Bottom Feeders

by John Shepphird

“Crescent Movie Ranch, up in the mountains, way up off Angeles Crest Highway.” Sam got up from his chair. “There’s a Western town set, a ranch house and barn, a small pond and a schoolhouse. Disney just shot part of a feature up there. They’ve added on to the existing sets, painted it all and created a few new practical interiors, so the place looks great. We’ll be the first to exploit it. I had the screenwriter go up there last week and adapt the script to what’s already in place. Art department’s moving props up tomorrow, I think.” Sam shot a look to Mike who confirmed with a nod. “A lot of our crew is already set and ready to go.”

  “Sounds good,” Eddie replied.

  “If you choose to do it,” Sam continued, “I’d like to use Giovanni to lens this thing since you two have worked together.”

  “Giovanni’s great,” Eddie said. Giovanni was a fast and effective cinematographer and it was becoming more and more obvious that Sam was keeping this one in the family. Eddie also knew that Giovanni had worked with Chris Sanderson in the past so he figured the cinematographer was hired before Sanderson dropped out.

  “Tami has approval of the cameraman as well,” said Sam, “but Giovanni knows what the hell he’s doing. Besides, he’s got plenty of gauze in his kit.”

  Mike burst out laughing.

  It took a second for Eddie to understand the joke. Sam was referring to the old-school Hollywood practice of placing a thin layer of medical gauze behind the lens to soften wrinkles when photographing aging actresses.

  Mike piped in with, “We haven’t accounted for the camera department charging an extra kit rental on all that gauze. I’ll add a line item to the budget.”

  Laughs around the room, this time Eddie joining in.

  “Tell you what,” Eddie offered, “Since time is of the essence, I’ll read the script in your conference room. We can talk after. That work?”

  “Great,” Sam said. “If it’s for you, I’ll set up a meeting with Tami tomorrow morning.”

  Without even reading the script Eddie knew he’d take the job.

  Chapter

  THREE

  Sheila couldn’t get the image out of her mind, her mother’s transition across the threshold of death.

  Her mom’s face had turned a shade of purple, then slightly green, orange, and then finally an ashen yellow. Like colors of the rainbow. Since the pillowcase in the hospital was yellow Sheila wondered if the final phase of dying had something to do with it. Maybe, like a chameleon, nature finds a way to blend its dead into the surroundings.

  Now Sheila was alone.

  Sitting in the SuperShuttle van in tangled LAX traffic, that image played over and over in Sheila’s mind. And then, the moment after her mother passed away, there was the strange feeling that someone was standing over her shoulder. Sheila turned but nobody was there. Later, drinking alone, she came to the conclusion it must have been the angel of death as she wrestled with both guilt and sadness. Or maybe it was just the angel to take her mom to heaven. Something was there. She was certain.

  A cheap ballpoint pen had been the murder weapon.

  Since Sheila was an only child, she had to be the one to sign the official form that allowed the hospital team to take her mother off life support.

  A stroke of a pen.

  Sheila stole that ballpoint pen. The next morning, as if it were a spent revolver reeking of gunpowder, she threw the evidence into Taggart Creek. She wanted it to sink but it didn’t. The pen floated to the bank. Shit.

  After her mother had passed, Sheila spent the following week dealing with the funeral arrangements and cleaning out the townhome. There was so much stuff to go through, a lifetime’s worth of memories, family photos, furniture. She arranged a self-storage unit because she was not ready to let the stuff go. Not yet, anyway. She needed more time.

  Only twenty-seven years old, Sheila felt old. Now she would have nowhere to go when Christmas came around—no mom to call on Sunday or send flowers to on Mother’s Day.

  She never knew her father. He’d gone back to Australia before she was born. She had no relationship with him whatsoever, so there would be no dad to walk her down the aisle if and when her wedding day ever came. Not that her mother, in a motorized wheelchair, could have done that anyway.

  It was an early flight out of Raleigh, North Carolina, so she didn’t get a chance to call her boyfriend, Roland. Other than a few texts, it had been over two days since they’d talked. Sheila missed him. She hadn’t seen him in well over three weeks, not since the day her mother was moved from the assisted living facility to the hospital, the same day Sheila flew back home. That seemed like so long ago.

  All she wanted was a hot shower and to hold Roland and cry.

  She was about to call him when her phone rang instead: Giovanni. Work, maybe. She answered with as much cheerfulness as she could muster.

  “Hey, Giovanni.”

  “Sheila, how are you, darling?”

  “Oh, I’m, a … doin’ all right.”

  “You don’t sound so.”

  “I just got back into town.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Oh …” She didn’t have a lie ready so decided to just tell him the truth. “My mother passed away and I had to deal with everything.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear. I’ll call back later,” he said.

  “No, no … it’s good to hear from you. Don’t hang up.”

  “It’s nothing important. It’s just …”

  “Giovanni, I’m fine, and glad you called. What’s on your mind?”

  “How you say?” English was not his first language and he searched for the way to phrase it. “Just putting the word out, darling, I believe that’s the expression, no? There’s a film starting up next week, TV movie, I’m afraid, but such is life.”

