit.”

  “How would you know they weren’t alone if you weren’t there?”

  “It’s obvious to anyone with a little camera experience, though it might have taken you some time to notice it,” I said, letting him sort out the insult implied in that.

  “Didn’t you just say you never operated a video camera?”

  He cocked his head to an ironic angle.

  “A frame is a frame,” I said. “Video or photography, same difference.”

  “So you could use a video camera, if you found one in your hands.”

  “Just like you could use your eyes, if you opened them.”

  To my right, Dougan sucked in his breath. I didn’t worry about going too far. If Logan had any cause to arrest me, he’d do it no matter what I said.

  “Toward the end of the video a shadow falls across the corner of the frame. Look closely enough, you’ll see the shadow corresponds to someone moving in front of a light set for taping the action.” I pointed to the photograph of Stewart Starbal so aggressively Logan leaned sharply back. “And I’m guessing the person who cast that shadow is staring up at you right this moment.”

  “Meaning you,” Logan said.

  “Meaning Stewart Starbal.”

  Logan picked the photograph from the file, glanced at it, and shook his head, his lips a terse blue line beneath his moustache, blue from repressed anger. “What did you say to Mr. Starbal that drove him to suicide?”

  “I didn’t call him. He called me.”

  “Did you threaten to publish his name in the paper?”

  If he was looking for the hook to hang me on, that might be it.

  “He called to tell me that he sent me the video,” I said. “The video of Christine’s murder.”

  “Sure he did.”

  “The dose that killed him was already in his veins when he called me,” I said. “Check the time of the call.”

  “Looks to me like he called you and…” The snap of his fingers sounded loud as a firecracker. “Bang, he kills himself. No test will prove different. The timing is too tight. Were you trying to blackmail him? Said you’d splash his name across the headlines if he didn’t give you what you wanted?”

  “He called to tell me the cops didn’t know anything,” I said. “He told me nobody knows the truth about what happened to Christine, and then to prove it he identified the stamps on the envelope the video was sent in, Mickey Mouse stamps, something only the sender would know.”

  “And something he told only you, conveniently, before he died.” He shook his head as though he regretted having to say it. “I’m sorry, but you’re just not a credible witness.”

  “Did you find any DNA evidence on the envelope?” I asked.

  “The envelope passed through the U.S. mail system. Of course we found DNA evidence. Some of it yours.” He gave me a shrewd look, like he was setting me up for a right hook. “Your fingerprints were on the DVD, on the envelope, too. Did you see or touch that disk before it was mailed?”

  “How could I possibly see it before I got it?” I asked. “You think I mailed the video to myself?”

  “Interesting idea.” He snapped his fingers at my chest. “Did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why volunteer the idea, if you didn’t do it?” He tilted his head toward Dougan, who sipped his coffee, watching the interrogation play out. “Did you hear me suggest that Miss Baker mailed the envelope to herself?”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said, playing the straight man.

  I stared at Logan, stunned. I’d walked right into it. But it wasn’t a right hook. It was more like a head butt or rabbit punch, a reminder that he could play with the rules however he wanted, because for now he was both opponent and referee. “I think this is the point where I suspect you’re trying to set me up and decide to ask for a lawyer to be present,” I said. “I’ve cooperated from the start and you’ve rewarded me with nothing but outrageous allegations. Just do your job. Check Stewart Starbal’s DNA against the samples found on the envelope. He’s a twenty-year-old kid, not a criminal mastermind. He probably licked the stamps, and if he didn’t lick the stamps, he left a strand of hair inside the envelope.”

  “He was a twenty-year-old kid,” Logan corrected. “Now he’s just a dead kid. And I gotta think part of the reason he’s dead is because of you. And I’d love to just do my job, as you suggested, but everywhere I turn you’re there, pissing all over everything. Reporters, they’re bad enough as a breed, but tabloid reporters, they’re scum, and yes, I do mean to include the paparazzos in that comment.” He hunched over the table and motioned me forward, his tone changing from outright hostile to gruffly paternal. “So we’re going to make a little deal, you and me, something that will probably keep you from punching the return ticket on your parole agreement. I say probably because I don’t know what the current investigation is going to turn up. If you’ve lied to me, I’ll find out, so you’d better tell me now.”

  I kept my mouth shut and my eyes open.

  “Good,” he said, accepting that as complicit agreement. He stared pointedly at Dougan for a moment. “A few people have spoken up for you and that’s the only reason I’m willing to go this far. You’re going to stay out of my way from now on. I don’t want to hear your name in connection with another incident, not one. I don’t want you talking to witnesses—or victims—and I don’t want you taking their photographs, and if you do, I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice. Do you understand?”

  “Where’s the mug book you want me to go through?”

  He blinked, looked down at his file, shuffled some papers. “You mean the guy you think might have come out of Starbal’s room, the one you supposedly saw on the stairs?” He looked up at me, almost couldn’t hold back a smile. “We’ll get back to you later if we come up with anything.”

  “I’m not talking about that,” I said. “I’m talking about the other mug book.”

  “What mug book?”

  “You know,” I said. “The mug book of those you suspect cut the canvas roof of my car and dropped rat poison and a dead rat onto the front seat. I know you didn’t ask me in here to threaten to violate the First Amendment rights of the newspaper I work with, the right to a free press, and my own personal First Amendment rights to free speech.” I glanced directly into the video camera in the upper right corner of the ceiling. “And I know you wouldn’t be stupid enough to threaten my First Amendment rights with videotape rolling. Because the newspaper I work with is very aggressive about protecting the rights of its journalists. I know, I’m only a paparazza scum, but the newspaper’s lawyers insist I’m paparazza scum with constitutional rights, and believe me, you get sued by Elizabeth Taylor enough times, you become very good at protecting those rights. So I have to think you were just kidding around, we’re all going to have a big laugh any second now when you explain it’s all a joke, you really invited me here to inform me about the progress you’ve made in identifying the person who threatened my life.”

  Logan squared his collection of notes, forms, and photographs and closed the file. Some time ago, had a cop bullied me aroun
d like that, I might have hidden under the bed for a week. He backed away from the table and stood.

  “If you’re talking about the code 594 misdemeanor vandalism of your car, that’s not being investigated by this division. I suggest you direct your questions to the front desk at the Pacific police station. Maybe they’ll be able to help you.” He turned for the door, remembered his coffee, and reached back for it. “Oh, and Detective Dougan here will escort you back to your vehicle.”

  I looked at Dougan, who stared straight ahead until the door closed with Logan on the other side of it. He shook his head, took a last sip of his coffee, and glanced at me over the rim. “Really? Someone stuck a dead rat in your car?”

  “A dead rat, a box of rat poison, and a copy of Scandal Times,” I said. “The rat was left under the story about Christine Myers, to make sure I got the message.”

  “I’ll make a call to the squad room at Pacific, see if I can find out for you the status of the investigation.” He stood and tossed his coffee cup into a trash can in the corner. “Come on, I’ll call while I take you to your car.”

  Once out of the room, Dougan took a deep breath and winked at me, a gesture he wouldn’t have dared while in sight of Logan or the video camera. “You’re really a pistol, you know that?” He led me down the corridor toward the elevators that would take us down to the parking garage. “I thought Logan really had you on the run until you started firing back there at the end.”