by Philip Cox
Which he didn’t.
‘Do you think this John Doe’s linked to the Kelton case?’ Perez asked. ‘You know, it wasn’t my idea, getting you involved. This is Hollywood Division’s turf. Not that they’re complaining.’
‘My gut feeling’s that they’re not. Kelton’s bodyguard was shot in a bar in plain sight. Period. This one seems to have been shot in the head, which was then cut off.’
Perez grimaced. ‘Anything to indicate a terrorist angle here? You know, the head being cut off?’ He made a hand gesture across his throat as he spoke.
‘Unlikely. He was already dead when they did it. My theory is, and I was thinking it through on the way in this morning, that this is a botched attempt to dismember the body to help hide the remains. Only something stopped them, or disturbed them.’
‘Really?’
‘Think about it. We’ve had cases before where killers have cut up a DB and distributed the body parts around. An arm, a leg, or even a torso, are easier to hide than an intact corpse. And if you’re going to cut up a body, where are you likely to start?’
Perez nodded. ‘The head.’
‘So we really need to get the guy identified.’
The lieutenant seemed to lose interest at this point. His desk phone rang. ‘Well, keep me in the loop,’ he said, picking up.
When Leroy got back to his desk Quinn was already at his, watching something on his screen. He looked up as Leroy arrived.
Quinn asked, ‘I’ve been wondering: all that high-tech kit up there protecting the sign – why didn’t it pick him up, or the guys who killed him or dumped him?’
‘It only has a particular range. You get too close to the sign, or the perimeter fence, and bells start to go off down in Hollywood Station. But remember, the head was found some way down the side of Mount Lee, beyond the range of the infrared cameras and CCTV and microphones. Bummer, really. Might have made things easier for us.’ He pointed at Quinn’s screen. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
Quinn nodded. ‘Yes, it’s the CCTV footage we got yesterday from the bar.’
Leroy sat down to watch as Quinn held a key down to get the footage to the time Harry Webb said he arrived.
‘I’ll give Hobson a call,’ Leroy said, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
Hobson answered almost immediately.
‘Morning, Sam. I had the feeling you’d be calling.’
‘Any news for me, Russ?’
‘The head does match the body, to begin with.’
‘It matches?’ Leroy repeated, for Quinn’s benefit. ‘And?’
‘The COD was a gunshot wound to the head, as I suggested yesterday. There were entry and exit wounds. Have they found the bullet yet?’
‘No, not as yet. I know they’ve combed the immediate vicinity of the scene yesterday, but we don’t know if he was killed up there.’
‘Well, the head was certainly cut off there. We found traces of soil on… well, on the neck of the torso. Obviously transferred there from the knife.’
‘It was a knife, then?’
‘Yes. Six-inch blade, no serrations.’
‘Hunting knife, then?’
‘Looks that way, yes. Also, it looks from the diameter of the wound and passage through the head that the bullet was something like a .44.’
‘Any DNA matches?’
‘Give me a break, Sam; you know the score with that. We’ve taken a sample, and it’s going in with the next batch. So we’re talking about five to ten days. Maybe two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’
‘Yup. Unless your lieutenant feels it’s urgent and authorises a fast track.’
‘He’s not going to do that.’
‘So it’s one to two weeks. And I also need to manage your expectations regarding the DNA. It could well have been degraded. Remember he was lying in the brush and in the garbage. The test might come back rodent.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Can you mail me over a mug shot? Then we can begin searching existing records. He may have a record; he may have been reported missing.’
‘Will do. On its way. He was Caucasian, around thirty, I’d say. Dirt on the fingernails, which doesn’t match the soil up by the sign. So he may not have been killed there. We’re checking the dirt, though.’
‘Great,’ Leroy sighed. ‘Anything else?’
‘No wedding band.’
‘Great. He had no ID on him, either.’
‘Apparently not. Couple of other things: there was a scar on his upper left leg – quite old, but it looks like he may have been knifed there some time in the past. He also had a tattoo: Jolene, on his right arm.’
