Watch Him Die

by Craig Robertson

  Narey’s head was spinning. It bothered her that their only solid leads on Marr’s identity were the result of hunches and assumptions. She liked to think that both were based on solid reasoning but knew full well that both could be entirely wrong.

  She thought of how Lennie Dakers had separated everything Marr had told them into three lists. Truths. Deceptions. Question marks. She wasn’t sure they’d placed them properly, and could now see nothing but question mark after question mark.

  CHAPTER 44

  ‘So, Mike, I know you’ve told my partner this, but I’d like to hear it too. This fake name that your Uncle Zac would use . . .’

  Mike Durrant looked tired and not a little beaten by it all. But he was still in his chair, still talking.

  ‘Whatever you guys need. So, the name thing was like a standing joke with my dad. It was his way of getting at Zac. I guess he heard the name on the grapevine maybe, and he’d use it when Aunt Veronica was there, just to wind Zac up.’

  ‘And the name was . . .?’

  ‘Like I said, Frankie Wynn. My old man used to get steamed up and say “Hey, how’s Frankie Wynn doing these days? Have you seen Frankie Wynn recently?”. Uncle Zac would give him the stare and I’d get worried they’d fight. It would obviously make Zac mad, but he couldn’t say anything when Veronica was there.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Salgado paced the room, dragging his hand through his hair as he thought. O’Neill let him run the play, knowing he was running on instinct and that was when he worked best. He stopped in front of Durrant and pushed him further.

  ‘Tell us a bit about Zac Garland. You’ve said your father didn’t think much of him.’

  Durrant laughed bitterly. ‘That’s an understatement. My old man always said that Uncle Zac was a snake. That was the word he used. Said he’d never have left my mom alone with him if she wasn’t his sister. He’d say that Zac thought he was a lady’s man but that the ladies didn’t always have a say in it. Once, when he was drunk, he told me how as well as using aliases, Uncle Zac used to make up glamorous jobs and tell all sorts of lies, anything to get what he wanted.’

  ‘What kind of jobs?’

  ‘Oh, he used to tell them he worked in the movies back in the day. That he used to date starlets. That he’d killed someone once. Dad said it was all bullshit. You see, sometimes Uncle Zac was a drinker, sometimes he was a drunk. Not one of those happy drunk uncles that ruffle your hair and give you ten bucks. He was a mean drunk. He’d go hard at my dad, he’d bitch about Aunt Veronica, he’d boast about all kinds of shit and talk in riddles. He scared people.’

  Salgado processed the information and O’Neill could see his brain was in overdrive. ‘So, Zac claimed he’d killed someone?’

  Durrant made a face. ‘All bullshit. He’d have said he’d fixed the World Series if he thought someone would have believed it.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I know this will be a tester, Mike, but I don’t suppose you can remember what kind of car Zac Garland drove? Maybe back when you were a kid. Or even before that, if you can remember your mom or dad ever mentioning it.’

  Durrant’s eyebrows knitted tightly. ‘What kind of car? Man, you’re talking a long time ago. I can barely remember what I drove ten years ago.’

  ‘Maybe something old,’ Salgado was wary of leading him to it. ‘A classic car maybe?’

  A light went on in the older man’s memory and a smile spread over his face.

  ‘A sedan. Zac had this ancient sedan in the garage – it wasn’t his everyday car. Like something out of the Keystone Cops or Bonnie and Clyde. He always said how it was a classic and the kids shouldn’t climb on it. Zac said it was worth a lot of money, but my dad said it was a heap of junk.’

  O’Neill and Salgado swapped animated glances. Durrant saw it and was confused.

  ‘What is it? How can Uncle Zac’s old car mean anything?’

  Salgado ignored the question and posed his own. ‘I know it was a long time ago, Mike, but can you remember how old that sedan was? Maybe the year?’

  The man shrugged. ‘I was just a kid, but from what I remember of the shape, it must have easily been thirty years old even then – 1930s for sure.’

  ‘You remember anything else about it?’

  ‘Christ, I haven’t thought of that old car in years. It had a dark paint job as I remember. It had once been some light colour, can’t remember what, but Zac said he had had it painted black.’