  Sheila had first worked with Giovanni years ago when he was relatively new to Los Angeles. She realized he had complete control of the English language but also knew him well enough to recognize a pattern—pour on the accent when a dash of continental charm worked in his favor. It seemed over the years, his accent was becoming more and more prominent, not less so.

  “The project is out of town,” Giovanni continued, “up in the mountains, but for only two weeks. Not a lot of money, but … I don’t have the job yet myself, it’s complicated and nobody is committing … so stupid, but if it’s meant to be, are you available, my dear?”

  Sheila was proud to be Giovanni’s first choice as his assistant cameraperson. She had learned so much from him over the years. Sure, he could be unreasonable and fly off the handle at times, but she really enjoyed working for him. He had a great aesthetic eye and treated his crew with respect. He made the work fun.

  Giovanni also encouraged Sheila to break out on her own and become a cinematographer in her own right. This was not an easy task since the profession was predominantly male, but this was her dream, to create art and great drama with the camera. She’d make it happen. She’d will it.

  Over the years, Sheila had built a reputation for mastering the first assistant cameraperson’s most important skill: keeping the subject in focus. Since Giovanni preferred to use long lenses, and move the camera as much as possible, the task of keeping focus demanded a Zen-like concentration. Rarely, if ever, did she blow a shot. Sheila rose to the challenge.

  “Yeah, Giovanni, I’m available,” she said, even though she could have used a long rest to sleep off the burden of grief and sadness. But on the other hand, she thought maybe getting out of town and immersing herself in work might just be the perfect remedy. “I’m your girl,” she said.

  “And for that,” Giovanni replied, “I am grateful.”

  “Who’s directing?”

  “Chris Sanderson.”

  Sheila remembered working with Chris Sanderson once before, a perpetually tanned, energetic old-school director with decades of experien
ce under his belt.

  “Sounds good. When do I prep the camera package?”

  “As soon as Friday. I’ll get back to you once I know more. I am sorry to hear about your mother. Is there is anything I can do?”

  “No, but thank you. Work is good. It’s what I need right now.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Arrivederci.”

  “Ciao,” she said and hung up.

  She worried about breaking the news to Roland. Having been gone for almost a month now, she’d be back for only a few days and then possibly gone for another couple of weeks. Maybe he could drive up to the mountains and join her. He did that once, came to location for a couple of days when they first started dating. That was a good memory.

  Next, she called Roland but only got his voice mail. New passengers were getting onto the van so she did not feel comfortable leaving a message. She would call him when she got home.

  The shuttle weaved onto Sepulveda Boulevard. It passed an In-N-Out Burger and she caught the scent of fried onions. The smell was strangely comforting. It felt good to be home.

  The shuttle dropped Sheila off in front of her Santa Monica apartment. She tipped the driver and picked up her bags, stepping over the dried palms that had been blown down from the trees that lined her block. She could hear a steady wind rustling the palms above.

  At her door, digging into her luggage for the key, a premonition hit. Something felt off. Was her roommate, Lisa, home? Was everything okay? Turning the lock, she could hear Lisa’s muffled voice coming from her bedroom.

  Then she heard Roland’s laugh.

  Are they going to surprise me?

  A yelp—but not one of distress. That was clearly pleasure.

  Fearing the worst, Sheila moved to the hallway, only to see Roland and Lisa going at it, tangled in the black satin sheets.

  Sheila’s heart dropped. Betrayal—both of them.

  How could they?

  She turned and headed out the door.

  “Sheila?” Lisa called out, then added a muffled, “Oh, Christ.”

  Sheila grabbed her bags and ran out. Outside the apartment she saw Roland’s Mercedes parked on the street. How did I miss that? Shit!

  She marched into the underground parking garage lugging her heavy bags. She tossed them into her Toyota, started her car, and screeched up the concrete ramp.

  Sheila had to get out of there.

  Chapter

  FOUR

  San Bernardino County Deputy Sheriff Sondra Martinez had unearthed plenty of bodies before. The vast majority had been discovered in shallow graves or dumped off rocky cliffs. This was a first; murder by arrow.

  The mountains and high desert in her jurisdiction had long been a popular dumping ground for gang-related corpses, and ever since the department brought on cadaver dogs, more and more bodies had been found. But this investigation was different. The victim had been murdered while changing his tire after hitting a deer. The victim’s face was crushed beyond recognition, and the deer lay near the smashed car. Brain matter from both man and beast was splayed across the pavement.

  A motorist had called it in at dawn and Deputy Martinez was the first on the scene. Now the road had been blocked in both directions and more than a dozen of her colleagues assisted in the investigation. The department’s helicopter searched from above while Detective Chong delegated the responsibilities. Kenny Chong was the middle-aged veteran who handled the majority of the homicides in San Bernardino County. Since this murder was so brazen, he’d called in the cavalry. The detective worked primarily down in the cities of San Bernardino and Redlands. Over the years he’d never given Deputy Martinez the time of day.

  Martinez waited until he was done meeting with the crime scene techs before she approached. “Got a second?” she asked.

  He gave her a nod.

