A Good-Looking Corpse

by Jeff Klima

  And then it hits me. Locard’s exchange principle—the first rule of the forensic sciences! I’d learned about it from a CSI tech, making awkward small talk while waiting on a cleanup once. There’s always an exchange at every crime scene . . . the killer brings something with him, the killer leaves with something, she’d said. Every touch leaves a trace. I never touched the body, had no interaction with it. Even with gloves on, there had to be something exchanged if I’d stabbed him from behind like Crozier had doubtlessly done. Hairs, some sort of clothing fibers—a proof of interaction. That they’d caught me at the scene would force them to admit I couldn’t have hidden anything like a Tyvek suit. If they couldn’t find it, it meant it didn’t exist! And if it didn’t exist, the lack of evidence could be just as effective as evidence. They hadn’t taken my clothes because they didn’t think they needed to. I begin banging on the thick cell door, demanding attention. I can have them take my clothes, test them for Bill Amos’s DNA. They can test his corpse for my DNA. The words of O.J. Simpson’s lawyer ring in my head: If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit!

  But no one comes. I’m just a lunatic raising a ruckus. They probably hear it all the time. Finally, I have to stop for fear of raising a sweat. It’s warm enough in my cell already, I can’t risk my only defense being destroyed by contaminating it with sweat. Carefully, I strip down to my boxer briefs, my scrawny body showing off my pale white skin stretched thin over the ridges of my costal cartilage. Laying my work polo and pants down carefully, I spread them out on the concrete block and then resume my assault on the cell door. Now I look really crazy.

  Exhausted, I lie on the floor to wait it out. The cold concrete there is soothing but probably swimming with remnants of piss, blood, shit, and semen—I can’t imagine the cells ever get properly sanitized, a quick blast occasionally with a regular old garden hose at best. But it doesn’t matter really, like public toilet seats, the risk of infection is absurdly low.

  After an hour of tense deliberate plotting, figuring out how I can best give my statement and demand my request that they test my clothes, I finally hear footsteps. They aren’t the heavy clack of street boots, more the gentle click of wingtips. A detective. They’ve finally come for my statement. A key turns in the heavy lock of my cell and I hop up, eager to explain.

  “What in the hell?” the detective asks once he has opened my door. He’s alone, the same man who interrogated me earlier at the scene. He already thinks I’m guilty and now I’m standing before him clad in only shoes and underwear. “I can prove my innocence,” I say, solemn and calm.

  “By what, joining a nudist camp?”

  “Test my clothes. You’ll find that they’re clear of any DNA from Mr. Amos because I never touched him, which I’m sure you’ll agree touch was necessary for the stabbing.” I’ve adopted a sort of highbrow scholarly air here, but as I’m standing in my skivvies, I’m sure eloquence just makes me look that much crazier. All the same, I refuse to back down from the idea. And if he declines to have them tested, why that would be just as much a part of my defense at trial.

  “Get dressed. We don’t need to test anything; you’re not being charged in the murder.”

  “Why not?” I ask, suddenly indignant. I’d been proud of my deductive aplomb.

  “You’re protected by angels, I guess. I just got a call from Christ himself to have you released. I’m not even allowed to question it. You are no longer a suspect.”

  “Mikey Echo,” I say, watching the detective’s face. He grimaces as if eating sour fruit but says nothing.

  “Let’s go already,” he insists. “I’ve got a mile of fucking paperwork to write up and my chief suspect just got pulled off the meat hook.”

  When I leave the police station, by the front entrance this time, I’m angry but confused. Why would Mikey have me caught only to have me released? As if summoned up from Hell, Crozier is suddenly standing on the sidewalk before me, waiting. I need answers more than anything, so I walk in his direction.

  “You’ve got a phone call,” Crozier says when I reach him. He hands over his cellphone.

  “What the fuck was that?” I ask into the phone, now furious.

  “You didn’t think Steve Simon would double-dip? He was all too eager to sell me the news that you were asking questions. I told you the fucking paparazzi were a necessary evil. The real question is: how did you figure it out?” Mikey asks.

