Hollywood Lust

by M. Z. Kelly

  It was my turn to laugh. He went on, telling me that he had two children and five grandkids. I got the impression that Leo Kingsley was not only a great detective; he was also a great family man. What he’d said brought Oz and Pearl to mind, so I asked him about their early days together.

  “There was a cop bar called Lulu’s. It was popular back in the eighties. We closed the place down a few nights. Pearl was a big drinker back then, a little on the wild side.”

  I knew that Pearl was a recovering alcoholic. “I have trouble seeing Pearl as wild. He’s so well grounded.” I glanced at him. “You said to ask him about Lulu. Was she the owner of the bar?”

  He nodded but otherwise didn’t directly respond to my question, other than saying, “Pearl’s like the rest of us, we’ve all mellowed with age.”

  What he said brought my love-dad to mind. I asked him if he ever met him.

  Leo turned and regarded me for a moment. His smile was gone. He shook his head but didn’t say anything. It was a bit strange and I wondered if there was an unspoken message in the way he acted.

  The silence between us lasted for a few moments before Bernie pushed his big nose up from the back seat, his way of telling me that he wanted some air. After I opened the window a couple of inches, we spent a few minutes chatting about my dog before arriving at Bernstein Studios.

  I was surprised when Lou Bernstein came out of a back office and met with us after we’d checked in with a receptionist. The studio owner was a big man, probably in his late sixties, with thinning white hair and a belly that tumbled over his belt buckle.

  After introductions, he told us about the studio as we walked to his office. “My daddy, God rest his soul, built this place brick by brick back in the 1950’s. In its heyday every sound stage was active. It was still thriving when I took over in the late seventies. Everything’s changed in the last couple of decades. Lots of states and other countries are now offering tax credits and production incentives if movies are shot in their territories. We lose jobs, while other places reap the benefit of hundreds of millions of dollars pumped into their economies.”

  We turned a corner into a small cluttered office as Bernstein added, “I’ll be lucky if I can stay afloat over the next five years. If I had any sense I’d sell everything and retire.”

  “Why don’t you?” I asked.

  The studio owner’s jowly face lit up. “I love movies.”

  After chatting for a few minutes, Leo took over, explaining about the Bruce Reeder murder, and asking him if anyone ever had any conflict with him when he worked at the studio.

  “Didn’t we talk about this once, a couple of years back?”

  Leo nodded. “You have a good memory.”

  “Bruce was a good guy who got along with everybody.” He smiled. “That’s probably what I told you before.”

  “Could someone have been jealous of his work, maybe making things difficult for him?” I asked.

  “Well, you never know what goes on behind the scenes, but if there were problems with anyone I never heard about it.”

  “What about in his personal life?” Leo asked. “We know he was gay.”

  “As I remember, he came out just before his marriage ended. One thing about movie people is they have different standards, even back then. No one thought it was a big deal.”

  “Any conflict with boyfriends, maybe someone jealous of a relationship he was involved in?”

  We got a headshake before I asked him about the annual photographs. “Would you have the group photos taken during the years Mr. Reeder was employed at the studio?”

  “Of course.” He picked up his phone and asked. “What years did he work here?” I told him and in a moment he had a secretary on the line, asking her to bring the photos in question. While we waited, he told us about the tradition. “Daddy always said it was important to document the past because people forget things. He wanted a picture of everyone who worked here, even if you were a clerk or a janitor.”

  After a ten minute wait, the secretary brought us photographs from 2003 through 2005, the years that Bruce Reeder had been with the studio. The photos had been taken at the entrance to the studio with the arched sign announcing Bernstein Studios overhead. Each of the three photos looked like a couple hundred people had posed for the pictures.

  “I can probably find Bruce…” Bernstein went through the photographs and in a moment had identified the location of our victim in each picture. It looked like Reeder was standing near the same people in two of the photographs and we got their names and duties.

  After examining the pictures, I was frustrated. Referencing the number of subjects in the photos, I said to Leo, “It’s a big haystack.”

  Leo looked at Bernstein. “We’ve got a crime analyst and a secretary. Any chance we could send them over and some of your staff could help them identify the people in the photos and their duties here?”

  “Not a problem, as long as you both do me one favor.”

  Leo smiled. “What’s that?”

  “Send an email to your state senator about using tax incentives to save our studios. I won’t go down without a fight.”

  Leo put out a big paw and shook the studio owner’s hand. “Consider it done.”

  TEN

  Leo and I picked up sandwiches and stopped at the coroner’s office on the way to meet Alex at R&I. I knew from the reports that a deputy coroner named Earl Mumford had done the autopsy on Carla Hodge, something that I mentioned to Leo as we entered the autopsy suite with Bernie.

  “Just a warning, Mumford’s got a medical problem and there’s no cure for it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He was born with asshole DNA.”

  My big partner’s laughter echoed down the corridor. “I’ve seen that condition before, nothing pretty.”

  Ten minutes later, we met with Earl Mumford in his office. He was short and rotund, with dark oily hair. Both his physical characteristics and personality brought Alex Hardy to mind.

