by Alan Russell
The young man’s arms were spread out along two branches, and his torso was backed up by the trunk. As I came closer, I could see the odd angle of the victim’s toes. Because his ankles had been nailed into the tree, he looked as if he was pigeon-toed and walking on air. The victim wasn’t wearing the loincloth associated with every crucifixion tableau I had ever seen. He had on running clothes, with lightweight Speedo shorts and a tank top that said BHHS.
I kept enough distance from the tree to not impact the lighting. Techs from Scientific Investigation Division were busy using digital and video cameras to record the scene. Everyone working the crime scene offered some form of acknowledgment to Sirius and me except for the two detectives from Robbery-Homicide. The detectives continued talking to each other and studiously avoided me. Normally it was RHD that took over any high-profile cases from other detectives, something known as “bigfooting.” They were used to having the shoe on the other foot—or bigfoot. In this instance, I was the perceived bigfoot.
I knew one of the detectives, a longtime veteran named Worsley that everyone called Gump. The nickname didn’t come from Forrest Gump but from an NHL goalie named Gump Worsley whose main claim to fame was that he was the last NHL goalie to play without a mask.
Gump finally acknowledged my presence. He had big ears, deep wrinkles, and a protruding lower lip. His nickname fit him; he looked like a Gump. “We’re saved,” he said. “The cavalry has arrived.”
I nodded and then turned my eyes back to the victim. I had been viewing him from the side before, but now I was looking straight ahead. Two supports had been nailed into the tree, a foot rest and a seat rest. Because the victim was only elevated a few feet off the ground, we were almost eye to eye, or should have been. There was a gaping hole where his right eye was missing.
Gump noticed my reaction. “You didn’t know he was shot?”
I shook my head.
“It was close range,” he said, “probably a nine millimeter. It looks as if it happened right over there.”
Two techs were working the area where he pointed, and lots of evidence bags were already filled. The ground was wet; in places you could see the russet stains of blood. There was a swath of wild mustard that had been crushed, showing the path along which the body had been dragged over to the tree. I was glad the victim was already dead before being crucified, or at least it appeared that was the case. He hadn’t suffered slow torture. If the victim was already dead, though, why had the murderer gone to the trouble of staging the man’s death?
“Got anything on the victim?” I asked.
“Everything’s already been tagged and bagged,” Gump said. “He was wearing one of those runner’s belts with compartments where we found a driver’s license. Meet Paul Klein.”
I looked at the victim, studied the shirt, and said, “BHHS?”
“As in Beverly Hills 90210,” Gump said. “According to his ASB card, which was also in the belt, he was a senior at Beverly Hills High School.”
“What else do we know about him?”
“He drives a late model BMW. It was ticketed yesterday for being left in the park after it closed. The Parks and Recreation worker that found him said that Klein is a regular in these parts. Apparently, he runs up here most days.”
“Running might not have been the only thing he was doing,” the other detective said.
“Martinez,” he added, tilting his head slightly by way of introduction.
“Gideon,” I said. “And what else might he have been doing?”
“Dealing or using or both,” Martinez said. “We found a stash of pills in his belt. He was holding a baggie filled with X and OC.”
“X” was Ecstasy; in this instance, “OC” was OxyContin and not Orange County.
“He also had a gold money clip with almost four hundred dollars, and an American Express Card. In case you’re wondering, it was only a Platinum card, not a Centurion.”
“Times are tough even in Beverly Hills,” Gump said.
Sirius decided to get into the conversation. His staccato bark sounded like “Rough!”
Gump and Martinez thought that was funny, but I knew Sirius was trying to tell me something. I followed his gaze. He was staring out over the Sunset Strip off into the distance. I couldn’t see anything, but became aware of a noise, a whop, whop, whop that was drawing closer.
“Shit,” I said. “It’s a helicopter.”
I grabbed some of the plastic wrapping covering the ground and ran over to the crucifixion tree. For just a moment I hesitated, staring into the bloodied face of Paul Klein. Then I threw the plastic wrap over him before adding my sports coat as a covering. The plastic wrapping would help prevent any contamination to the crime scene.
Martinez and Gump came up behind me, while overhead the helicopter circled the area trying to get the best footage possible. Before long I knew that the sky would be filled with other prying birds.
“I’ll call in and get us some tarps ASAP,” I said.
When the media becomes too invasive, sometimes it’s necessary to work behind curtains.
“Forget the tarps,” Gump said, “just get me an RPG.”
CHAPTER 6:
THE AGENCY AND THE ECSTASY
All morning and into the afternoon I worked the scene. It’s often the small details that make or break a homicide case, so it is a painstakingly slow process. The homicide scene was curtained off, but that didn’t stop the helicopters from hovering. Occasionally the wind blew open the curtain, and the voyeurs did their peeping. Klein’s body had also been shrouded, but the outline of what was there was only too visible.