  “I was thinking,” she said, “these arrows … not all that common.”

  “What’s on your mind?” he said, not really looking at her, scanning the surroundings over her head. Detective Chong was over six feet tall, whereas Deputy Martinez was short in stature, under five feet. Although there was no official minimum height requirement in the sheriff’s department, she’d spent her entire career battling the handicap. To make light of it she’d often joked with her colleagues that she was “vertically challenged even in heels.”

  Martinez said, “I know a pair of brothers up here, the Dillards. Their mom died a couple years back, left them the place. I suspect they’re bowhunters.”

  “You’ve seen them out hunting?” he asked.

  “No,” she recalled, “but there was an alpaca shot.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “An alpaca, which is basically a miniature llama,” she explained. “People get the things as pets. Some fleece them for their wool to weave sweaters or satchels.”

  “I’m familiar with alpacas. When did this happen?”

  “Last year. Couldn’t connect the Dillard brothers, but the neighbor who owned the animal was certain they did it. I went out to their place and saw targets they’d set up, sheepskin rugs draped over hay bales and dummies tied to trees all with arrows stuck in them. They denied they’d shot the animal even though one of them admitted the alpaca spit on him.”

  “Spit?”

  “Alpacas are like camels. They chew their cud and are known to spit without any provocation, up to twenty-five feet away,” she said, having learned this fact during the investigation.

  “Revenge killing?”

  “Possible motive. I have no idea why either of them would have reason to kill this guy while he was changing his tire, but with the arrows and all …”

  “Will they remember you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lieutenant DeLuca,” Chong called out.

  The lieutenant approached with, “Sir.”

  “I need you to draft some of your men and accompany Deputy Martinez to question a pair of local bowhunters,” he said.

  “Ten-four,” DeLuca said and shot a familiar look to Sondra. They knew each other from years ago when they both worked the jails. As is the case with Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department recruits, they’d started their careers assigned to jail duty. She’d learned a lot about career criminals and remembered how DeLuca showed little fear when engaging the worst of the inmates. Rugged and smart, he’d gained respect from both colleagues and the hardened prisoners who knew not to test him.

  Once their jail duty was fulfilled, she and DeLuca went their separate ways. Whereas she was assigned to the San Bernardino National Forest, he’d worked the drug-ridden cities in the valley below. He’d even assisted in the gun battle connected to the San Bernardino terrorist attack years ago. Sondra figured that was why he’d been promoted to lieutenant.

  “Where we going, Martinez?” he asked.

  “Keller Peak Road,” she said.

  “We’ll take my car.”

  Another sheriff’s vehicle followed while Martinez rode shotgun in DeLuca’s cruiser. She could see his was the newest model with tech upgrades. Sondra’s car was considerably older, having once served in the pool of vehicles to transfer prisoners. Its back-seat steel partition rattled, which annoyed her. No vibration in this car—DeLuca’s felt tight and ran smooth.

  After she brought him up to speed about the alpaca incident, the car fell silent until he mentioned his wife had just given birth to their second girl. This prompted Martinez to talk about her son.

  “Cesar’s my little boy’s name.”

  “How old?”

  “Five. Already a Dodger fan.”

  “His dad must be proud.”

  “He is,” she said, not going into the fact that she wasn’t married to the father of her child. Family life had scared Lewis off, and technically they never married. What broke her heart was that Lewi
s rarely visited his son. He sent a few hundred dollars a month for child support, but that barely covered the childcare expense when she was off at work. Talk of Cesar reminded her to text Mrs. Gomez, the sitter, and let her know she’d be late.

  By the time Martinez got to the hospital, the day Cesar was born, his head was already crowning and it was too late to administer an epidural. The baby was in an awkward position and the pain giving birth was so overwhelming she thought she was going to die. But she found strength within. She remembered the expression of the doctor’s face afterward, amazed, as if she’d just lifted a car. God’s gift for surviving that day was a baby boy that changed her life forever. She’d read that because of childbirth, women have a significantly higher tolerance for pain than their male counterparts. Martinez believed it.

  “Must be nice,” DeLuca said, “working up here in the mountains.”

  “Has its pluses and minuses. I deal with a lot of tourists.”

  “Not many tourists in my beloved San Bernardino,” he said dryly.

  She laughed, knowing San Bernardino laid claim to being one of California’s ten worst places to live. Not a tourist destination, and never would be. Sondra said, “It’s hard to follow up. Something happens to a tourist,” she said, “they just want to go home.”

  “Isn’t that true for all of us?”

  “What’s that?”

  “That we all just want to go home.”

  “True,” she said. She wondered what Mrs. Gomez, the old lady who watched over a handful of children in her apartment complex, would make Cesar for dinner tonight. Hopefully something healthy this time.

  They came across the dirt road that led to the Dillard place. There was nothing but a dilapidated mailbox and a pair of tire tracks leading into the mountain property. “You can’t see the house from the road,” she said. “Probably best to park on the shoulder and walk in.”

  “What makes you think they’re home?” he asked.

  “Gut feeling,” she said. Sondra couldn’t explain it much more beyond that.