  “Don’t know why you’re here,” Mumford drawled, working on his teeth with a toothpick. He belched. “Everything’s in the report.”

  I drew in a breath and released it slowly. “Anything out of the ordinary we should know about?”

  “Like what?”

  I glanced at Leo before looking back at the deputy coroner. “Is there anything you can tell us about Hodge’s injuries that might tell us something about our suspect?”

  “I’m a scientist, not a cop. You want something more, go out and investigate.”

  Leo must have seen me winding up to throw a roundhouse punch and took over. “Based on the way the victim fell on her right side and the angle of the blood spray, it looks to me like her assailant was left handed. What’s your take on that?”

  “I’d say it’s possible, but I’d also say it’s speculative. There’s nothing definitive that I can state.”

  “I can state something definitive. You’re a donkey’s anus without a brain.”

  Of course, I was just fantasizing and I didn’t say it. I did say, “Tell me something. Why did you become a coroner?”

  Mumford’s fleshy face contorted. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to smile, had gas, or it was just a physical reaction to me. “I enjoy dissecting people.”

  I stood up and tugged on Bernie’s leash. “Why am I not surprised?”

  I told Leo I wanted to stop by and see my friend Brie for a moment, so he agreed to take Bernie for a stroll. I found the deputy coroner in her office working on reports. She stood up and hugged me, saying, “What brings you to the house of the dead?”

  After taking a seat across from her, I took a moment and told her about our case, how Earl Mumford was the deputy coroner that worked it.

  Brie, who was bald from chemotherapy treatments for breast cancer, pushed her glasses up on top of her head and said, “Sorry about that. It sounds like your victim was unlucky, both in life and in death. Mumford personally put the i in idiot.”

  I
agreed with her, told her about our victim, and said, “Would you have the time to glance through the autopsy report and give me your opinion on whether or not our suspect could be left handed?” I explained about Leo’s theory.

  “Not a problem.”

  We went on for a minute, chatting about her boyfriend before Brie asked me about how things were going with Hud.

  “We’re sort of on hold. I’m actually having dinner tonight with a veterinarian named Noah. He treated Bernie recently when he strained his leg.”

  “A vet. Sounds interesting.”

  I told her about Noah’s involvement in a group that took therapy dogs to hospitals before I changed the subject, asking about her health.

  “I have some days when I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, but I’m holding my own. Maybe the worst part of this is that I have trouble tasting most food, even food that used to be my favorite just doesn’t taste right. I guess it comes with the territory.”

  I checked the time on my phone and realized we were running late to meet Alex. I stood up. “Let’s get together for a drink when you’re free. You can give me your take on the autopsy report and I’ll fill you in on the latest regarding the search for my bio-dad.”

  ***

  Leo and I were fifteen minutes late for our meeting with Alex at R&I, something that my tubby partner made an issue of when we met him at the public counter.

  “It’s one thing to say we’re all going to work together on these cases, it’s another to be late for meetings. Where the hell were you?”

  “Sorry,” I said, trying to catch my breath from dashing into the building with Bernie and Leo. “We stopped by the coroner’s office.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “It was my idea,” Leo said. “I had a thought based on the blood spray and angle of Hodge’s body that her assailant might be left handed. The coroner said he couldn’t confirm that.”

  Alex made a huffing sound and shook his head. “And your trip to Bernstein Studios?”

  We filled him in on having Selfie and Molly work with the studio’s employees to try and identify the subjects in the photos standing near Reeder.

  Alex said, “It sounds like you wasted most of the day.” He then walked away, telling a clerk at the counter that we wanted to speak with the on-duty supervisor.

  I whispered to Leo, “I wonder if Alex and Earl Mumford might be brothers.”

  He chortled, something that caused Alex to turn and give us a hard stare.

  A few minutes later, we met with Sylvia Mason, the records supervisor, in a small conference room. Bernie settled at my feet as we told her why we were there.

  “What happened is a complete mystery to me,” Mason said. The clerk looked like she was in her forties. She was overweight with stringy brown hair and dull brown eyes. “We follow a very strict protocol regarding our evidence and the chain of custody.” She took a moment, explaining how anyone authorized to review evidence was required to sign in and out, and that the property was in a secure area with security cameras.

  “I’m assuming you reviewed the security video regarding anything suspicious,” Alex said.

  Mason nodded. “There was nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “How far back does the video feed go?” I asked.

  “The system recycles every ninety days.”

  “So, it’s possible the evidence was tampered with before that time?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Can you show us the location of the evidence?” Alex asked.

  “Of course.”

  We followed the records supervisor through a maze of file rooms lined with shelving that went to the ceilings. We stopped in one of the rooms where she pointed at some boxes on an upper shelf. “That’s the Reeder evidence…” She turned to us. “…or what’s left of it.” She shook her head and didn’t go on.

  I looked at Leo. “When cold case gets a case assigned, is the evidence reviewed?”

