by M. Z. Kelly
“Stay here,” I said to the woman. We moved down the corridor toward the room with our guns drawn, calling out as we went. There was no answer.
A few feet from the door, I motioned for the brothers to go ahead and said I’d cover them. They moved forward, pulling the door wider as they entered the room. I followed them with Bernie but then stopped dead in my tracks.
“Holy shit,” Glade said.
“It looks like a kill room, bro,” his partner offered.
The room was dark, only partially illuminated by the open door. “Somebody find a light switch.”
When the lights came up, the kill room, as Gooch described it, was even more grisly than we’d originally thought. Jeremy Shulman’s nude body was lying on a table in the middle of the room, his hands and feet bound in duct tape. His body had what looked to be hundreds of wounds, some of them small and some of them probably large enough to eventually drain his body of blood. I imagined that whoever had done this had spent a lot of time torturing the man.
It seemed strange to me that no one had heard Shulman screaming during the assault. Then I realized his mouth had been partially taped shut, except for something protruding from the opening.
Kyle Gooch explained what I was seeing. “The dude ate his joy stick.”
Glade came over, his face twisting up in disgust. “A last meal, bro.”
While the brothers went on, bantering about heartburn and indigestion, I realized something else. There were dozens of photographs affixed to the walls of the room. They were pictures of a young woman, some of them apparently taken during her childhood.
“It looks like our victim’s mother made good on her promises,” I said, drawing the brothers’ attention to the images on the walls. “It’s Juanita Sanchez.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Lydia Sanchez was found at home dead in her bed, cradling her deceased daughter’s photograph in her arms.”
Charlie stopped talking for a moment, looked over the top of his reading glasses at Lieutenant Edna, and then the food. It was the morning after we’d discovered Jeremy Shulman’s dead body, and then the body of his probable killer, Lydia Sanchez.
The brothers had brought us breakfast, consisting of Starbucks coffee and some muffins. So far, my partner hadn’t given into temptation. Pearl sat next to me with a stack of paperwork in front of him as Charlie went on.
“There was an empty bottle of Ambien on the nightstand. The coroner says the TOD looks like it was between two and six in the morning.”
“Juanita’s mother went Dexter on Shulman then checked out,” Gooch said.
His partner tossed Bernie a muffin scrap. “I just love a happy ending.”
I twisted a strand of fake hair between my fingers and frowned. “How do you figure that?”
“Mama got her revenge, took a long nap, and saved herself a lifetime of pain.”
Glade had a point. I felt nothing but disgust for Shulman, despite the fact that he was tortured by Lydia Sanchez.
Edna made notes, probably for Captain Decker’s benefit. “How do you suppose she managed to get a big guy like Shulman on the table, wrap him up in duct tape?”
“Million dollar question,” Charlie said, eyeballing the muffins again. “Maybe she found somebody with a mutual dislike for her victim. Or it could be that she paid someone to help out. We may never know.”
“The scene was clean?”
“Nothing, other than the victim’s DNA and Lydia Sanchez’s prints.”
“Let’s do some diligence, follow up with the Sanchez family and the club. Maybe a relative helped out with the killing or a local gym rat earned a few extra bucks.” Edna turned to Pearl. “What did you find in Shulman’s truck?”
“Some hand tools, mostly drills that were probably taken from the sheet metal company where he worked. There was also a forty-five caliber handgun and a couple of boxes of shells. The gun wasn’t registered. We also found some electrical cord that’s with SID. We’re trying to match it for the ligature marks found on Juanita Sanchez’s body.”
Pearl paused and picked up some papers from another stack. “Here’s where it gets interesting. There were also seven used vials of 200 milligram injectable testosterone, along with some used and unused syringes in the truck.”
“A little juice for the killer goose,” Gooch said.
Glade took a bite of his muffin, tossed the rest to Bernie. After I told him that my dog was on a diet, he said, “A little dick with a big brick.”
“Are you disparaging my dog?”
