Last Man's Head

by Philip Cox

  The voicemail from Quinn was of a similar theme. ‘Hey Sam, it’s Ray. I’m back in today, but I see you’re not. You want to give me a call - let me know what’s going on?’ Leroy returned Quinn’s call, only to get voicemail as well. He left a message to the effect that there was a lot to tell him and could he call back.

  He got dressed and went into the kitchen to make coffee. It was then he realised how hungry he was: in the last twenty-four hours he had only eaten a mediocre burrito. He looked around his kitchen: he couldn’t be bothered to cook or prepare anything, and it would take too long, anyway.

  Café 50s on Santa Monica Boulevard was probably Leroy’s favourite local eating place, somewhere he had regularly frequented for many years. Located on the historic Route 66, it was popular with locals and tourists, selling merchandise like vintage postcards and Route 66 pins. When Leroy first moved to LA, he collected all the merchandise, but once it was no longer a novelty, he gave it to his nephew back in New York for a Christmas present.

  There were plenty of empty tables when he arrived, so, after purchasing a newspaper outside, he made his way to a booth, and studied the menu. As it was his first meal of the day, he opted for a breakfast, served all day; a 3+3+3: eggs, pancakes and link sausage. He added potatoes and coffee.

  As he munched through the breakfast, he scanned the newspaper to see if there were any reports on the John Does. There were none; after all, they were now closed cases, but there was always the chance that it had happened again. Not finding anything, Leroy turned to the Politics section. Not a section he normally went to, but he noticed there was a report of a speech Secretary of Defence Davison had made, this time about the need to curb healthcare costs. Leroy failed to understand how that came within Davison’s portfolio, and merely grunted and turned the page.

  On the next page he found an article about how Texas, the nation’s most active death penalty state, was running out of pentobarbital, its execution drug. The problem had arisen, the article said, because some drug suppliers, especially those based in Europe, had barred the use of their drugs for executions either, as a spokesman for one of the companies said, ‘we manufacture drugs to prolong life, not to end it’, or were now refusing to sell or manufacture drugs for use in executions on account of pressure from death-penalty opponents. Leroy skimmed through the entire article, drank more coffee, then turned to the cartoons.

  Being a regular, he normally got an extra refill of coffee and as the server poured more coffee into his Café 50s mug, he sat back and began to ponder on what his next move should be.

  First would be to make sure he and Julia got hold of each other.

  Second, speak to Quinn. Update him on the story so far and see if there had been any developments while he had been off. In particular, he would get Quinn to check those licence plate numbers. He was particularly interested in those with DC plates.

  He also wanted to visit the site where Domingo was murdered, not out of a morbid desire to pay his respects where she died, but he was convinced her murder was connected somehow with the John Does. If he was investigating the case himself, the first port of call would be the crime scene, even though now it would have been cleaned up. That was just the way he worked.

  He settled his bill, walked round to the parking lot, then headed off to Erwin Street. Erwin Street was a residential street, filled with a mixture of houses and condominiums. Beginning a few hundred yards from the Arroyo Calabasas, the Calabasas Creek, a seven mile tributary of the Los Angeles River, the street pointed eastwards. After passing under State Route 27, the residential buildings slowly gave way to light industry, a couple of gas stations and car dealers, and a church. Enadia Street, the place where the shooting occurred, was some ten blocks further on from the 27 overpass.

  Leroy briefly waited for a gap in traffic, then turned the Taurus left to go into Enadia. On one corner of this dead-end street was a small factory building, long since derelict. A small store stood on the other corner, its windows plastered with posters advertising discounts off its various items.

  The street itself was only a hundred yards or so long. The factory building stretched down the entire length; at the end of the street was the back wall of the building facing the next street. There was a small window about ten feet above the pavement, barred and filthy. On the other side of the street, there was a wall, six feet high, a roll of barbed wire on the top. Next was a shop premises, closed and boarded up, then the store on the corner.