  “Depends. If we think there’s a possibility of DNA evidence that hasn’t been looked at, we review the file and make a decision from there. In Reeder’s case, the knife was previously checked by SID and nothing, other than Reeder’s DNA, was found. Since there was nothing else in the file that we deemed worth looking at, the evidence remained right here.”

  Since there was no additional DNA evidence on the knife or at the crime scene, it meant whoever killed Bruce Reeder had probably worn gloves. That fact made me think the crime could have been premeditated.

  Alex turned back to Mason. “What about internal security? Who in your department has access to the evidence room?”

  “Just our employees, but they’re screened and know all the rules regarding the protocols and chain of custody.”

  “But somebody could have broken the rules,” Alex said.

  Mason gave him a blank stare. “I supposed anything is possible.”

  “We’re going to need a list of all the employees who have had access to the evidence in the past ten years.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  Leo lost his ever-present smile for a moment. “Not when it comes to murder.”

  She sighed. “Okay, but it’s going to take me a day or two to get the list together.”

  Alex gave her his card with his email address. We thanked her and left the secure area.

  When we got back into the lobby, I heard a voice calling out to me. I turned and saw Wilma Bibby, a clerk who, at one time, had been living with my retired partner Charlie Winkler.

  Wilma was in her forties, with short red hair. She had a tendency to wear loud clothing that did nothing for her thickening figure. Today’s choice of a flower print blouse and bright blue skirt, was no exception. I went over, said hello, and asked her how she was doing.

  “I’m back at work here. Charlie and me are…” She smiled. “We’re actually back together again.”

  “Really? I thought he’d gone back to Idaho.”

  “We’ve had our ups and downs but I think we’re meant to be together. He’s staying with me for a few days before leaving.”

  Wilma and Charlie had moved to Idaho when he’d retired last year. According to Charlie, he had some problems adjusting to retired life. He’d separated from Wilma and had recently returned to work part-time for a few weeks. A couple of weeks ago he’d gone back into retirement, but not before he’d been involved in a disastrous relationship with a woman he thought he’d gotten pregnant. Thankfully, it turned out he wasn’t the father.

  “Would you have a couple of minutes to take a break and get some coffee?” I asked, deciding that she might have some insight into the issue with our evidence. I also thought she could use some guidance about her relationship with my former partner.

  “I think so. Let me check with my supervisor.” She turned and waddled away, looking like a duck that had been turned upside down and dipped in red paint.

  I tugged on Bernie’s leash and we went back over to Leo and Alex. I explained about talking to Wilma and asked Alex if Leo could catch a ride with him back to the station.

  “It sounds like you’ve found another way to waste time,” Alex said. He turned to Leo and said, “Let’s go”

  Leo smiled, kneaded his forehead and said, “See you later.”

  Wilma and I found a Starbucks a block up the street from where she worked. We took our drinks outside where we found a table on their patio.

  After Bernie settled at my feet, I tried to choose my words carefully, but I also wanted to be sure Wilma got the message about my former partner. “I think Charlie is having a mid-life, or maybe a post mid-life crisis, Wilma. He’s pretty unsure about his relationships.”

  She sipped her coffee, nodding. After a sigh, she said, “I know. We’re trying to work through some issues. He’s a good man, but…”

  “But he’s a little unstable?”

  She nodded. “He drinks too much, and…” Her voice trailed off, along with her gaze. “She finally looked back at me. “He’s got a lot
of sexual urges.”

  My retired partner had become addicted to Internet porn and was reaping the benefits during his retirement years, if you want to call it that, with the help of Viagra. I decided to be frank with her. “Charlie’s sexual urges are out of control. I think you should think long and hard about whether or not you two are a good fit.”

  After another heavy breath, she said, “You’re right. It’s just that…I’m lonely and…he’s…he’s all I’ve got.”

  I reached over and patted her hand. “I understand. Just give it some thought and be sure you choose what’s right for you—not Charlie.”

  We went on a couple of minutes longer. I mentioned how I’d made some bad decisions regarding relationships in the past and that I’d gone to counseling because of it. Wilma said she’d also give some thought to seeing a counselor. I then told her about the Reeder case. After I’d given her some background, I asked, “Any theories about how someone might access the records and remove evidence?”

  She thought about my question for a moment. “We’re very careful about that.” She hesitated, giving it some more thought. “The only thing I can think of is that someone might have tampered with the evidence after hours.”

  “How could that happen? Aren’t the offices closed and secured?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but…”

  She didn’t go on. “What is it?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t say anything, but I’ve always wondered about the company that shreds our confidential materials. They have access to the offices after hours and some of their employees…” She took a sip of her coffee, then set the cup down. “I know they’re bonded, but, let’s just say, I’m not sure they’re always trustworthy.”

  “Do you know the name of the company?”

  “I think it’s CRS, or something like that.”

  “Are you talking about anyone in particular who worked for them that seemed untrustworthy?”

  She shook her head. “I just remember working late about a year ago and seeing a couple of their employees come into the building. They were loud and…” She shrugged. “I don’t know, they just seemed kind of immature. They didn’t seem like the kind of people I’d want in a room full of confidential evidence.”