by Philip Cox
‘The examiner who came to the scene put the TOD at between nine thirty and ten.’
‘So,’ said Leroy, ‘where was he found? At the top of the steps? If he was killed between nine thirty and ten, why was he on the steps? The cars would still have been running at that time; why didn’t he ride down? Or up?’
Shue shrugged.
‘Who knows? We don’t know where he was coming from, or where he was headed. Whether he was bound for Bunker Hill, or on his way down.’
Quinn said, ‘When we spoke to him, he said he was living down on Skid Row. So maybe he was headed back there from wherever he’d been.’
Shue said, ‘The way he was found indicated that he’d been attacked right at the very top of the steps, just out of view of the ticket booth, unfortunately. I don’t know how well you guys know the location.’
‘Fairly well,’ said Leroy.
Shue nodded.
‘As you go down the steps from the top, after about a dozen steps, the stairway does a ninety degree turn to the left, then soon after to the right, before going right down to the street. Where there’s the first turn, he was found lying on the concrete, in the corner. There were traces of blood on most of the steps leading down from the plaza.’
‘So he was killed at the top, and fell down the steps, you’re saying?’
‘He had his throat slit at the top, he may have died immediately, or as he fell down the steps, or lying in his own blood,’ said Ozawu.
‘CCTV?’ Leroy asked.
Ozawu laughed; Shue glanced over to her before he replied.
‘Not much there. There is CCTV on the plaza at the top of the steps, but the cameras there aren’t working, would you believe?’
‘Jeez,’ Quinn exhaled.
‘But it’s not certain that if they had been in operation, the spot where he was killed would have been in the cameras’ POV.’
‘You saying, whoever it was, was familiar with the location?’ Quinn said.
‘Maybe. We think it’s unlikely. We think the son of a bitch was just lucky. He followed Wu and that was a good spot.’
‘Unless whoever it was, had arranged to meet Wu there, and knew they wouldn’t be seen?’ Leroy suggested.
Shue nodded into his latte.
‘That’s a possibility. The problem there is, he was sleeping rough, and who’s going to know who he had met or who his contacts were.’ He paused. ‘What’s your interest in this? Our lieutenant never told us.’
‘We’re on a case of a porn producer who was found shot off Mulholland Drive,’ Leroy explained. ‘We learned that before he met his first wife – he’s on his second now, or was – he was in a relationship with a lifeguard.’
Shue and Ozawu laughed.
‘You’re kidding,’ he said.
‘I’m being serious. And one night, this lifeguard got his head smashed to a pulp at their house on Hollywood Boulevard with – wait for it – a replica Oscar.’
Shue and Ozawu laughed.
‘You couldn’t make that one up,’ said Quinn.
‘You guys get all the interesting cases,’ said Shue. ‘And where does Wu figure in all this?’
‘He was charged with it. Mainly on the strength of the fact that he had already been picked up for burglarizing a house in the neighbourhood. And the theory was that this was a burglary gone wrong.’
‘You telling me he was booked on the strength of that? That’s bullshit.’
‘That’s what the DA thought as well. The case was dropped. The two detectives are no longer on the department. Retired. We thought it was a coincidence that Martin Wheat, our vic, was murdered, and that a former partner was murdered also.’
Shue said, ‘What town are you living in? You’re clutching at straws, man.’
‘I know,’ said Leroy, ‘but that’s all we have to clutch at.’
‘You still think there’s a connection?’ Ozawu asked.
Leroy said, ‘Not any longer. I think it’s just a coincidence. And as you said, this is LA we’re living in.’
‘Anything else we can do for you guys?’ Shue asked.
‘What about in the Angels Flight cars themselves?’ Quinn asked. ‘CCTV, I mean.’
Ozawu shook his head.
‘Neither car has CCTV installed. Not in keeping with the historic nature of the place, apparently.’
Leroy said nothing, just slowly shook his head.
‘Anything else we can do for you guys?’ Shue asked again, finishing his coffee.
‘No, we’re done here,’ said Leroy. ‘I appreciate your time.’
