by Philip Cox
‘Ray, this is an exit wound.’
Quinn looked around.
‘The first on the scene kind of turned him over.’
‘What? Who was first on the scene?’
‘One of them over there. The one on the right.’ Quinn pointed over to the group of uniforms standing by one of the patrol cars. ‘I’ve spoken to him about it.’
Leroy shook his head and stood up.
‘Fucktard. If we’re lucky, the dirt won’t have compromised any GSR. If we’re lucky.’
‘It looks like an execution-style killing, though,’ said Quinn.
‘Yeah, could be.’
‘He only got one slug,’ interjected the forensic tech, with the emphasis on the he.
Leroy turned to face him.
‘What do you mean, he only?’
‘There’s another body, Sam.’
Quinn led Leroy round to the rear of the car. A dog was lying on the ground. Leroy hadn’t noticed the dog. Its mouth was twisted into a rictus. Its fur from the neck downwards was covered in now dried blood. It was easy to see the two entry wounds.
‘Have you checked the dog?’ Leroy asked.
‘No,’ said the forensic guy. ‘I’m still working on the victim, and in any case, that’s not normal -’
‘There won’t be any GSR there,’ cut in Leroy, nodding down to the dog. ‘The dog wasn’t shot point blank. Can’t you see what happened?’ he said to Quinn. ‘Our vic was here with his dog, he was attacked, executed, and the dog was shot trying to defend its master. What breed is it?’
‘No idea,’ replied Quinn. ‘Rottweiler? Alsatian?’
‘It’s a Doberman,’ volunteered the camera guy. ‘Doberman Pinscher.’
‘Not a pushover, then,’ said Quinn.
‘No,’ Leroy replied. He knelt and lifted one of the dog’s hind legs. ‘It was a bitch.’
‘As is life,’ quipped one of the forensic techs.
Leroy looked at him disapprovingly, stood, and walked back round to the victim.
‘Do we know who he is? Any ID on him?
‘No ID, no cell, no nothing on him,’ said Quinn, ‘but we do know who he is. His wife called it in. He was out walking the dogs, and was very overdue, so she called 911. This was apparently his regular place, so a patrol car came by and found him.’
‘And moved the body,’ said Leroy.
‘And moved the body.’
Leroy said, ‘Let’s talk to the first on the scene.’
Quinn called the two uniformed officers over. Before Leroy could speak, one of the officers said, ‘Look, Detective, I’m really sorry about what happened with the body.’
‘You mean moving it? Don’t you know not to touch anything?’
‘I didn’t think at the time. I had a feeling he was still alive.’
‘With a fucking hole in the back of his head?’
The office began to squirm.
‘I know, but…’
‘Forget it. Just don’t do it again if I’m lead detective. Now, tell me about the call. We know his wife called 911 as he was overdue. What time did you get the call?’
The officer checked the tablet he was holding. ‘Our watch commander notified us that Mr Wheat was missing. His wife called to say he was out walking their dogs, that he always came to this location, and that he had failed to return home.’
‘What time did your watch commander call?’
He checked the tablet again.
‘3:17, Detective.’
Leroy looked at Quinn.
‘3:17? So what the fuck time does he go dog walking?’ He turned back to the officer. ‘What’s your name?
‘Garcia, Detective.’
‘Okay, Officer Garcia. Is it dog, or dogs, plural?’
‘I don’t understand you, Detective.’
‘When the vic’s wife reported him missing, did she say he was out walking the dog, or the dogs? There’s only one dog here.’
‘I have dogs, plural, here. But we could have misheard. Why, it is important, Detective?’
Leroy shrugged.
‘Could be, could be not. If it was more than one dog, two or three, where are they? The one over there, well, it was clearly killed trying to defend the vic; what about the others?’
‘Run off?’ suggested Officer Garcia.
‘I guess so,’ said Quinn.
‘Maybe they took the other dogs with them,’ suggested Leroy.
‘Would you steal a Doberman after you’ve just killed its owner?’ Quinn asked.