“No—Shulman. He’s on roids, drives a Hummer—little dick, big brick.”
“What else?” Edna said, obviously perturbed by the banter.
Pearl shuffled the paper deck. “Shulman had a record—assault, disturbing the peace, nothing major. However, five months ago security at Club Indigo called the police after he and another guy were threatening staff. The responding officers came out, took a report, but no charges were ever filed.” Pearl removed his reading glasses. “Shulman was with a guy who likes to wear a mask and play sex games with judges.”
I leaned over, glancing at Pearl’s paperwork. “What? Are you talking about Chucky Wilson?”
He nodded and handed me the police report. I took a moment, skimmed it, then turned to Edna. “Do you think Wilson could have been supplying steroids to Shulman?”
“Hard to say…”
“Wait a minute.” I reached into my purse. “I found this in Jezzie Rose’s room the other day.” I handed Edna the torn label with the letters, ythro.
“What is this?”
“It’s from a box or package. I’m now thinking it could be part of a label from some medication—maybe steroids.”
The lieutenant handed the label back to me. “That’s one hell of a leap.”
“Maybe.”
I stood up, pacing around the room for a moment. It had been just over a week since Barry Ralston was killed in Bakersfield. I’d begun to think that Jezzie Rose’s murder would never be solved but things were now beginning to shift. Then something suddenly fell into place.
I turned back to the lieutenant. “Oh my God. I’m such an idiot!”
“We’ve all got our faults,” Gooch said. “Self-esteem issues are especially difficult.”
“The guy who was hanging around Jezzie’s practice,” I said to the lieutenant, my voice rising. “According to Sandra Weimer he was a big guy, a bodybuilder type. That fits Shulman.”
“But she said the guy had a ponytail,” Gooch said. “Jeremy Shulman suffered from male pattern baldness.” His pupils did an orbit, as though he could see his own highlighted hair. “God forbid.”
“I think my bro might OD on Minoxidil one of these days,” Glade said to me.
“Maybe Shulman got a haircut,” I suggested.
Charlie turned to Pearl. “Do you have any mugs on Shulman from his prior arrests?”
Pearl thumbed through his reports. He pushed a mug shot across the table to Charlie. “Looks like Sampson lost his hair.”
I came over as my partner examined the image. I then held it up for the others to see, and said, “Shulman was losing his hair on the top but he used to have a ponytail.”
“Wait…wait…wait a minute,” Edna bellowed. He straightened his tie, blew air. “What we got here is a bunch of coincidences, unless we prove otherwise.”
Bernie came over to me, maybe thinking I had a handout for him. “We need to go by WU and have Sandra Weimer look at Shulman’s mug. I’m also going to ask the coroner’s office about the partial label I found in Jezzie’s room, maybe they can match it to a steroid medication.”
“Do you think Jezzie was really using steroids?” Charlie asked. “How could she…”
“Maybe the same way Lance Armstrong used steroids and got away with it for years,” I said, sitting back down and facing him and Edna. “Maybe Wilson was supplying Jezzie with steroids. When she fired him, he sent Shulman around to take care of her.”
“Y
ou’re talking about America’s sweetheart,” Glade said. “Say it ain’t so, Jez.”
“No one is saying a fucking thing,” Edna yelled. “Unless and until we got something more, nothing on this leaves the room. All I need is for the press to get ahold of this.”
Charlie finally gave into temptation, speaking with a mouth full of muffin. “I think we also need to have another chat with Wilson.”
“It’s Chucky time,” Glade said. “Maybe Hannibal will be more cooperative with his dick in a sling.”
***
Charlie and I went by Chucky Wilson’s house in South Gate but he wasn’t home. As we were leaving, the brothers called us and confirmed that Sandra Weimer had positively ID’d Jeremy Shulman as the subject who was hanging around Jezzie’s practices.
My excitement about breaking the case was building. We now had a definite connection between Wilson, Shulman, and Jezzie Rose.
