No Place to Die (Sam Leroy Book 3)

by Philip Cox

  Cruz shook his head. ‘Sorry Detective, I can’t answer that. We were just told to wait here until you arrived. My sergeant said it he was told that it might be connected with a killing in Hollywood, and the team dealing with that would be coming.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Leroy said, taking one more look inside.

  ‘Detective?’

  ‘Forget it. Not your fault.’ Leroy looked over to the forensic team member. ‘So what have you found so far?’

  ‘Very little at this time. We need to take the body out of the dumpster.’

  ‘It was called in nearly seven hours ago. Why is he still in there?’

  ‘We were waiting for you to arrive before we moved the body.’

  ‘Jeez. Okay, get the body out of there. Put him down here for now.’ Leroy stood to one side as the two SIDs and two patrolmen, one each limb, lifted the body out of the dumpster and laid it on the sidewalk in front. Leroy knelt down and took another look.

  He could see that rigor mortis had started to set in, as the body was in a grotesque semi-foetal position. The clothing had grubby marks on it, probably from the stuff in the dumpster, as there were traces of papers and food on the clothing. It appeared to be a man’s body. He could see there was some soiling on the blue jeans, around the groin area. The blue and green checked shirt was partly tucked into the jeans, partly loose. Two of the buttons were undone. The shirt collar and shoulders were stained black, and the neck was covered in a black treacly layer. Leroy looked briefly at the neck where the head had been removed: he could see it was a straight, clean cut, and could make out the top of the spinal cord under another layer of dried, congealed blood.

  Leroy checked the man’s shirt and pants pockets for identification, but they were all empty.

  ‘No ID,’ he said to anyone who was listening. ‘The pockets are empty. No wallet, no papers, no keys, not even a snotty Kleenex. Is that the ME’s transport?’ he asked Cruz, looking over at the Transit.

  Cruz looked over too. By now, the men in the van had seen the body being lifted out, and one of them was walking over.

  ‘They said they would wait for you.’

  ‘Christ,’ Leroy muttered, shaking his head.

  The ME, whom Leroy did not recognise, stopped at the body and looked down. ‘You’ve gotten him out, then?’

  Leroy looked up at him. ‘Where’s Hobson?’

  ‘He doesn’t start till eight. I pulled the graveyard shift.’

  ‘He’s all yours,’ Leroy said, stepping back. He dove under the yellow tape, and returned to his car, climbing out of his jumpsuit and replacing it in the trunk. As he slammed the trunk shut, he could see the ME fussing around the body. While he was waiting, Leroy wandered, hands in his pockets, down to the intersection with Mulholland Drive. Rush hour was beginning in earnest, although in the background he could still hear the steady sound of traffic down from the Hollywood Freeway and Cahuenga Boulevard. On the corner of the cross street was a plaque announcing Laurel Hill in a dark green, ornate font. In the opposite direction to the city and the freeways, the ground rose in a gentle hill, covered in shrubs and cypress trees.

  He turned back and walked into the grocery store. Picked himself a bagel with turkey and gave it to the girl behind the till.

  She spoke robotically. ‘That’ll be two dollars forty, plus tax.’

  Leroy paid and asked her, ‘How long have you been working?’

  She stared at him blankly. ‘’bout six months. Why?’

  He shook his head and showed her his badge. ‘No, I mean when did you come on shift?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Were you working last night?’

  ‘No, I do six thru two.’

  Leroy nodded over to the television monitor behind the till. There were four images on the screen, three of inside the store and one of the parking lot. ‘Is that stuff recorded?’

  ‘Don’t know; I mean, I guess so. You’d have to ask Mr Chin.’

  Leroy nodded, and took his change. ‘Okay, I’ll get him later.’

  He took a couple of bites from his bagel and pulled a face. It was as tough as the pot roast his grandmother used to give him when he was a boy. He swallowed and took one more bite, tossing the rest into a trashcan. The bagel must have been yesterday’s stock: just as well he wasn’t that hungry.

  He noticed the ME standing up and looking around, clearly for him. He wiped his mouth and walked over to the yellow taped area.

  ‘Detective,’ the ME said, standing hands on hips.