  “I should have known from the get-go—your obsession with death. But it was your gift that ultimately gave you away—Holly’s skull. Before I went to jail I was in medical school at USC. I used to study the skulls regularly. But all the ones I had access to were from India. I felt like something was off when your white actor showed me your mom’s skull, it didn’t physically match—like he had the wrong one or it wasn’t really his mother. I should have noticed in your skull room, but it caught me off guard. I finally realized when I looked at Holly’s skull—the differences in the zygomatic arch, the orbitals, the nasal passage—Holly Kelly was a white girl, the skull you showed me belonged to an Indian woman. Your mother.”

  “That fucking school—with all the money my family has donated to it, you’d think they’d get a more diverse anatomy collection,” Mikey gripes. “Didn’t think an ugly little Indian guy could be this cunning though, huh? Mikey Echo makes too much sense as a handsome, athletic white guy, right? That’s what everyone thinks. Man, I love racism. Well, you know what Bill Amos wanted more than anything? Fame. He wanted to be a star. And he was willing to put that before human lives.”

  “What are the odds that you’d find someone as fucked up as you to play your part?”

  “You think lust for fame is sui generis to Bill? You know how many people would pull a trigger to step into the life I live? Don’t think he didn’t take full advantage either. The shopping sprees on my dime, that orgy he threw at my house? The Quattroporte! That was all him. He was begging for this role when I discovered him. He was past his expiration date in this town and he knew it. He wasn’t even my first choice for the role, but the other guy got a little too camera shy during the screen test.”

  “Screen test?”

  “Oh, we made him take a life, we even filmed it. That limo you were in? It’s specially equipped for such actions. Bulletproof, soundproof, and completely wired with cameras. My first choice wouldn’t pull the trigger. So we went with Bill—who was willing to accommodate us. And we kept the tape to ensure he would never back out of the part. It’s not exactly the sort of role that can have an understudy.”

  So that’s it, then? You got the rights to my story finally, you’re just going to leave me alone, right?”

  “Hahaha, no, no, no, amigo! The real fun is just beginning. See, the rights to your story are what we in the industry call a MacGuffin. Alfred Hitchcock term—it means an elusive and bullshit object that moves the plot along. Like the briefcase in Pulp Fiction. Or the jewel-encrusted bird in The Maltese Falcon. Your life story is the definition of a MacGuffin. I just needed something to get you emotionally invested in me. Most people would love to have a movie made about them—for you though, I had to use putting your story on the big screen as a threat. No, I need you, not your past,” Mikey continues. “Bill’s great with a script, but I need someone who can get things done on the fly. I need you. But you were never gonna go along willingly—I know your character type, I knew I needed to get something on you. To put you between a rock and a hard place, so to speak.”

  “What do you actually want from me?”

  “Tell you what? There are conversations I don’t like having over the phone. This is one of them. Why don’t you get in the car with Crozier and come pay me a visit. We can meet somewhere neutral . . . say the Polo Lounge on Sunset?”

  “Nothing in Hollywood is neutral. And I’m not going anywhere with this asshole standing next to me,” I say. Crozier breaks into a broad grin at that.

  “Okay, we’ll head to your turf. Burbank. Top of the Holiday Inn parking garage. Off
the freeway. We’ll do this right now so you don’t get any smart ideas about arming yourself. And ride with Crozier, you fucking whiner. Ramen took orders from you, but his part in this is over.” As if Crozier heard what was said, once I hand him the phone, he once again reassures me by flashing open his coat—he’s armed.

  “You like what I did back there?” Crozier asks, driving me in his silver Bentley, sunglasses on, music pulsing, just flat-out enjoying getting away with murder. He laughs. “Felt good, like the old days. Was starting to get the itch for the prison-yard life. Of course, I’ve been living life out of balance lately. Koyaanisqatsi, the Hopi Indians called it. Learned that shit from a movie.” He’s proud of himself. “I’ve been watching a lot of movies lately, learning the industry, learning its history. But I haven’t forgotten my history either.” Crozier points to an outline of a teardrop on his right cheek, one in a stream of filled-in teardrops. “This is you,” he says. “Unfinished business.”