‘Any time,’ said Shue, as they all stood to leave.
Shue and Ozawu walked in the direction of their car; Leroy and Quinn headed back to where they had parked the Taurus.
‘Where to now?’ Quinn asked.
‘Downtown.’
‘But I thought…’
‘Chuck Wu.’
‘But you said we were done with him.’
‘I told them we were done with him. I want to have a look at where he died.’
CHAPTER FORTY
They stood on Hill Street, at the foot of Angels Flight, the steps leading up to Bunker Hill to the left of the funicular.
‘Just tell me again,’ asked Quinn. ‘Exactly why are we here? You told Shue and Ozawu we were done.’
‘I just don’t want to leave any stone unturned. Let’s say I’m a tad sceptical about coincidences.’ He walked towards the steps, turned round and said, ‘We’re not interfering with their investigation, are we?’
‘I guess not.’ Quinn did a three sixty. ‘Look, we know he was based around San Pedro and Sixth Streets. They’re in that direction.’ He pointed, angling his finger as if to go over the market. ‘So he was either going in that direction …’
‘Or coming down from Bunker Hill, on his way home.’ Leroy paused a second. ‘Home,’ he added sadly. ‘But where would a guy living on the streets be going, or coming back from, at ten pm? This neighbourhood shuts down once the offices close.’
‘I still don’t get why he walked up the steps. The cars would still have been running at that time. Why didn’t he ride up, or down?’
‘Who knows? Maybe the car was full, maybe he didn’t have the dollar fare.’
Quinn said, ‘Or maybe he was about to come down, saw whoever it was who attacked him - ten to one he knew them – and thought it easier to get away if he ran down the steps. He’d be trapped if he got into a car, and you can run down the steps faster than the cars travel.’
‘And the car would have witnesses. Let’s take a look up there,’ said Leroy.
They climbed the one hundred and fifty three steps. Just before the steps reached the top, there were two ninety degree turns, one to the left, the second to the right, then a dozen or so steps to the top. The second corner was where Wu’s body had been found. The concrete had been deep cleaned, but there were still faint traces of Wu’s blood.
‘One hundred fifty one,’ said Quinn as they reached the summit.
‘What?’
‘They say there’s one hundred fifty-three steps. I only counted one hundred fifty-one.’
‘I wasn’t counting,’ said Leroy. He paused to let two joggers pass then stood at the top. ‘From what Shue said, Wu was attacked around here.’ He looked around. ‘You can’t be seen here from the ticket booth. And that…’ He pointed to a camera on a lamppost. ‘…wasn’t working. Just our luck.’
Quinn walked down a few steps.
‘He was attacked up there,’ he said, more thinking aloud than anything else, ‘tumbled down these steps here, and came to rest there.’
‘Yeah. Where he was found, what time was it? Ten seventeen. There’s not much in the way of streetlights here. It would be pretty dark at that time.’
Quinn sat on a wall and put his sunglasses back on.
‘So,’ he said. ‘My question still stands. What are we doing here? Are we getting anywhere up here?’
Leroy shook his head and took out
his phone. He took a few pictures of the place where Wu was found, of the top few steps and the area at the summit. Then he dialled a number.
‘Who you calling?’
‘Hobson. Russ? I need a favour. I know what you’re going to say, it’s not my case and like that, but it’s about a vic you’ve had in, a guy by the name of Wu, Chuck Wu. Central Division.’
Quinn smiled: he could imagine what Hobson was saying the other end.
‘Yeah, but Russ: there might be a connection between Wu and Martin Wheat. So, what I’m asking, is could you keep me in the loop on this, but not tell Shue and Ozawu I’m in the loop?’
At the other end of the line, Hobson sighed.
‘I shouldn’t really, Sam; you know that, but…’ He paused. ‘I’ve not done the autopsy yet, but it seems he died of exsanguination.’
‘Because his throat was cut.’
‘You got it. Simple as that. He had another wound on his body, an historic wound, but that’s not relevant to how he died.’
‘What other wound?’