  ‘What’s the time of death?’ Leroy asked. ‘Approximately.’

  ‘That’s difficult to establish in this case,’ the ME replied slowly.

  ‘How so?’ Leroy asked.

  The ME cleared his throat. ‘Well, as you know, if the body is warm, then death occurred only a few hours previously.’

  ‘U-huh,’ Leroy replied, looking around again.

  ‘And if it’s kind of cold and clammy, then death occurred between eighteen and twenty-four hours before.’

  Nodding, Leroy raised his eyebrows as if expecting more information.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ the ME continued, ‘in this case the body was kept unnaturally warm by the rotting garbage.’

  ‘Great,’ Leroy sighed. ‘Best guess, then.’

  ‘There’d been some decomposition. Not much, but the body was lying in a pile of rotting food.’ The ME looked back at the dumpsters. ‘I thought they were supposed to recycle their trash.’

  Getting the guy back on track, Leroy said, ‘I noticed there was a degree of rigor mortis.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Now that will begin two to four hours after death -’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And is normally completed eight to twelve post mortem.’

  ‘Age, race?’

  The ME took a deep breath. ‘Male, Caucasian; I’d guess, somewhere in his thirties. Where’s his head, by the way?’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘That has to be located. It’s not in the dumpster, at any rate.’

  ‘That won’t help with identification.’

  ‘No, but when you get him back to the lab, you can take some samples. Then we can see if he’s a match on CODIS. If not, then unless we find the head, we’ll have to go through CCTV and hope somebody reports him missing. What about the cause of death?’

  ‘I can’t say right now. Back in the lab we’ll check for foreign DNA, also for any signs of sexual assault. But none of the marks on his body indicate cause of death. No entry or exit wounds, I mean.’

  Leroy and the ME ducked under the tape as the two SID investigators began taking photographs of the body.

  ‘Obviously,’ Leroy said, ‘if he was killed by a blow or gunshot wound to the head, we won’t know anything about it until we locate it.’

  ‘Sure,’ the ME agreed. ‘The blood tests will show up if he was poisoned. Or sedated.’ He tapped the side of his own neck. ‘The cut… well, that appears to be very clean. A very clean cut. Done with a very sharp knife.’

  ‘Like a hunting knife?’

  ‘Possibly, but I can’t identify at this stage any serrations.’

  Leroy looked over at the body and shook his head. ‘Why cut his head off?’ he asked, himself more than the ME.

  ‘That’s your job. As I said, there’s no obvious entry or exit wound on the body. Also the cut is extremely clean. That would suggest he was already dead when he was decapitated.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘If he was alive - and conscious - he would have struggled, so the cut wouldn’t have been as clean as this one. Of course, he could have been severely restrained, or drugged. But if you look at the neck and shirt…’ He started to lead Leroy back to the corpse.

  ‘No, it’s okay; I’ve taken a look.’

  ‘Okay,’ the ME said, standing still again. ‘You see the blood stains on his neck and shirt. The top of the shirt. The blood’s just run down from the wound; almost trickled down, like from a leaky pipe. If he was alive when he was decapitated,
the blood would have spurted out. Like a fountain.’ He made a gesture with his hands to illustrate a fountain. ‘So,’ he explained, ‘my preliminary findings are that he has been dead over twelve hours, died probably from a head wound, and decapitated for whatever reason post mortem. I doubt he was killed here. Was there much blood on the trash?’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘No, there’s not. Therefore, he’s unlikely to have been killed here.’ He looked down at the corpse. ‘No, just dumped here.’

  The ME said, ‘I’m done here. We’ll take the body back to the lab. I’ll let you have my full report by tonight.’

  Chapter 7

  It was almost nine and Leroy and Quinn were both sitting outside Harry Webb’s stilt house. Quinn had arrived ten minutes earlier, pulling up directly behind Leroy’s car, which was stationed on the same side of the street as Webb’s, but three houses down.

  ‘I thought you might need this,’ Quinn said, as he passed Leroy a Dunkin Donuts bag. ‘Strong and black with a donut.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ Leroy said, peering into the bag, ‘but I think a can of Monster might be what I really need.’

  ‘How much sleep you get?’ Quinn asked.