‘Jolene? Wife, sweetheart? Somebody who’s missing him?’ He nodded at Quinn, who had sat up, no longer looking at his screen.
‘Or he could have been a Dolly Parton fan. And he ate not long before he died. Fried chicken.’
‘Fried chicken?’
‘And French fries. And apple pie and ice cream.’
‘You know how many places in LA serve fried chicken, fries and apple pie?’
‘One or two, I’d guess.’
‘Right, absolutely. Anything else?’
‘No, that’s all I have for you for now. Sorry it’s not much. His mug shot’s gone over, so better luck with that.’
Leroy ended the call, and turned back to Quinn. ‘You heard all that? When we’ve done here, we’ll start comparing his face with our records, CODIS, the DMV. Might have to look out of State for a DMV match. You found anything here?’
‘I’ve located when Harry Webb met up with Mets.’
‘Who I’d still like to talk to again,’ Leroy said, leaning over Quinn. ‘There’s Webb. He was pretty much on the button with the time.’
‘And there’s Mets,’ Quinn said, putting his index finger on the screen.
They watched Mets pull a reluctant Webb over to the dumpster, saw Webb look inside, then feel his pockets, then run off camera.
‘That’s when he ran to a phone booth,’ said Leroy. ‘He said he left his cell phone at home. He was checking his pockets for it.’ He stood up. ‘Okay. So far, so good. Now let’s rewind, slowly. Maybe we can get a POV of the dumpster line.’
They watched the screen as the picture rewound. The camera moved from the dumpsters, across the parking lot, then back to the dumpsters. Leroy exhaled loudly as it moved across the lot, breathing in again when it returned.
The time and date stamp showed 10:56pm when the view was again of the dumpsters.
‘Look,’ Leroy said, putting his hand on Quinn’s shoulder. ‘Freeze it.’
‘It’s a pick-up,’ Quinn said quietly, his face inches away from the frozen picture. He pressed a key and the picture continued reversing, frame by frame.
‘There they are,’ whispered Leroy, as they saw two figures get out of the pick-up. They ran round to the back of the vehicle, and appeared to be lifting something out. Then they disappeared into the shadows.
Quinn forwarded the picture a few frames to get their faces. ‘It’s so dark, and one’s wearing a hood, the other some kind of hat.’
Leroy squinted at the picture, then shook his head. ‘There’s nothing there to enhance. Let’s take a look at the licence plate.’
It was still not clear. Then they saw the reverse lights illuminate.
‘Yes, we’ll be able to make out the plate number,’ Leroy said.
Then the camera moved.
Chapter 16
William Kirk sat back in his first class seat as the Boeing 757 touched down with a bump. After a few moments the voice of the senior crew member came over the loudspeaker thanking passengers for travelling on Delta Flight 1755 from Atlanta to Los Angeles. In spite of her requests to the contrary, the passengers in Kirk’s compartment stood up, reaching for the overhead lockers in the normal race to see who could get off the aircraft first.
Kirk was in no particular hurry.
The flight arrived some twenty minutes late, and so it was almost 4pm when they finally rea
ched the Terminal 5 gate. Kirk took his turn in disembarking, and followed the other first class passengers down the corridor to the exit. He had no check-in baggage, just a small case which he was able to wheel direct to the exit. Once he reached the street, he briskly wheeled his case over to the row of yellow cabs, and took one to his hotel. On arrival, he was greeted by a smiling receptionist wearing a name badge which declared his name was Matthew.
‘Welcome to the Stocker Hotel, Downtown Los Angeles,’ Matthew smiled. ‘We hope you have a pleasant stay with us.’
Kirk checked in and was handed the key card to room 867. He looked down at the card and handed it back to the receptionist.
‘I requested a room on the ninth floor,’ he said. ‘It has to be the ninth.’
The receptionist looked down at his screen. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t see anything on your booking about a floor request. I’ll just check availability of ninth floor rooms.’ He tapped a few keys and looked up at Kirk. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Kirk, but there are no rooms available on nine.’