Gump and Martinez were still working the scene when I left to go interview Michelle Klein. It was the one part of the investigation they were happy to hand off to me. They would just as soon not be the ones looking into the eyes of a mother who had just lost her son.
The name of the victim had not yet been released to the press, which meant I wouldn’t have to fight through a media gauntlet to talk to the mother. The Klein house was located north of Sunset Boulevard, in the hills that were Beverly Hills. Despite its name, most of Beverly Hills is actually flat, but the northern part of town is hilly and more exclusive.
I knew the media was lined up and waiting on Fuller Avenue, so I avoided it by driving the long way out and exiting the park on Mulholland. I didn’t want to advertise my connection to the Klein case; the investigation was already enough of a three-ring circus without bringing in the spectacle of my history with Ellis Haines, the serial killer who had somehow obtained cult status since Sirius and I had captured him.
The January sun was already on the run, even though it was only three thirty. My stomach had been complaining for hours, so I stopped for subs. I went with an Italian on wheat with all the veggies; Sirius had turkey breast and roast beef on whole grain. When we’re not on a case, he gets kibble with chicken breast and steamed broccoli, which is probably why he likes eating out more than I do. In the backseat he made quick work of his sub.
I chewed a little more thoughtfully and also chewed over the questions that needed asking. There was a lot I wanted to know about Paul Klein. Given the chance, I like to rehearse field interviews in my mind, but whenever I thought about Klein I kept seeing him nailed to a tree. The more I tried to will that image from my mind, the more it stuck. Sometimes things should stick, so I reached for the right music to be pensive by. Billie Holiday was perfect for that, and I found the CD track I was looking for. There have been plenty of protest songs written, but none as powerful as “Strange Fruit.”
I listened to Miss Holiday’s lament about the strange, bloody fruit that southern trees bear. My coat’s lining was spotted with Paul Klein’s blood, so I would have to leave it in the car before interviewing his mother. Holiday’s song was about a lynching in the south. Klein hadn’t been lynched, but he had been crucified. Someone had nailed him to a tree after he was dead.
Strange fruit indeed, I thought. I listened while Holiday em
oted about bulging eyes. One of Klein’s eyes was missing from having been shot. It was that hollow that had kept drawing my stares. I would have to travel through that dark cave to find answers. The song and the case were bitter fruit to contemplate.
Another of Holiday’s classics, “God Bless the Child,” began to play. She seemed to be summing up my cases and my thoughts. I had started the day with baby Rose, and I’d probably end it in fire.
Into the hills of Beverly I drove. There weren’t any gated communities, but it was a community of high and imposing gates, and you couldn’t even see most of the houses from the road. Good fences might make for good neighbors, but they make for bad rubbernecking. A lot of the houses I passed by were known by fanciful names that predated the current owners, many of them associated with old-time Hollywood. Every day, tour buses make the rounds of the area, pointing out the past and present homes of stars, and recounting scandals and murders that happened in this domain of the wealthy. For a small city, Beverly Hills has had more than its share of notorious murders: Bugsy Siegel was gunned down in an alleged mob hit; Johnny Stompanato was stabbed to death by Lana Turner’s daughter when he was allegedly assaulting the actress. Ron Levin was shot in his Beverly Hills apartment, an apparent victim of the Billionaire Boys Club, and Jose and Kitty Menendez were victims of their own two sons, who used a twelve-gauge shotgun on their parents in an attempt to get an early $35 million inheritance. The thick hedges and high fences that surrounded the pricey Beverly Hills homes hadn’t managed to keep away trouble.
I pulled up the drive of the Kleins’ house and extended an index finger to the call box. An accented voice spoke from the intercom: “Yes?”
“I am Detective Gideon, here to speak with Mrs. Klein.”
The wrought-iron gate opened, and I drove up a flagstone driveway. I parked in front of a house that had been built in the style of mission revival, even though I imagined it was bigger than any of the original California missions. There were long corridors with arches; white paint had been applied over the stucco finish. The front yard had a parklike feel, with tiered fountains and well-tended gardens.
After opening the car windows for Sirius and telling him to be good, I walked up the path. The door opened before I reached it. A small Hispanic woman started at the sight of my scarred face, but she recovered quickly and said in the same voice I’d heard over the intercom, “I take you to Miss Klein.”
I followed her down a long hallway. We passed by a showcase living room that was about the size of my house, and an equally imposing dining room. The domestic stopped at a door and lightly knocked.
“The policeman is here, Miss Klein,” she said.
A muffled voice answered, and the maid opened the door and gestured for me to pass. Once I was inside the study, the door closed behind me. It took me a moment to get used to the dim lighting. Michelle Klein was holed up in the darkness. There was just enough light for me to see her red eyes and blotchy face. She was seated behind a desk. It seemed it was all she could do to raise her chin up from her chest to look at me.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. I am terribly sorry about the death of your son.”
She didn’t respond with words or body language. I extended my business card her way, but she didn’t take it, so I put it down on her desk.
“I am Detective Gideon. Is it all right if I sit, Mrs. Klein? I am afraid there are questions I need to ask.”