  Leroy turned the car round so it was facing Erwin Street, needing to reverse and forward five times, owing to narrowness of the street, and on one kerb were the smashed remains of a brown beer bottle. He parked the car outside the derelict shop, and looked around. There, right under that small skylight, was where Domingo and her partner were gunned down. But how? Why?

  He walked up to the corner store; a tinny bell rang as he opened the door. The shop was empty of customers; a small Hispanic looking woman stood behind the counter. ‘Hola,’ she said.

  ‘Hello,’ replied Leroy, looking around. She appeared nervous. Even though he was a private citizen at this time, he showed her his identification. Seeing this, she appeared more relaxed. Smiling he stepped over to the counter. ‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.’

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘Are you in here every day?’

  ‘Qué?’

  Leroy paused a moment, then asked, ‘Trabajas aquí todos los días?’

  She nodded eagerly. ‘Sí, señor.’

  Leroy spoke slowly, searching for the right words. ‘Dos agentes de policía fueron asesinados por ahí por otro día.’

  She shrugged and shook her head. ‘No, no lo sé.’

  Leroy tutted, then, ‘Fuera di aquí, un tiroteo.’

  ‘No, lo siento, señor.’

  This was a waste of time. ‘Muy bien, gracias,’ Leroy said, and left the shop. Went back to the Taurus, leaned on the hood and scratched his head. Maybe he should come back with an officer who could speak Spanish better than he could.

  Like Domingo.

  He was sure, though, that the officers from the Major Crimes Division would arrange for a translator; they probably had already.

  He stepped away from his car and walked down to the end of the street. Stood where Domingo’s patrol car would have been. He stood and tried to visualise the scene. Domingo would probably have been driving, so she would have been sitting on the left. They both died from one shot to the head, so the shooter must have been standing further to the left. He had not had sight of the official report, so had no idea of the range involved, or whether any gunshot residue had been found. If there had, then the shooter would have been up close; if not, then further away, but the factory wall was fifteen, twenty feet away. If he was that far away, then he must have been a skilled marksman, as two shots of that accuracy would have been difficult. And if he was closer, why did Domingo and Connor let him get that close?

  He took two steps back, and looked around again, scratching his smooth chin. Then his thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  FORTY-NINE

  LEROY SPUN ROUND. ‘Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said, taking off his sunglasses. He went up and shook Ray Quinn’s hand. ‘I might ask you the same question. Where’s your car, by the way?’

  His partner inclined his head towards the store. ‘Just around the corner. I wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘You certainly did that. When did you get back to work?’

  ‘First day back today. I got in start of shift, expecting to find you. Then I heard you had taken vacation time suddenly, away for a week, just like that. The station house is buzzing with speculation as to what’s going on. So I rang you straightaway.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw you’d rung. Had my cell on silent.’

  ‘So what is going on, Sam? Are you on vacation? If you are, what are you doing here? This is where Domingo and Connor were killed isn’t it?’


  ‘To answer those questions in order,’ Leroy said, walking back down to the end of the street, ‘yes, I am on vacation.’ He paused. ‘You remember, at your wedding, I had to go to a crime scene?’

  ‘Er – yes, just about.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give you the short version now. If you’re free for a drink later,’ - Quinn nodded - ‘I’ll give you the full picture. But for now: that night, there were three John Does brought in. All with the same COD.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘A massive ingestion of drugs. Recreational drugs.’

  ‘All the same?’

  ‘You got it. Domingo had a similar case, so we kind of partnered up. You were away, and Connor had something on - I forget what it was. But after a day or so, we got word from Perez that the cases were considered death by misadventure, and the cases were closed.’

  Quinn looked puzzled. ‘But even if that was the case, somebody had supplied the stuff.’

  Leroy shrugged. ‘All about priorities, apparently. Would cost too much, and to quote the lieutenant, or Captain Patterson, I suspect, there are more pressing matters to investigate.’

  ‘Sam, that’s bullshit.’

  ‘I know that. You know that. Domingo knew that.’

  ‘Is that why the lieutenant put you on vacation?’