  The air was sucked out of the room. O’Neill managed to keep her features steady, but Salgado turned away and she heard him swear quietly under his breath. He turned, his face straightened again but clearly agitated.

  ‘That’s really helpful, Mike. Let me try you with something else. Was there anywhere in town that you remember Zac Garland staying when he wasn’t at home? I’m thinking maybe a hotel or a motel. Somewhere your folks might have mentioned.’

  When Durrant shrugged and apologised, he pushed it further.

  ‘I’m going to suggest a few places to you. I’d rather not, but we’re going back a long way. Please think before you answer. Remember – all the places I mention might be relevant, or none of them. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Salgado did his best to keep his voice neutral, not to favour one name over the other. He kept it slow and rhythmic.

  ‘The Lincoln Park Motel. The Aster Motel. The Harrington Motel. The Mayflower Motel. Any of those mean anything to you?’

  Durrant began to speak immediately but Salgado shushed him. ‘Take your time.’

  The man nodded, but after a few moment’s thought he spoke up. ‘Same answer. It’s the Aster. Whenever Zac got kicked out or when he later came back to town to see Ethan, he stayed at the Aster Motel. I remember my dad talking about it. It was a thing. He’d say something like “Zac’s at the Aster. That’s trouble for someone.” Definitely the Aster.’

  O’Neill saw Salgado’s jaw drop momentarily before tightening into a grimace.

  ‘Okay, I think we should take a break, Mike. It’s been a lot to handle and you’re probably needing a coffee, right?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Durrant sounded confused. ‘I can carry on.’

  Salgado smiled but O’Neill saw it was fake. ‘Well, I need a coffee even if you don’t. Let’s break for a while. We’ll pick it up again in thirty minutes.’

  *

  When there was a closed door between them and Garland’s cousin, O’Neill turned to Salgado and demanded answers.

  ‘You wanted a break because you need a coffee? Now, why am I not buying that?’

  He sighed and eased himself slowly into a chair. ‘Maybe because what I really need is a large shot of Jack Daniel’s.’

  ‘So, what was all that about the Aster? I know it was the answer you wanted. I just don’t know why.’

  Salgado hesitated and that freaked her slightly.

  ‘What is it?’ she pressed.

  ‘The original investigation into Elizabeth Short’s murder never identified a locus for the killing. There were a few suggested sites but one that comes up most often is a motel.’

  ‘Oh fuck. You’re shitting me.’

  ‘Nope. The Aster Motel on South Flower Street, just outside of downtown. The owners of the Aster admitted that on the day Beth Short was murdered, one of their rooms – cabin 3 – was found to be covered in blood and faecal matter. It was spattered over the floor, the bathroom and up the sides of the walls. They had to soak the bedsheets in a pail of water before they could send them to the laundry. Nothing was ever proven, and I haven’t the first idea of what’s true and what ain’t, but the Aster is where a lot of people think the Black Dahlia was murdered and cut up.’

  O’Neill held up a hand to stop him. ‘Okay, let’s just . . . what the fuck have we got here, Salgado? Ethan Garland owns a piece of murderabilia said to be the Black Dahlia’s purse. His father worked at Delmonico’s, where the Dahlia’s shoes and purse were found. Zac Garland used the alias Frankie Wynn. The same name as a man who confessed to
the killing and claimed he worked at Delmonico’s. He owned a light-coloured 1930s sedan and he was known to stay at the motel where the Dahlia may have been murdered. Have I missed anything?’

  ‘I don’t think so. We’re going to have to take this back to Howie Kelsey. It’s his case.’

  She nodded but was deep in thought. ‘Yeah. Maybe. But maybe not yet. It’s not still there, is it?’

  ‘The Aster? I think so. It’s pretty run-down but last I heard it was still operating.’ The moment the words were out his mouth, he caught her meaning. ‘Let me google it.’

  He fished out his phone and punched in the name. Less than thirty seconds later, he raised his head again and stared at her.

  ‘The Aster closed down. About a year ago. It’s been locked up since then.’