After lunch Charlie suggested that we try the former sports agent’s office, thinking maybe he’d reopened it after making bail. He called the brothers and they agreed to meet us at Wilson’s office. My partner popped a Tootsie Roll in his mouth as my phone rang. It looked like his forty-eight hour diet was history.
After my call ended I turned to Charlie. “That was Brie Henner. I ran the information about the partial label I found in Jezzie’s room past her. She’s going to relook at the autopsy tox screens and also see if she can come up with anything that might be a match. We’re going to have dinner tonight. She’ll go over everything with me then.”
Charlie chewed, his words barely intelligible. “If Jezzie was using…steroids it’s gonna put a whole…different slant on our case…especially when your reporter buddy gets wind of it.”
“She’s not my buddy and I’m not telling her anything.”
As Charlie drove we discussed various scenarios involving Jezzie and the two men for the next half an hour. It seemed likely to me that Shulman was acting as Chucky Wilson’s enforcer, maybe trying to get Jezzie to take Wilson back as her agent or extorting money from her. Either way, I was certain that Wilson was the key to unlocking everything.
When it felt like we’d exhausted all the possibilities I changed the subject. “How did the happy hook up go last night?”
“Me and Gladys might…” He opened his mouth, working on the tootsie roll stuck to his teeth. “I think we hit it off…pretty well. Gonna call her…see if we can get together again this weekend”
“Really?” Maybe Charlie was entering a mid-life playboy stage. “So, do you think you two are…age appropriate?”
Charlie shrugged. “Age is just a number, Kate. “I think she wants a man with some experience.”
I saw the brothers waving to us from the curb down the street from Wilson’s office. As he pulled over I said to Charlie, “I guess maybe fifty-five is the new thirty-five.”
When we met up with Gooch and Glade on the sidewalk I could tell something was wrong. The brothers looked like they were auditioning for an antidepressant commercial.
“Why the sad faces?” I asked. “You two having a traumatic flashback.”
Glade looked at his older brother, then back at me. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
“I don’t think we’re ever going to be the same again,” Gooch said. “We might even have to see the department’s shrink.”
I studied them for a moment, deciding they were serious. “What’s going on?”
“We met Natalie and…that…Naw-naw person for lunch,” Gooch said. “You seriously messed with our minds, Kate.”
I laughed and noticed that even Charlie was smiling about their predicament. When I finally controlled myself I said, “Hey, you’re the guys who asked Natalie and her friend to lunch. I had nothing to do with it.”
“That old woman has serious gastrointestinal problems,” Glade said, scrunching up his nose. “I think she should be hospitalized.”
“Not to mention those weird teeth of hers,” Gooch said, grimacing. “She really needs to see a good dentist.”
Glade looked at Gooch. His shoulders sagged and he sighed. “And she’s like…some kind of weird…sex fiend. Thanks to Newt and Naw-naw I think our psyches are permanently bruised. We might never recover.”
As the brothers went on, talking about their lunch and their need for therapy, we began walking toward Chucky Wilson’s office. Bernie led the way down the sidewalk and I remembered something from a prior case that I’d worked.
I said to Gooch and Glade, “Hey, maybe you two need a program. I know about something called, Sex Anonymous.”
The brothers looked over at me, their faces stony and morose as we entered the building. “Are you suggesting that we give up sex?” Gooch asked.
I shrugged. “Maybe you two should become monks, swear off the pleasures of the flesh.”
Gooch and Glade looked at one another. Glade said, “Maybe she has a point, bro. I don’t think I could be with a woman again without flashing back on Naw-naw’s face.”
His partner nodded. “Maybe we need medication.”
When we got to Wilson’s office I tried the door but it was locked. We were about to leave when Bernie let out a little whine. It’s an early warning signal my dog has when something’s amiss.
“What is it, boy?” I asked.
The whining continued, followed by the muffled sound of voices from somewhere inside the office.