‘Probably not,’ conceded Leroy. ‘But it’s probably not relevant. We’ll need to talk to the wife, in any case. Give her the news.’ He turned back to Garcia. ‘Nobody has notified her, I guess?’
Garcia shook his head.
‘Give Detective Quinn here the address. We’ll go see her once we’ve done here.’
Leroy wandered back to the body. The two men from the coroner’s van were hovering, obviously keen to take the body away.
‘Are you done here, Detective?’
Leroy looked over at the forensic officer, who nodded.
‘I’ll wait for the report,’ he told them as they bagged up Mr Wheat.
‘Anything else of interest, of note?’ he asked.
‘We’ve taken photographs of the entire clearing, before the wagons arrived, that is. Nothing left on the ground.’
‘No shells?’
He shook his head.
‘No shells.’
Leroy said, ‘We know a weapon was discharged at least three times, so that means three shells, but we have nothing here.’ He turned back to Quinn, who had dismissed the uniformed officers and rejoined him. ‘So that backs up the idea that this was an execution. They were professionals; after they had shot Wheat and the dog, they went to the trouble of collecting any casings. And remember, this was done at night, it would have been as black as hell here. Do we know what Wheat did?’
Quinn checked the notes.
‘Nothing here.’
‘Where does – did – he live?’
Quinn checked his notes again.
‘On Hollywood Boulevard.’
‘I don’t know whether that means anything or not. We’ll get that from the widow. Tyre tracks?’ he asked.
‘There were some. The photographs will be in the report. But it’s real dry here. It’s not rained in months, so there are tyre traces, but how easy it will be to make any identification is anybody’s guess.’
‘Guess we’re done here, then.’ Leroy looked up the side of the hill. ‘What’s up there?’
‘It’s just trees, rocks. Bushes. It’s part of a canyon.’
‘Have we checked there?’
‘They checked through the first hundred feet. There was nothing there, so they stopped. We can’t check the whole canyon.’
‘Sure, of course you can’t.’ Leroy looked around and spoke, addressing anybody who was listening. ‘Unlikely to be a random mugging attack. Whoever killed him knew he’d be here. They shot him, killed the dog, took away any ID, took away his cellphone, cleaned up the scene and left.’
‘So he knew who killed him?’ asked Quinn.
‘It wasn’t random, Ray. That’s why Mrs Wheat is the next port of call.’
Quinn watched as the coroner’s van pulled onto Mulholland.
‘What about the dog?’ he asked.
‘We’ll take it back to the lab,’ the forensic guy said. ‘There might be something it can tell us.’
‘Cool,’ said Leroy. ‘We’re done here, Ray. Let’s go visit the widow.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I had no idea,’ said Leroy as they stood outside Wheat’s house, ‘that Hollywood Boulevard came this far west.’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘I did not.’
‘It begins over in Los Feliz,’ Quinn explained, aware that Leroy probably wasn’t listening, ‘heads west in more or less a straight line; through Hollywood, and continues wide and straight as far as Laurel Canyon Boulevard, where it continues l
ike this, narrow and winding. Technically, we’re now on West Hollywood Boulevard.’
They had parked in two of the vacant spaces outside the house. They walked up to the front door and Quinn rang the bell. After a few moments, the door opened.
‘Mrs Wheat?’ Leroy asked.
‘Yes, I am Adrienne Wheat,’ replied the woman. She spoke softly, with a tinge of a Southern accent. She was around five six, had bushy red hair and was fully made up with her lipstick matching her hair. Leroy could not tell whether the long silky garment she had on was a night dress or something to wear during the day.
They held up their badges and Leroy introduced them both.
‘Please come in.’ She let them in and led them to a living room, which was large and filled with ornate furniture and ornaments. The baroque French doors were opened onto a secluded courtyard at the centre of which was a large circular fountain. She asked them to sit down and they both sat on a large sumptuous three seater couch. She sat opposite them, on a matching chaise longue. She seemed much younger than her husband: sitting in this room with all its furnishings, she seemed out of place.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Marty’s dead. Why else would the LAPD call round?’