  CHAPTER 45

  There was a black and white waiting for them on South Flower Street by the time Salgado and O’Neill got to the Aster, with a paramedic truck not far behind. The low, grubby, white-walled cabins were in the lot to their left, dimly lit by the streetlights, the Harbor Freeway still roaring overhead to their right. A gaudy sign spelled out motel in alternate red and yellow block letters.

  Salgado turned in past the patrol car and parked up in front of cabin 3. The word seedy could have been invented for a place like this. The cheap alternative used by travellers on the thinnest of dimes or someone not caring what the bed was like as long as it had one. The whole complex looked more like a parking lot than somewhere to stay.

  They took a moment to size up the dark, curtained windows of the cabin through the car’s windscreen

  ‘You think he’s in there?’

  O’Neill pursed her lips and shrugged before shaking her head. ‘Let’s find out.’

  The patrol car had followed them through the green surround fence and the two uniformed cops were getting out of their vehicle. The detectives recognised both by sight. Kate Kuhlmeyer and Mickey Bryant.

  ‘What we got, Detective? We were told urgent but there doesn’t seem to be anything going down.’ Kuhlmeyer wasn’t grouching, just curious.

  ‘We need that door opened,’ O’Neill told her. ‘And fast. No time to find the owner or keyholder. We need it opened now.’

  ‘Want to give us a heads-up on what’s on the other side of it?’ Bryant asked her.

  ‘Maybe a body. Maybe dead, maybe alive. That’s why we’re in a hurry.’

  The cops exchanged a quick glance. ‘Okay, you got it.’ Within a minute, Bryant had pulled a metal enforcer from the trunk of their car and crashed it into the lock of cabin 3. The door splintered and swung.

  The detectives and the officers pulled on face masks and gloves and stepped inside the black interior of the dingy cabin. The air was fetid, thick and threatening. All four cops sensed it immediately. The stale stench of decay. The unmistakeable feel of death.

  O’Neill flicked a switch but there was no power, forcing them to pull out their Pelican 7060 flashlights and send searing beams across the room. Their eyes searched left and right, hungry to see whatever the cabin held.

  There was no body in sight.

  ‘Bathroom,’ O’Neill said firmly. ‘That’s where the Dahlia was supposed to be cut up.’

  She caught the look that passed between Kuhlmeyer and Bryant, wondering what the hell they were now in the middle of, and ignored it.

  Salgado moved first, striding towards the white bathroom door and edging it open. He knew before it swung fully back but his eyes and his flashlight confirmed what his nose and his cop sense was telling him.

  ‘Oh fuck.’

  The body was propped up against the far wall, half sitting, half toppled towards the floor, its dark silhouette in stark contrast to the flash-lit, white-tiled wall and floor. The head was slumped forward, concealing the face. But dead, unmistakeably dead.

  O’Neill was by his side, staring, trying to make sense of it. Kuhlmeyer and Bryant looked over the detectives’ shoulders but then edged back, leaving them to it, not needing another stiff to fill up their week with paperwork.

  The 7060s picked out the dirty, rusty spatter of old blood marking the floor and walls, as if framing the portrait. The hands were on the floor, palms upturned, as if pleading for help that never came.

  The urgency had seeped suddenly from Salgado and O’Neill. No point in rushing for the dead. Instead, it demanded the care and attention of sombre, dispassionate consideration. They both knew the first thing that was obvious about the body in front of them, but she said it aloud anyway.

  ‘Whoever it is, it’s not our guy. Different clothes, not as tall. And this has been here for months. Dead for months.’

  The corpse was decomposed in shades of purple and grey, held together by the clothes the man died in. They’d both seen more than enough bodies to be able to gauge it without needing CSI to do it for them.

  ‘Not our missing guy,’ Salgado agreed. ‘But it’s Garland’s doing. Has to be.’

  They both looked around the bathroom, looking for where they should step and where they shouldn’t, looking for anything that might help them.

  ‘Camera!’

  O’Neill saw it first, or got the word out first, neither of them were sure. But there it was: a small wall-mounted video camera behind them, pointing directly at the man on the floor. Salgado stepped back and examined it. Cheap, mass produced, easily rigged up, and doubtless once relaying its feed straight to Ethan Garland’s computer and to his partner in the UK.