She tilted her head slightly, and as I was taking a seat in a chair she asked in a raspy voice, “How did he die? They never told me how Paul died.”
“He was shot.”
She sighed, swallowed hard, and her head dropped back down to her chest.
“But I am afraid there was more to it than that,” I added. “The circumstances of his death were very peculiar. After Paul was shot, he was nailed to a tree.”
It took a few moments for my words to penetrate her grief. She stared at me in disbelief. “What?”
“His limbs were nailed to a tree.”
My words shocked her when few other things could. “He was crucified?”
I nodded.
“What sick fuck would do that?”
I didn’t answer.
“What kind of crazy fucking asshole would desecrate my baby?”
She slapped the sides of her face with both hands, and the sound of the impact was loud in the small space we were sharing. Her dark eyes searched mine, looking for answers.
“We have every resource available committed to finding your son’s murderer.”
My rote words brought her no comfort. “Where did he die?” she asked.
“From the evidence we’ve uncovered, it looks as if he was shot in Runyon Park. He was wearing running clothes. Was that a place where he frequently went running?”
“He ran there two or three days a week,” she said, clearly distracted by the news of the defilement of her son. “That’s where you found him? That’s where he was...” The word caught in her throat.
“Yes. He was found on a remote trail, nailed to an oak tree.”
After a few moments of silence she said, “Ask your questions.”
“Did your son have any enemies?”
She shook her head.
“Did he have a rivalry going on with anyone?”
“What do you mean?”
“For example, maybe he and another boy were interested in the same girl?”
Another head shake. “The girls were the ones always calling Paul.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?”
“He only had what he referred to as his girlfriends de jour.”
“When was the last time you saw your son?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“You weren’t concerned that he didn’t come home last night?”
“Paul was eighteen,” she said, offering up the figure as if to challenge me, or to assuage her own doubts. “He was an adult. He had his group. Everyone was always crashing at one house or the other. I assumed he was at a friend’s house. Paul called me yesterday afternoon while I was working and told me he’d be going out later. That’s why I wasn’t worried when he didn’t come home.”
“Was he often out late on school nights?”
“I wasn’t a fucking negligent parent, if that’s what you’re implying. Paul was an honor student. He was an athlete. And he had already been accepted early decision to Cornell University. He had earned some freedom to do as he wanted.”
“Do you know if your son used drugs?”
“He tried pot a few times and he sometimes drank at parties, but Paul was always responsible. He would never drink and drive.”
“Is it possible Paul was dealing drugs?”
Her denial was quick and certain. “Of course not.”
“Then do you have any explanation as to why he was carrying a baggie full of OxyContin and Ecstasy in his running belt?”
“I don’t know why, but I do know Paul would never do anything stupid like deal drugs.”
“Did he go to raves?”
“No.”
“You don’t think he ever took OxyContin or Ecstasy?”
“I never saw any sign of that.”
“Could he have been supplying his friends?”
“Why would he do that? He had plenty of his own money. His father—my ex—has been trying to buy the affection of Paul and his sister ever since we divorced eight years ago.”
“Does your daughter live in the house?”
Michelle shook her head. “Sandra is a sophomore at Williams.”
“What does your ex do?”
“Adam Klein?” she said, as if I should know the name.
I shook my head.
“He’s a producer.”
It still didn’t ring a bell, but then I don’t spend my spare time reading Variety. “What kind of a relationship did Paul have with his father?”
“The kind of relationship you’d expect from a sch
muck with a new family. I was the first wife; Adam’s on his third.”
“Does your ex have other children?”
“He and the latest Mrs. Klein have two children, both under five.”
“What did Paul think of that?”
“Paul had anger issues since the day Adam walked out on us. It’s hard for a boy to understand why his father is an asshole.”
“Did Paul see a therapist?”
“A long time ago. And for the most part he put his abandonment issues behind him.”
“You said your former husband tried to buy Paul’s love.”
“He gave him money. And he bought Paul his BMW.”
“How often did they see one another?”
“They got together maybe once a month. Adam would take Paul to a Lakers game or out to dinner.”
“You said that Paul called you at work yesterday. What do you do?”
“I have my own real estate agency.”
“I imagine that’s a lot of work.”
She didn’t answer at first but then said, “I took a client out to dinner last night and didn’t get home until late. I just assumed Paul was spending the night at a friend’s house. He was always with his group, what he called his entourage.”
For a moment she showed a fleeting smile, but it quickly turned into a flinch; it hurt too much for her to remember.
“Tell me about his group.”
“They were boys from his high school. When they went out, there were always four or five of them.”
“Did he have a best friend?”
I got a small nod. “He’s known Jason Davis since sandbox days.”
“I’ll need Jason’s personal information, along with the names, telephone numbers, and addresses of Paul’s entourage.”
She reached for a black address book on the desk and extended it to me. “I know most of them by their first names, so I had Paul enter their names that way.”