Leroy said softly, ‘I’m afraid he is, ma’am.’
She took a deep breath and nodded. Standing up abruptly, she added, ‘I need a drink.’ She walked over to a small bar in the corner of the room and poured herself a large shot of vodka. She held up the bottle to Leroy and Quinn, who both shook their heads. Sitting down again she asked, ‘How did it happen? I kept telling him it was dangerous up there at night.’
‘Mrs Wheat, your husband was shot.’
She sat bolt upright, eyes wide open. She stared at Leroy.
‘Shot? How…?’
‘He was found off Mulholland Drive. In a kind of clearing.’
‘Oh, that place. I know where you mean. Just before the San Vicente Park? That’s where he takes the dogs for a walk every night. He never wants to take them to the park itself, or even Laurel Canyon Park like everybody else. He always likes to take them there; I should say he parks there and takes the dogs up the mountainside. Says they prefer the rugged countryside.’ She paused, a look of horror on her face. ‘The dogs! Where are the dogs?’
Leroy looked over at Quinn.
Quinn said, ‘One of the dogs was found lying next to your husband. It had been shot also.’
‘She had,’ Leroy corrected.
Mrs Wheat put her hands to her face.
‘Oh my God! No! Which one?’
Leroy held his hands out.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t…’
‘Where is the other one?’ she asked. Now she was in tears.
There was no easy way for Leroy to tell her this.
‘We haven’t found your other dog at this time. Our theory is that when your husband was attacked, or even approached by his killer, one of the dogs went to defend him, and was killed. The other, we guess, took fright and fled.’
She stood up abruptly.
‘I need to go and look for my other dog. She’s out there, scared and alone.’
‘That’s perfectly understandable, Mrs Wheat. I’d do the same in your shoes. But we just need to ask you a few more questions.’
‘Can’t this wait?’
‘It can, but the sooner we can ask you these questions, the sooner we can catch your husband’s killer.’
She nodded.
‘Please be quick.’
‘What time did your husband go out with the dogs?’ Leroy asked.
‘It was around eleven.’
‘And he did this every night? At the same time?’
‘More or less.’
‘At what time did he normally return?’
She ran a hand through her hair.
‘I’m not sure. Most nights I was in bed before he got back. Around midnight, I guess.’
‘You reported him missing just after three.’
‘Yes.’ She stared at him. ‘Oh, you mean why the delay? I was already in bed when he went out, and I fell asleep. I woke just before three, and noticed they hadn’t gotten back. I called his cell; there was no answer, so I called 911. When did all this happen?’
‘We have an estimated time of death as between eleven and one. If you’re saying he was normally home by midnight, that means we’re looking at somewhere between eleven fifteen, allowing for the drive there, and eleven forty-five.’
‘While I was asleep,’ she said.
Ignoring this, Leroy continued: ‘We don’t believe it was a random killing. So far, the evidence we have points to it being a planned, professional hit. How many people knew he had this routine?’
She shrugged.
‘Nobody as far as I know. I knew, obviously, but I didn’t talk about it to any of my friends. There was no reason to. Marty may have told people. I don’t know.’
‘Or,’ added Quinn, ‘he might have been followed there. Somebody was going to see him here, saw him leave and followed him. When he left, did you see any other vehicles? Any other cars following?’
‘I told you, I was in bed. I didn’t watch him leave.’
‘What did your husband do?’ Leroy asked.
‘He was a movie producer. And director. Producer/director. Joder Films.’
‘Adult movies?’ Quinn asked. Leroy looked over to him.
‘Porn, you mean? Yes: it’s all in the open. He made pornographic movies. Produced, directed, wrote what screenplay there was.’ She snorted. ‘Probably acted in them himself. I never watched them. And before you ask: yes, that’s how Marty and I met. He’s fifty-three, I’m thirty-one. I was one of his performers, before I got too old. I’ve long since retired. We’ve been married three years now.’
‘Would there be any connection in the industry? Anybody who would want him dead?’