I knocked on the door and said, “Police. Open up, Mr. Wilson. We need to talk.”
There was no response. Bernie’s whine kicked up a notch. Then we heard a gunshot, followed by a door being slammed from somewhere inside the office.
The brothers kicked the door open and we went in with our guns drawn. We found Chucky Wilson slumped over his desk. There was a bullet hole in his head, blood everywhere. I glanced out the window and saw a man wearing a motorcycle helmet, running down the alleyway.
Seconds later the a motorcycle roared to life and he was gone, disappearing down the street. It happened so quickly that I wasn’t able to get a plate number.
I turned to Gooch, who must have been thinking about the dead sport agent’s sex games as he said, “Looks like no more fucky, for poor old Chucky.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I’m leaving Joe,” Brie Henner said. “Our marriage is over.”
My friend looked pale. Her expression reminded me of a lost child I once found. “Are you sure about this?”
She nodded, blinking back tears. “I checked his phone. He’s still texting her and making plans to get together. He lied to me.”
We were having dinner on the outdoor patio at the Koi Restaurant in West Hollywood. The bamboo and water features gave the eatery a peaceful Zen-like feeling.
I’d spent most of the day at the Chucky Wilson crime scene. We had no suspects in the shooting, but had found performance enhancing drugs in both his office and home, as well as a small amount of street drugs.
I put my wineglass down, touched Brie’s hand. “What about Lily?”
“I’ll have custody, work out visitation arrangements.” She tipped up her martini glass, set it down, and exhaled. “I never thought my life would end up like this.”
“Cheer up, at least you’re not living with my friends and my landlord, Nana. And then there’s the king of rock.”
Her brows lifted. “I’m sorry?”
“Elvis. He came home from Vegas with Nana. He’s her new boyfriend and an entertainer—sort of.” I started to lift my glass and noticed a button was missing on the sleeve of my blouse. It was one of the few decent tops I’d been able to afford after my divorce. I sighed, looked back at Brie. “It looks like the king is going to be staying with us for a while.”
Brie smiled. “Maybe we should consider sharing an apartment someday. Misery loves company.”
Our food arrived and she asked about Mack. I took a moment, explaining about him ending our relationship, leaving the country, and wanting me to have custody of Bubba. Then she asked about Jack.
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“Haven’t talked to him since he and Mack ran into one another in the park. I doubt that he wants to talk to me after what happened.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to give him a call.”
“Maybe.” I ran a finger around the rim of my glass, considering what she’d suggested. “I’m just not sure how I would explain that I dumped him for another guy because I thought he was having an affair with someone who turned out to be his sister.” I exhaled, my shoulder’s sagging. “My life’s a disaster.”
I went on about my relationship screw ups before filling her in on my birth mother being in a vegetative state. When I finished, I fought off depression by ordering another drink. The only positive thing about sharing the miserable details of my life is that I think it took Brie’s mind of her own problems, if only for a few minutes.
As we ate, I showed her the partial label I’d found in Jezzie’s bedroom. “There were several steroid medications, including injectable testosterone that we found in Chucky Wilson’s office, but nothing that matched this lettering.”
“I did some research this afternoon. I think it might be something called, Monoythroprotein.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
“MTP. It’s a performance enhancing drug that was developed in Eastern Europe. It’s basically a doping drug with masking agents. The drug is used to stimulate red blood cells in the kidneys. It works by improving the amount of oxygen in the muscles, increasing endurance and recovery time for athletes. It’s almost impossible to detect but the red blood cell increase is telling.”
“Is there any way to determine if Jezzie had this drug in her body at the time of her death?”
Brie shook her head. “Fraid not. Elevated red blood cell counts are common at the time of death so, absent an injection site, it’s almost impossible to say if she used the substance.”
“And there were no needle marks on her body?”
“Nothing observable. Sometimes very tiny needles are used for these kinds of injections. There’s also a process involving transdermal inert gas injection that’s completely undetectable.”