  Leroy shook his head. ‘About three hours, I guess. I’ll catch up this afternoon.’ He leaned back and dropped the paper bag on the back seat. ‘You ever heard of this guy?’

  ‘Nah. I googled him before I set off for here. He’s not done much – a few TV shows, pilots that never made it to a full season.’

  ‘Movies?’

  ‘Just TV. Not even network shows, just cable.’

  ‘Am I off base,’ Leroy asked, ‘in thinking there might be a connection with Kelton?’

  ‘Apart from the fact that they both live in the same town? Yes, I think you’re off base, Sam.’

  ‘How old is he? Married, divorced?’

  Quinn recollected. ‘Forty-six. Divorced five years ago. No mention in the article of any significant other.’

  Leroy made to get out of the car, pausing as another vehicle passed by. ‘Let’s hope he’s in.’

  ‘We should have called ahead,’ said Quinn as they walked towards the house. ‘Would have saved a wasted journey.’

  ‘Let’s just see,’ Leroy replied. They climbed the wooden staircase and walked along a weed-strewn path through a small front yard which had not been attended to in ages. Weeds and tufts of grass littered the earth, all around the two large cactus plants.

  Leroy opened the screen door. The front door was a heavy wooden door, stained dark. There was no obvious bell or knocker, so Leroy banged hard on the wood. For a while there was no reply: they glanced at each other. Leroy knocked again, and this time they could hear coughing from inside, coming closer to the door. It opened slightly and Harry Webb peered around the door. He was very short, no more than five feet and had to look right up to Leroy, who was holding out his badge.

  ‘Detectives Leroy and Quinn, LAPD. Harry Webb?’

  ‘Yeah, hold on.’ The door closed while Webb released the safety chain and opened the door. ‘I was kind of expecting you guys. Come on in.’

  Leroy and Quinn followed Webb through the house to the lounge, which had French doors opening onto a veranda. The lounge was one of those places clearly occupied by a solitary man. Not untidy as such, but cluttered with books. No ‘female touch’. From the veranda one had a view right down into the city. The Hollywood Freeway was flowing slowly in both directions. There was a small table and chair on the veranda. On the table was a packet of Marlboros, a glass of what could have been water, a notebook and pen, and an open laptop. Quinn began to veer towards the table until Webb steered him back indoors.

  ‘Here, take a seat,’ Webb said, indicating the bulky brown leather couch. Leroy and Quinn sat on the couch and Webb joined them on the matching chair opposite, coughing as he sat down. ‘Where did I…?’ he muttered, looking around. He got up and stepped over to the table on the veranda. Taking a cigarette, he returned to the chair, reached over for a lighter, and lit the Marlboro. ‘You don’t mind…?’ he asked.

  Leroy and Quinn shook their heads. ‘Your house,’ Leroy said.

  Webb nodded, took a drag, and coughed again. He was short, had close cropped grey hair, and his face was wrinkly, the result of too many years’ sun and nicotine. He looked at Leroy. ‘Leroy,’ he said. ‘I got a good memory for names. You,’ – he wagged his finger as he spoke – ‘were the detective on that Marv Kelton case, weren’t you?’

  ‘Well remembered,’ Leroy said.

  ‘Like I told you, I got a good memory for names. Pity the bastard got off. I always felt there was something not quite right about the guy. Then when I read about someone taking a dump on his star down there…’ His sentence was punctuated by chuckling and coughing. ‘Did they ever take away the star, by the way? I read there was some kind of campaign running.’

  ‘No, it hasn’t been removed,’ Quinn replied.

  Leroy added, ‘The Chamber of Commerce says it’s part of the fabric of the street now.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Webb said. ‘I remember reading that now. Something about stars never being removed. That’s bullshit, of course.’

  ‘Mm?’ Leroy said.

  Webb took another drag and sat back in the chair. ‘You ever heard of an actor called David Manners?’

  Leroy wondered where this was all going. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  Webb waved a dismissive hand. ‘He was a B movie actor back in the thirties. Did a few horror pictures for Universal. A faggot, of course.’ He paused. ‘No offence.’

  Almost in unison, Leroy and Quinn replied, ‘None taken.’