  ‘I don’t know. You know how difficult he is to read. I kept banging on about it, so it might have been a case of fuck off for a week, I’m sick of listening to you, or go on vacation, Sam, what you do in your own time is your affair, wink, wink.’ He paused a second. ‘How did you know I’d be here, anyway?’

  Quinn laughed. ‘The lieutenant told me you’d gone on vacation, I’d heard talk of your views on the John Does. I kind of guessed what you’d be up to. And yes, it seems likely that it wasn’t a coincidence that Domingo gets killed – lucky you weren’t the first. Perez put me on some admin for the next few days, so as you didn’t answer my call, I thought I’d come and find you. I had a look outside Whiteleaf but there was no sign.’

  ‘Whiteleaf?’ queried Leroy.

  ‘The house on Mulholland you visited with Domingo.’

  ‘Oh. Never knew it had a name.’

  ‘Hm. So anyway, I know how you work, so I tried here, in the absence of a call back from you.’ Quinn looked around the dead-end street. ‘So you think the two of you were on to something, and that’s what got her killed?’

  Leroy looked around too, and then up at the sky as an airplane flew overhead. ‘I’d take book on it.’

  ‘Sam, if you’re right, you could be next,’ said Quinn.

  ‘The thought had occurred to me. Look,’ Leroy said, turning to face his partner, who was standing just where Domingo’s car would have been. ‘Her car was there, right where you are. Both she and Connor took one bullet here,’ - he put his forefinger on his forehead – ‘so I figure the shooter was either right up close, or fired from around here.’

  ‘But must have been some shot,’ added Quinn, ‘to fire from over there with that accuracy.’

  ‘And in such a short space of time,’ Leroy said. ‘It would have taken two seconds for one of them to draw their weapon.’

  ‘So our marksman would have had to have gotten off two rounds in less than that time. Sam, our best guys couldn’t do that.’

  ‘I don’t know of anybody who could. So that means the shooter was up close. But there was no way Domingo and Connor would have let an armed man - let’s assume it was a man, one man, for now - get that close. They were both sitting in the front of their car.’

  ‘Unless they knew the shooter,’ said Quinn.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘They would let him get that close if they knew him. Had no reason to be concerned, even if he was armed.’

  Leroy took a step back and scratched the back of his head. ‘Yeah, guess so.’ Then something hit him. He looked up Quinn. ‘My God, Ray; you realise what that means?’

  Quinn returned Leroy’s stare, then finished his partner’s sentence. ‘Sam, they were shot by another cop.’

  FIFTY

  QUINN SLID A beer over to Leroy’s side of the table. A few hours earlier, after they had come to their conclusion about Domingo’s killers, they agreed their next steps.

  ‘Look,’ Leroy said. ‘We need to keep this between ourselves. I certainly didn’t shoot them, and neither did you, so I guess for now we can only trust each other. What time do you have to be back at the station house?’

  Quinn checked his watch. ‘As soon as, I guess. Before I’m missed. You want to meet up in Martha’s after the shift finishes?’

  ‘Best not there; you never know who’ll see us. Do you know The Daily Pint? It’s on Pico.’

  ‘Yeah, I know it. See you there about six?’

  ‘Fine. There’s one more thing.’ He gave Quinn a slip of paper. ‘Could you get these licence numbers checked out? They’re off the cars I found at Whiteleaf last night.’

  ‘Last night?’ Quinn frowned and looked at the numbers on the paper.

  ‘Long story. Fill you in later. I’m particularly interested in those two there.’ He tapped the paper with his finger.

  ‘DC plates?’

  ‘You got that right.’

  *****

  When they met up later, the first thing Quinn did was slide the list of numbers over to his partner. Leroy read the notes Quinn had made.

  ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘I damn well knew it.’

  ‘Knew what? Obviously I know who George Davison is, although I’ve no idea why his car is parked outside a house in LA, but who’s Dwight G Mason?’

  ‘Let me tell you the whole story,’ said Leroy. He sat back, and related the whole sequence of events, right from the Quinn’s wedding night.