‘It was on his right leg, Sam. A massive dog bite.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
‘Where was it?’ asked Leroy, urgently. ‘Where was the bite?’
‘Right leg, just above the knee,’ replied Hobson. ‘Why? How can this affect the Wheat case?’
‘It might do. How soon can you analyse that blood sample I left you?’
‘It’ll be a few days, Sam. I keep telling you; we’re backed up here. Look: can I call you back on this? Give me ten minutes.’
‘Surely,’ said Leroy and hung up.
Quinn asked, ‘What’s up? Has he analysed the blood yet?’
Leroy shook his head.
‘A few more days yet. Something came up. He said he’ll call back.’ He sat on the wall next to Quinn. They both watched the orange cars, one ascending, the other descending, passing each other at the halfway point.
‘They both have names,’ said Quinn. ‘One’s called Sinai, the other Olivet.’
Leroy looked over at him. ‘You’re a mine of information, Ray. Instead of buying and selling shit on eBay, you could be a tour guide between shifts.’
Quinn laughed.
‘So where now?’ he asked.
‘Let’s head down to San Pedro and Sixth. It looks like we’ll be spending the rest of the day down there talking to the residents of Tent City.’
‘About Wu?’
Leroy nodded and stood up. He pointed down to the market.
‘Let’s pick up something to eat first. Try Eggslut.’
They walked down the steps and across Hill Street to the Grand Central Market. They found their way to Eggslut, where the line was twenty deep.
‘Shit,’ said Leroy. ‘No way.’
The line at Wexler’s Deli was much shorter, so they each bought a bagel and walked back to the car. Just as they were climbing in, Hobson rang back.
‘Hold on, Russ. I’ll put you on speaker, so Ray can hear you. Repeat what you just said.’
Hobson’s voice came through the speaker.
‘Hey, Ray. Like I just told Sam: there’s no way I can do anything about a DNA test as soon as you’d want it, no way. But I did spitball something. And of course, Sam, I haven’t done this, and this call is not taking place as this isn’t your case. And I can’t be a hundred percent sure; not even seventy-five percent sure.’
‘Just get to the point, Russ,’ Leroy sighed.
‘Those canine teeth you brought in: I did a ballpark comparison on the wound on Chuck Wu’s leg. While nobody was looking, I hasten to add.’
Leroy looked over at Quinn.
‘Sam,’ said Hobson. ‘I think you have a match.’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
‘How certain are you, Russ?’ Leroy asked.
‘Pretty certain, Sam. The teeth aren’t perfectly even, like human teeth aren’t, but my best guess is, they’re a match to the marks on Wu’s leg.’
‘And the DNA in that blood would seal the deal, right?’
‘As I told you already, maybe, maybe not. But you’re not going to have those results today.’
‘Sure, but it gives us something to go on.’
‘It does. I’ll keep you in the loop.’
Leroy ended the call and looked over at Quinn.
‘Ray,’ he said, ‘I think we might have actually gotten ourselves a break.’
‘You’re figuring Wu for Wheat’s murder, then?’ asked Quinn, as Leroy pulled into the Hill Street traffic.
‘I do. I’m heading over to Skid Row now; it’s only five minutes away. I’ll park somewhere around Fourth and San Pedro, then we can cover the streets on foot, one side each, and hopefully we’ll get lucky, and someone will know Wu, and know who his contacts were.’ He did a one-eighty outside Grand Central Market and then made a left at the MTA station onto Fourth Street. He took Fourth as far as San Pedro Street, eventually parking outside the church on San Pedro and Third.
The term “skid row” or “skid road”, referring to an area of a city where people live who are “on the skids”, derives from a logging term. Loggers would transport their logs to a nearby river by sliding them down roads made from greased skids. Loggers who had accompanied the load to the bottom of the road would wait there for transportation back up the hill to the logging camp. By extension, the term began to be used for places where people with no money and nothing to do gathered, becoming the generic term in English-speaking North America for a depressed street in a city.