Things were not going as planned. Making no attempt to keep his voice low, Kirk said, ‘That’s not good enough. I need to speak to your supervisor. Where is he?’
The receptionist’s eyes darted back and forth, checking that other guests were not listening. ‘Please wait here, sir. I’ll fetch the Duty Manager.’
Kirk waited, leaning on the desk, tapping his fingers on the polished surface. Momentarily, a woman appeared at the desk. She appeared in her mid-thirties, was heavily but smartly made up, her long dark hair plaited at the back. She wore dark pants and waistcoat, over a white blouse. Above her left breast was the same hotel employee badge the receptionist was wearing, with Katherine Huth, Duty Manager embossed in black.
She introduced herself and asked Kirk how she could help.
Kirk explained about the floor. ‘I’m superstitious, you see. Nine is my… my lucky number. If I go to stay anywhere, I always have to stay on the ninth floor. That’s why I always request a ninth floor room when I book.’
She looked at him momentarily, her expression not changing. Then she pressed a couple of keys on the keyboard. ‘You booked online, sir?’
‘That’s right.’
Katherine Huth stared at the screen a few seconds. ‘No, there isn’t anything on the booking about a ninth floor room, sir. Let me check what we have.’
Kirk nodded over to the receptionist, who was now checking in an elderly couple. ‘We do have some limited availability on the ninth,’ she said slowly, ‘but they are higher specification rooms than the one you have right now.’ She looked up at him. ‘I can arrange an upgrade if you wish, but that will cost another $195 per night of your stay.’ She looked down at the screen. ‘Although I think we can reduce that to $100 a night, as there’s clearly been some kind of error.’
Kirk grinned at her. ‘That would be satisfactory. My company’s paying, in any case. They know about my lucky number.’
‘Quite,’ she said, her face still betraying no emotion. Kirk handed the Room 827 key card to her, which she swiped again, and passed it back, with a new envelope on which was printed 918. ‘Here you are, sir. I apologise for any misunderstanding. I hope you enjoy your stay here at the Stocker Downtown.’
‘Thank you.’ Kirk took the updated key card and turned around. A bellhop was almost two feet behind him, holding his hand out for Kirk’s bag. Kirk was led to the elevator and then up to the ninth floor. He had not realised that the elevator ran on the outside of the building and, not being afraid of heights, gazed intently at the streets and buildings below as the car sped up the side of the hotel.
Once in the room, Kirk passed the bellhop a $20 tip, telling the boy it was okay when he said how generous Kirk was being.
Once alone in his room, Kirk checked the facilities here and the room service menu, not that he had any intention of availing himself of room service.
As he had had an early start that morning and had only eaten chips and nuts on the flight, Kirk decided to eat. Before going to one of the hotel restaurants, he called in at one of the bars. He ordered a beer, and remained on the bar stool as he drank. It was still early, and there were only a few other people there with him: two business men working on laptops and one man and his secretary. Kirk only guessed she was his secretary; she was obviously not his wife.
Once in the restaurant, Kirk ordered the day’s specialty, which was spicy paella, with jalapeno sausage and shrimps. He returned to the bar after eating: it was still quiet. The man and his secretary were still there, but left shortly after Kirk arrived. Two separate groups of businessmen were sitting around tables, and two twenty-something girls were laughing with the bartender. One of the girls left shortly afterwards after taking a phone call.
Kirk finished his beer and went back upstairs to watch some TV and go to bed.
*****
The next morning, dressed in a business suit and tie, Kirk went back down to the same restaurant and ordered breakfast: grits with bacon, scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. Having eaten, he went, with his attaché case, over to reception. The Duty Manager from the previous night, Katherine Huth, was on duty. Kirk asked her to call him a taxi to the Conference Center; after checking he was happy with his ninth floor room, she ordered one.
The taxi deposited Kirk outside the main entrance to the LACC, and after passing the driver a twenty, Kirk ran up the steps to the main door and went inside.