  Quinn sat back, and listened, occasionally softly whistling at what Leroy was saying. When Leroy had finished, Quinn asked, ‘So you think Davison and Mason are involved?’

  ‘To be honest, I can’t say for Davison. I’ve no evidence of him being involved at all. I’ve never even seen him. Just because he owns the place, it’s not evidence that he’s personally involved. As for Mason…’

  ‘Who is the guy, anyway? And why do you think he’s involved? And involved in what, anyway?’

  ‘Dwight Mason is Secretary Davison’s private counsel, and is the most obsequious, smarmy, condescending bastard I’ve ever met.’

  ‘You’re not a fan, then?’ asked Quinn, deadpan.

  ‘No, absolutely. Apart from him lying to us when Domingo and I went to the house, I saw him there the other night. He was kind of hosting things.’

  ‘Hm. But hosting what?’

  ‘Don’t know for sure, but we’re talking hookers and drugs; so go figure.’

  ‘What are you going to do tomorrow, then? I’d better stay at my desk; don’t want to arouse any suspicions.’

  ‘Not sure. I might go over to the house in daylight, see if I can see anybody going in or out. Then there’s those other names on this list. I think I’ll pay them a call, see what I can get from them.’

  ‘Be careful, Sam. Remember you’re on vacation.’

  ‘I will. As the lieutenant told me, I’m just a private citizen right now. But I might be able to bullshit something out of them. If they’re men with families, I might be able to…you know.’

  ‘Hm,’ Quinn said again. ‘Well, if you need anything, let me know. And keep me in the loop, won’t you?’ He emptied his glass. ‘Another?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, go ahead.’ Leroy studied the list again while Quinn went to the bar. He frowned: apart from Davison and Mason, the names meant nothing to him.

  Shortly, Quinn returned. He passed Leroy his beer and sat down. ‘So,’ he said, sipping from his own glass, ‘anything you want to tell me?’

  Leroy frowned. ‘Say what?’

  ‘There’s talk around the station house that you’ve gotten yourself a lady friend.’ Quinn grinned slightly as he spoke.

  ‘Oh, is there?’ Leroy took another mouthful of beer. ‘Come on th
en. Out with it,’ Quinn persisted.

  Leroy shook his head as if in exasperation and took another sip. ‘Nothing to tell, really. For once, the gossip’s right. I’ve only known her a short while, couple of weeks, maybe less.’

  ‘What’s her name? How’d you guys meet?’

  ‘Her name’s Julia. Julia Moore. She’s a school teacher.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘That’s right. For young kids. Fourth graders, she said. She works somewhere in Culver City. Did tell me the name of the school, but…’

  ‘So, tell me how you met. Where’s she from?’

  ‘San Fran originally, but she has an apartment in Venice. Not far from me, as it happens.’

  Quinn took some more beer. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’d just gotten home one night. It was quite late – about eleven, I think. Had just parked outside my place when I heard some screaming coming from a few blocks away, from the direction of the ocean.’

  ‘Still night, then?’

  ‘It was. Anyhow, I ran in the direction of the commotion, and found her in the process of being mugged. Two guys. I cuffed them and called for a patrol car. She told me she didn’t live far, so I walked her home.’

  ‘Very gallant, Detective Leroy.’

  ‘Just as well I did. She passed out just as we got to her building. I saw her indoors, then left. Next morning, she called me to say thanks and invited me round to dinner. Her way of showing her appreciation, I guess.’

  ‘And how much appreciation did she show?’

  ‘Nothing like that. I was only there for a couple of hours.’

  ‘No breakfast, then?’ Quinn smirked.

  Leroy turned to his beer. ‘Shit, that was what Domingo used to say.’

  ‘Jeez. Sorry, Sam. I had no idea.’

  Leroy shook his head, took some more beer, and continued. ‘She’s a vegetarian, so what we had wasn’t what I’m used to. She served hot baked vegetarian chimichangas.’

  ‘Burritos, I like, but not sure about vegetarian. What was in it?’

  Leroy shrugged. ‘She said it contained mushrooms, chillies, refried beans.’

  Quinn pulled a face.