  She walked over and crouched by the body, professionalism overcoming anything else. The corpse was restrained by chains tying it to the radiator that it was propped up against. The set-up so similar, the end so predictable.

  She began to dip her head to see if she might recognise the corpse’s face, when she noticed the top of the head in more detail and stopped fast. The ripped skin, the dis-coloured pate, the awful patchwork of decay.

  She turned to look back at her partner, easing the mask from her mouth and catching her breath.

  ‘From the other side of the room, I thought this guy was bald,’ she told him quietly. ‘He isn’t. It’s the colours of decomp that’s obscured it, but he’s been scalped.’

  Salgado reached out and pushed the bathroom door closed. There was some news that didn’t need to be shared too widely.

  ‘The last piece of Garland’s collection. Well . . .’ he hesitated as he tried to see a plus side, ‘ . . . at least we have a DNA sample already typed up in Elvis’s lab waiting to match to this poor sap, whoever he is.’

  O’Neill shook her head at him. ‘It’s not the last piece. There’s another whole body out there.’

  CHAPTER 46

  The accountant Ian Bryce worked for a charity named Meal Angels. Narey and Wells waited for him outside the warehouse on Dunn Street in Dalmarnock as he arrived to deliver meals to the elderly.

  The man denied knowing the name Matthew Marr, and initially denied even being in Carstairs. He got angry and defensive, insisting that he hadn’t been a patient there, that he’d only been there for ‘unnecessary tests’.

  They pushed him on knowing Marr. Bryce got increasingly anxious and angry but maintained he’d never heard of him.

  Giannandrea traced John Paul Kepple from a rented flat above a shop on Kirkintilloch Road in Bishopbriggs to a forwarding address in Rosevale Street in Partick. The young woman who lived there had been in the flat for three years and didn’t know who’d been there before her. The landlords said they’d no record of a John Paul Kepple ever renting one of their properties.

  Kepple had gone off the grid.

  Martin Geir, the cat killer, had seemingly disappeared too. He wasn’t on the electoral roll, wasn’t receiving any benefits and wasn’t paying tax. Narey put in a call to a reporter on the East End Echo, a weekly local paper, and prayed he’d be able to help. Gerry Grady said Geir had moved from Bridgeton to Dennistoun but had to get out of Dodge one more time when people found out who he was. That time, he did a bunk in the middle of the n
ight and no one knew where he’d gone. Grady promised to do his best to find out on the half promise of getting a story.

  Derek Solomon and Colin McPake turned out to be the easiest of the six profiles to track down and eliminate from their enquiries. Solomon was in Barlinnie and had been for the past six months. McPake was also in the Bar-L, halfway through an eighteen-month sentence for aggravated assault.

  There was no sign of Fraser Anderson. Nothing on the electoral roll, no council tax listing, and no mention of him on the local crime system or the Criminal History System since his release from Carstairs. Like Kepple, like many other people with severe mental health problems, he seemed to have dropped off the grid.

  His ex-wife, Erin, now lived in Paisley. She was pencil-thin with short blonde hair and gave off a nervous anger. When Narey and Giannandrea said who they were, the woman had no doubt who they wanted to talk about.

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘We don’t know that he’s done anything,’ Narey told her. ‘We are just anxious to find him, and as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I can’t help you. If I could, I would, believe me. If you find him you could maybe tell Child Maintenance. They’ve supposedly been looking for the bastard for three years. Although I don’t think they’ve tried very hard.’

  ‘You haven’t heard from him?’

  Her face twisted. ‘The kids get a Christmas card. That’s if I don’t recognise the handwriting and rip the thing up before they can open it.’

  ‘Do you know where the cards are sent from? From the postmark?’

  ‘Glasgow. They’ve always been sent from Glasgow. But I know he’s here. People have seen him. Every few months someone will say “Oh, I saw Fraser on Buchanan Street”, or “You’ll never guess who I saw on the subway”. It’s mostly been city centre so I’ve no idea if he’s West End, south side, wherever. I’m told he looks shit though, so that’s good news.’