There are five halls at the Exhibition Center; today only two were in use. In the South Hall was a bridal gown convention, and the Kentia was hosting the International Drone Expo. The latter interested Kirk most, so he went to take a look. He had no invitation or ticket, of course, so was unable to gain admission; however, he was able to take a complimentary copy of Drone Pilot magazine and walked, still looking business-like, to the Customer Services Desk. He asked the man behind the desk the way to book space at the LACC, as his company was considering an event. The man said the sales managers were out at present, so would sir like to leave his details, then one of the managers would get back in touch. Kirk complied and asked directions to the cafeteria.
The man directed Kirk to the cafeteria on the second floor. It was little more than a Starbucks kiosk and a handful of stainless steel tables and chairs, but Kirk bought himself a latte and chocolate croissant and sat down. He flicked through the magazine he had picked up: there was little of interest here, but he noticed on the vacant table next to him was a copy of that day’s Times, so he leaned over and took that.
After reading the newspaper front page to back, he still had time to kill. It was far too early to return to the hotel, so decided to take a walk around. He had one more look around the LACC, then decided to walk over to the Staples Center. There was nothing there of interest to him; just somewhere to go and to see.
His route eventually took him as far as 7th Street, and he paused outside a movie theatre on 7th and Figuero Streets, appropriately named FigAt7th. So he spent the next two hours watching a movie.
*****
Kirk returned to the hotel just after four. He noticed that a group of three young men in suits had also returned to the Stocker, each talking animatedly into their phones. He recognised them as going into the Drone Expo that morning, so was comfortable that he had returned at a feasible time. He felt hot and sweaty so went up to his room for a shower.
It was almost five after his shower, so he took the elevator down to the foyer, and stepped outside. It was too early to eat, so Kirk decided to look around the vicinity. His first stop was Union Station. He crossed over Alameda with dozens of commuters, strolled through the small gardens separating the two halves of the parking lot, and stepped in to the station lobby. Walking past the rows of long wooden benches and the coffee shop and kiosk, Kirk made his way to the bank of luggage storage lockers. He fished a key out his pocket, looked up and down the lockers for the corresponding number, opened the locker, and took out the contents of the locker. With the small package
under his arm, he strode back to the hotel.
It was approaching 6pm, but still warm and sunny. Thankful for this, Kirk felt it was time for him to take a swim. He returned to his room, stored the package, and changed for the pool. Donning the fluffy white hotel bathrobe, and clutching the matching white towel under his arm, he headed back for the elevator.
On arrival at the roof-top pool, he paused under the covered section where the elevators were. He could hear the rumble of the traffic below, punctuated by regular blasts of car horns. Then a different type of horn, this time from one of the locomotives over at Union Station. There was a siren in the distance.
Kirk walked over to one of the many white loungers around the pool. Only three were actually occupied, so it was easy for Kirk to choose one. He draped his robe over the head rest, and sat down, legs outstretched. The three loungers that were occupied were occupied by two middle-aged women, and one man. Kirk guessed they were business people, as Downtown LA is hardly a place for tourists to stay. He then noticed a fourth person, a man who was swimming lengths of the pool. After a while, one of the women climbed in the pool, but swam separately from the man.
Kirk lay back to enjoy the sun; after ten minutes, both the man and the woman got out of the pool and returned to their loungers. Kirk decided to swim a while, so climbed in and did half a dozen lengths. After swimming he held on to the steel step handrail and looked around while standing in the six feet of water. He ran his hand over his face and brushed his dark hair back. As he looked around, squinting slightly in the sun, he noticed a girl arrive. She was in a swimsuit and carried a towel. Kirk watched as she walked past and selected a lounger, away from the four others’ and Kirk’s. Kirk waited a few minutes and nonchalantly swam a couple of lengths, happening to pause two thirds of the way along the pool, where she was sitting. Again, he trod water as if taking a breather, but trying to make eye contact with her. He was unsuccessful, partly because of the sunglasses she was wearing, and also she was totally taken up with the iPod she had set up, its thin earphones around her head. Kirk could just about make out the beat of whatever she was listening to.