  “You’re actually not the first person who has gotten a tattoo representing me. How weird is that?” I say to show him I’m not touched. It was true, Ivy now has a nasty-looking spider tattoo on her arm from when I’d pissed her off once upon a time. Mine was just one of many representing the low points in her life.

  “Yeah, but whoever that is isn’t the one who’s gonna kill you. I am.”

  “If Mikey lets you,” I remind him.

  “You think he won’t?” Crozier taunts. “Shit, I got you wrapped up into this mess just so I could finish you off. You’re my little project. Mikey-Mike’s just borrowing you for a minute.”

  “What’s he got lined up?”

  “Haha, shit. Snitches get stitches. I’m not gonna play the rat. You’ll find out when he’s ready to dime it out.”

  “You sound like Dr. Seuss.”

  “Smart man, created an industry. You should see the box-office returns on How the Grinch Stole Christmas—I’ll take the compliment.”

  “Lemme ask you this,” I say, after a bit. “You say it’s just business, sticking me. Why are you making it personal now?”

  “Oh, it still isn’t personal. I got paid to do a job, and I’m like Lee Van Cleef in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. If I get paid, I always see a job through. That’s just honorable. Same goes when I’m down in that pit for Mikey, taking lives.”

  “You killed that guy?”

  “Shit, which one?”

  “Are they teardrops too?”

  “Jealous?” Crozier smirks.

  “I just don’t want your face to end up looking like a jailhouse version of the Vietnam memorial.” I shrug. “It will if you keep doing Mikey Echo’s bitch work.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I just decided. I’m not gonna put steel in you, I’m gonna finish you off in the pit. Let everyone watch. The last thing you’ll hear are the cheers as I tear out your throat like a fucking Rottweiler. Woof, woof!” Crozier barks. “You get a gladiator’s death. My gift to you, smart-ass. How’s that for ‘bitch work’?”

  I decide to try a different tack. “You and your buddies don’t mind being Echo’s slaves?”

  “You watch that ‘slave’ shit,” he warns. “I got a lot of respect for a man who’s willing to help me get rich.”

  “You really think he’ll help you get rich? You don’t think he’ll dispose of you like he did Bill Amos? Just use you and then give you the ‘Mulholland Falls’ treatment?”

  Crozier smiles, liking that I know about that. “I think Echo knows he needs me alive. You might think I’m just one of his house niggers, but I’m the one keeping the rest of the thugs in line, black, brown, and white. You really think they are scared of him? Hah.”

  It’s a statement that gives me an interesting idea.

  Chapter 22

  We reach the stretch of road where the Holiday Inn looms tall off the freeway. A cream-colored set of twin towers, built like some half-cocked ode to 9/11. Beside them, a concrete carport is stacked five stories, floor to roof. We head for the carport, the Bentley easily muscling its way up the ramp. “Why did Mikey pick this place?” I muse aloud as we make the winding drive up toward the top of the structure.

  “You know Echo. He always got a reason,” Crozier promises. Near the top there is a break where there are no cars at all. And then there are several of them—all hearses. Old ones, new ones, at least thirty of the cars, their elongated backs used for carrying coffins. All are parked neatly in stalls, collecting dust. This isn’t some Hollywood prop of Mikey’s, these cars look like they’ve been here for years.

  As we round another corner, one down from the top, Mikey is waiting for us, leaning up against one of the hearses. Crozier parks his Bentley, which looks out of place here, right in the aisle, surrounded by the freaky old cars.

  “What is this?” I ask my deceptive former friend.

  “Cool, right?” says Mikey. “I so rarely have cause to come here anymore. The legend goes that the guy who built this hotel in the ’70s, his wife and baby daughter were hit by a hearse and killed while crossing the street. They say the guy went a little mad after that, just buying up all the hearses he could find, taking ’em out of commission. So here they sit, dying themselves. I don’t know if that’s actually true, but I don’t want to check into it. It’s a neat story and isn’t that what really matters?”

  “Some say the truth matters,” I respond.

  “Is that what you’re here for? The truth?”