She laughed, a hollow, sad, humourless laugh.
‘Dozens, probably; but nobody who would seriously murder him.’
‘Any enemies? In the industry, or elsewhere?’
‘Not in the way you mean, Detective.’
‘There was no ID on your husband, no cell phone, no billfold. Was this normal?’
‘He never took any money out with him – what was the point, he would say. He just took his cell. Are you saying that was stolen?’
‘We didn’t find it at the scene, ma’am. When your husband was working, where did he work? Was he based here?’
‘Jesus, no. I’d put all that behind me. He’d shoot at many different places. Out in the canyon, on the hills, he’d lease private houses - not here - or there’s a place in Chatsworth. It’s kind of like an aircraft hangar. They’d use that as a soundstage.’
‘Was there an office?’
‘Yes, there was. That was in Chatsworth, also.’ She smiled sadly. ‘He used to say he worked in Silicone Valley. It’s on Lassen and De Soto.’
Leroy’s phone trilled: he checked the screen, silenced the phone, and asked: ‘Was your husband the sole owner of… Ho…’
‘Joder Films,’ Quinn corrected him.
‘You don’t get it, do you, Detective?’ Mrs Wheat smiled. ‘Joder is Spanish for fuck.’
‘I see,’ said Leroy, who noticed Quinn’s smirk. ‘No, I don’t speak Spanish.’
‘He was the sole owner, the sole producer. I can even give you the key to the office.’
‘That would be great, ma’am.’
She left the room, and returned a moment later with a key, which she handed to Leroy.
‘The code,’ she said, ‘for the alarm is six nine six nine.’ She smiled wryly. ‘No surprise there.’
Leroy pocketed the key.
‘We’ll return it as soon as we can.’
‘Don’t sweat it, Detective. I never want to see the place again. Now: are we done? I need to go find my missing dog. What about the one they murdered? Where is she?’
‘The forensic team took it – her – b
ack to their laboratory. They need to check her for evidence.’
‘When can I have her back? I need to bury her properly.’
‘As soon as they have finished with her, they’ll call you about releasing her body. The same with your husband’s body: once the coroner has completed his enquiries, his body will be released to you also. Now, are you sure you’re okay to drive?’
She looked back at the glass of vodka she had poured.
‘How much did I drink? Not a drop.’
Leroy nodded. She was right.
‘Would you like us to arrange for somebody to drive you there?’ asked Quinn.
‘I told you: I’ve not drunk anything.’
‘No. I mean to help you search.’
She shook her head and ran a hand through her hair again.
‘Sorry. No; it’s all right, thanks.’
Leroy handed her a business card.
‘Here’s my number, Mrs Wheat. If there is anything else you remember about last night, or concerning your husband, please call me. Or if you need anything. We will need to speak with you again, but that can wait. We’ll leave you in peace now. And - I’m sorry for your loss.’
Adrienne Wheat showed them out and they walked down to their cars. Leroy called in and requested a patrol car, preferably one containing a female officer, to meet Mrs Wheat at the scene.
‘Our next stop is Chatsworth, then; can you follow me back to the station? I’ll leave this there and we can go together. I didn’t have time to pick up a city car.’ Quinn had left his own, private, vehicle at West Los Angeles Station.
‘Was it me?’ asked Quinn. ‘But did it seem she was more concerned about the dogs than her husband?’
‘I picked that up as well. That might be relevant later, might not. Anyway, let’s go visit Joder Films.’ He got into his car repeating, ‘Joder, Joder,’ and pulled away.
Quinn grinned and followed.
CHAPTER FIVE
Leroy stopped abruptly and leaned out.
‘So I’ll meet you at the station. Which way are you going to go? I’ll follow.’
Quinn scratched the back of his head.
‘Santa Monica Boulevard, I guess.’
Leroy disagreed.
‘The freeways will be quicker, especially this time of day. La Cienega onto the 10, then the 405.’
‘Nah,’ said Quinn, shaking his head. ‘Santa Monica Boulevard.’