  ‘Well, anyway, he made a few crappy pictures, then just dropped out. Just gave it all up. Became some sort of hermit, I gather. And you know what? His star just quietly disappeared. Got taken away. No fuss, no announcement. Just – poof. Gone. Now ain’t that fascinating? And then you have Jackie Chan’s star. Now that had to be moved someplace else ’cause some wise-ass decided to put it in front of the Chinese Theater.’

  Leroy sat forward. As interesting as Harry Webb’s history of Hollywood was, he had questions to ask and was almost falling asleep. ‘Riveting. So we don’t detain you any longer than’s necessary, sir, can you just tell me about last night?’

  Webb squeezed what was left of the cigarette into an ashtray. ‘Not much to say, really. I was out there working on a piece I’m doing - an adaptation of a book, a shitty book between you guys and me – and I needed a smoke. Not one of these; I’d begun to use those e-cigarettes, you know, and I couldn’t find the vaporizer. So I decided to drive down to the store and get another. It was Chin down at the store who’d gotten me into the vapour ones.

  ‘So, I got into the car and drove down to the store. I’d just gotten out of the car when some weirdo ran up to me. Well, not exactly ran; just leaping around like he’d messed his shorts.’ Webb began to laugh, then coughed. ‘Maybe he had. He didn’t speak English - well, nothing I could understand, anyway – but I could tell he wanted me to look inside one of the dumpsters. I looked in and saw what was in there.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘And what did I see? I saw that poor bastard lying in with the trash. Missing his head.’

  ‘You could see that clearly? It was night.’

  ‘There’s a street light behind the dumpsters. I could see well enough.’

  ‘What time was this, approximately?’

  Webb gave a theatrical shrug. ‘Around midnight?’

  Leroy asked, ‘Did you touch anything?’

  ‘You mean did I touch the poor guy? No way. Or the dumpster. I didn’t bother to check his pulse, if you see what I mean. Have you found his head, by the way?’

  ‘Not yet. What did you do then?’

  ‘I ran into Chin’s and called him. Oh, I took the foreign guy with me; he was still wailing and calling out Christ knows what. Then I called 911. I used the booth down there as I’d left my cell here. Then I waited for you guys to show up. Chin
gave the other guy a drink - sold him a drink, I mean – to calm him down. I bought a packet of smokes. Real smokes this time - no cockamamie vapour. You talked to the foreign guy yet?’

  ‘Not yet. He’s our next port of call.’

  ‘You’re going to need a translator. You want to go to… I forget the name of the outfit, but they got offices on Sawtelle Boulevard. Tell them Harry Webb sent you.’

  Leroy stood up, followed by Quinn. ‘I’ll be sure to do that. Thanks for your time and co-operation, Mr Webb.’

  Webb started to lead them to the door. ‘Always pleased to help out LA’s Finest.’

  As he held the door open for them, Quinn turned round. ‘And good luck with the script, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’ With that, Webb closed the door and fastened the chain. Leroy and Quinn took the wooden staircase back down to their cars.

  As they paused by their vehicles, Leroy checked his phone. ‘Well, nothing yet from Perez about the interpreter.’ He yawned. ‘Let’s both go back to the Desk. I’ll try to grab some sleep there or in the back room at Martha’s. If the translator materializes then there’s no reason why you can’t speak to’ – he looked down at the notes – ‘Evald Mets solo.’

  Some one hundred feet above, Harry Webb was looking out of his bedroom window. He watched as Quinn and Leroy got back into their respective cars. He watched their cars pull away, negotiate the twists and turns of his street until they were out of view. Then he returned to his little table on the veranda, took another mouthful of vodka and tonic and lit another real cigarette.

  Chapter 8

  Leroy was destined not to catch up on sleep that day. No sooner had he joined the 405, then Lieutenant Perez called him.

  ‘Sam, I just got off the horn from the ALS: they can provide a translator late morning.’

  ‘Late morning? Lieutenant, that’s cutting things a bit close.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but I had to request someone who specialises in East European languages, and you got him from eleven till one. After 1pm, the cost to the Department goes up.’

  ‘Okay, so that’ll give us two hours with Mets. That should be enough.’