  “I’d say we’re past the games. Why don’t you just tell me what you want.”

  “Well, Tom, this is a delicate subject. I had to be sure I could manipulate you before I broached something of this magnitude. Now I feel confident that I have you under my thumb. You told me once that you would never go back to jail. I hear you went pretty quietly, so that’s a lie, right? You’re not a suspect as long as I tell the right people you’re not. That switch can be flipped back on at any time though. Remember that. The point is, you now believe that I can hurt you. You believe that I can hurt people you care about. And so you should also believe me when I say this is a matter of extreme discretion. Not the sort of thing I want being broadcast. Because if it does get out, while it won’t hurt me, I will know that it was you who did it. And I will react to that information badly.”

  “Yeah, I got it. Mum’s the word. What the fuck is it you want with me?”

  “I want you to kill my dad.”

  “What?” I exclaim, taken aback momentarily. “From what I hear, isn’t that a bit like killing the golden goose?”

  Mikey blanches. “You know how often I’ve heard that shit growing up? That I’d be nothing without him? That I’m lucky to have such a powerful presence in my life? Or the talk of nepotism that gets around? Imagine living in his shadow your entire life and see how it fucks with your sense of self-worth. You think George Echo gave me a damn thing? I’ve worked hard for everything I’ve ever achieved, but has there ever been an article written about me that didn’t mention him?”

  “I wouldn’t know. There doesn’t seem to be much written about you online.”

  “If only the rest of it were so easy to bury. I figured you’d investigate ‘Mikey Echo,’ so I had the information temporarily suppressed. If you have the power, you can manipulate anything you want. Josef Stalin knew that. I just wish I’d spent more time building an online presence for Ramen. But then, you didn’t even try to friend him on Facebook.”

  “This seems like a lot of work to have your dad snuffed out. Why don’t you just get your thugs to do it?”

  “Something like this requires more finesse than perhaps Crozier can muster,” Mikey says. If Crozier is hurt by the words, he hides it well. “Dad employs a team of ex-Israeli commandos as his security detail. Special forces types—Krav Maga and assault rifles. A group of ex-cons wielding makeshift prison knives isn’t exactly up to the task.” That statement makes Crozier grimace slightly.

  “You like death, why not do it yourself?”

  “Much as I hate to admi
t it, there is a limit to my power. He’s essentially the one murder I can’t get away with. And so I need you.”

  “But why me? If you can buy a mansion and exotic cars, surely you can hire your own Israeli commandos? Or a sniper?”

  “This isn’t a situation money can fix. Money is for blunt objects. I need someone intelligent who can get inside and yet, can be manipulated like a puppet.”

  “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “No, I think I’ve got the right guy. And besides, I’m not asking, I’m telling. You know what happens if you fail to comply, I don’t need to remind you. This whole winding road has led us to this point.”

  “I think I’ll take my chances with the murder trial,” I tell him and turn to leave. Crozier is on me in a flash, ignoring his gun so that he can seize me instead. I find myself unable to move my upper torso and arms in his grip, but thrashing my legs backward, I aim high for his groin. He’s able to sidestep it and still keep me locked in place though, and the familiarity of his strength from our prison days comes back to me—clearly he’s kept up the workouts. We’re moving to the edge, he and I, and no amount of my squirming can loosen me from his clutch. The impact against the concrete siding knocks the wind momentarily from my lungs as he dumps me up and over the ledge so I can’t even muster the breath to yell out.

  The sensation is intense, dangling out over the asphalt driveway, four stories up and nothing but Crozier’s hands keeping me from taking a hard hit off the pavement.

  My cellphone suddenly slips free of my pocket and drops fast, exploding into a dozen pieces on the pavement below.

  “Alan didn’t leave a good-looking corpse behind. I’m sure the pavement will be just as unforgiving to you,” Mikey says from somewhere at the ledge above me.

  “I won’t splatter nearly as much,” I manage to say from my position. In response, I feel Crozier abruptly release one of my legs. I am now one hand away from the drop.

  “Jokes don’t seem to be working for you right now, Tom,” Mikey warns me.