Skid Row in Los Angeles covers fifty city blocks immediately east of downtown and is bordered by Third Street to the north, Seventh Street to the south, Alameda Street to the east, and Main Street to the west. It contains one of the largest stable populations, between four and eight thousand, of homeless people in the United States and has been known for its condensed homeless population since the 1930s. Its long history of police raids, targeted city initiatives, and homelessness advocacy make it one of the most notable districts in Los Angeles.
Leroy and Quinn stood on the corner, across from the church and in front of Little Tokyo Towers, looking down San Pedro Street. As far as the eye could see, on both sides there were rows of tents, some purpose built, some makeshift. There was a haze rising, a combination of the heat, and of the exhaust from the many tailpipes making their way up and down the street.
‘This is fucking depressing, Ray. How the hell did things get like this?’
‘You tell me. Money, probably, or lack of it. Lack of political will, I guess, also.’
‘It always comes down to money. I’m glad this is not our division. I’ll go down this side; you go over there. Call me if you find anyone; I’ll do likewise. Let’s get started, we’ve a lot of ground to cover today.’
Both had a mug shot of Chuck Wu on their cell phones, which Leroy had downloaded from the Chase Underwood file. Both crossed over East Third Street and began the task of speaking to every person in those tents, or in those garden chairs, or in those sleeping bags, showing them the image of Chuck Wu, and hoping they knew him.
‘What about calling those two uniforms we met down here before?’ Quinn asked as they crossed Third. ‘They may be able to give us a more precise spot, where he was based.’
‘We could, maybe, but I don’t want anyone from Central knowing we’re down here. Not yet, at any rate. Politics.’
For the next two and a half hours, Leroy and Quinn made their way, talking to everybody on the streets, showing the mugshot of Chuck Wu. Occasionally, somebody said they thought they recognised the face, or that they had seen Wu in the neighbourhood, but that was it: nobody could help any further.
Downtown Los Angeles is like most American cities and is built as a grid. They planned to cover this grid, from Third to Seventh going south, and Alameda to Main going west. Quite an undertaking, but by four thirty they had made good progress. Good progress in covering ground that is; not in terms of any success.
However, on the corner of Maple and Sixth Street
s, ironically across the street from the LAPD Central Community Police Station, which they took care to watch as well as the people on the streets, a woman who was sitting on a deckchair, where she guarded her shopping cart loaded with plastic bags, said she knew Wu.
‘Yes, I know him. He’s been around for a few years now. Not that I’ve seen him over the past few days.’
It was Quinn who spoke to the woman first. He called Leroy, who crossed over, taking care not to be seen by the occupants of the black and white which had just emerged from the police garage.
‘Did you ever see anybody talking to him?’ Quinn asked.
‘Everybody used to talk to him,’ she replied.
‘No,’ said Leroy, ‘we mean somebody not from around here.’
She shook her head.
‘You might try the Mission,’ she told them.
‘The Mission?’
‘Yes, at the church down the block. They provide meals, hot drinks. I know Chuck used to hang about there most days.’
‘Where is the church?’ asked Leroy.
‘Down there,’ she said, pointing. ‘On Seventh and Alameda.’
‘Seventh and Alameda,’ Leroy repeated. ‘Come on, Ray.’
Quinn thanked the woman and gave her two five dollar bills, which promptly disappeared inside the woman’s cleavage.
‘We’ll take the car,’ Leroy said. ‘Let’s hope it’s still where we left it, with all the wheels and tyres intact.’ They hurried back to the Taurus. As the cross streets were one way, Leroy had to go down San Pedro to Fourth, and take Fourth to Alameda, where he headed south down the three blocks to the church on Seventh.
The church was the Sacred Mission of Saint Ignatius, and adjacent to the church building was where the meals were served. They walked up to the door to find the place was closed. The sign by the door said that it was open seven am until four pm.
‘Shit,’ said Leroy. ‘Look, they’re supposed to be serving meals, but they’re closed at dinner time.’
‘Sam, they’re volunteers. They decide when they open. In any case, they probably have lives and families; they might want to spend evenings with them. Would you want to spend your evenings here?’
