Another Way to Die

by Philip Cox

  They ran back up the hill to where Quinn had parked the Taurus. Leroy drove, hitting the lights and siren.

  ‘She said he was on Avocado Street, three point four miles from our location,’ said Quinn.

  ‘Was he on the move?’

  ‘No. Stationary. Must be on a job.’

  Red and blue flashing, siren wailing, Leroy took them across the busy intersection with Highland Avenue, then along Franklin for the next two miles until he took a left onto Hillhurst. Avocado was off here, the last cross-street before Los Feliz Boulevard.

  Quinn pointed. ‘There it is.’

  It was a white Dodge van. The legend on the side of the van read the same as on the business card. Same wording, same colours, same font, only much larger. Leroy had dropped the siren and lights before they turned into Avocado, and quietly and discretely parked in front of the van.

  ‘He must be in there,’ Leroy said, nodding over to a large single-storey home. The lawn in front could have used a mower and there was a realtor sign standing in the centre of the grass. There were no signs of life. ‘The place looks empty.’

  They walked up to the front door. There was no bell, but as Leroy was about to knock, he noticed the door was ajar. He pushed it open. From the back of the house, they could hear a radio playing.

  ‘Anybody here?’ Leroy called out. ‘LAPD.’

  A figure appeared at the end of the hall, and walked towards them. He was over six feet tall, muscular build, with a buzzcut and neatly trimmed beard. He wore a light grey hooded sweatshirt, black shorts, white sneakers, and squarish shaped glasses.

  ‘Sorry, this house is empty,’ he said as he approached them. He had the slight traces of an accent.

  They showed their badges.

  ‘Are you Marc Simon?’ Leroy asked. He inclined his head out to the van.

  Marc Simon looked at the badges, puzzled. ‘Yes, I am. Why?’

  Leroy asked, ‘Do you know anybody by the name of Troy Keffer?’

  A flash of surprise and recognition of the name passed over Simon’s face. ‘Yes, I do. I mean, I did.’

  Quinn asked, ‘Why do you say you did? Past tense?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Because he’s in my past. We were together for a while.’

  Quinn asked, ‘Together? As in… together?’

  ‘Yes, we lived together for around three, four years. That ended six months ago, I guess it was.’

  Leroy asked, ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘It was when we broke up. Our place wasn’t far from here, near the Bowl.’

  ‘The Nirvana?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘That’s right. I guess he’s still living there if you want to talk to him.’

  ‘And after you guys broke up, you’ve not seen him since?’

  ‘No. Wait… I saw him once. It was at a bar off Sunset. The Pacific Rim.’

  ‘You met him there?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘No, I was there with a friend, and I just happened to see Troy in there.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘I don’t recall exactly. He was at the bar. We just caught sight of each other, quickly said hi, and I sat down at a table with my friend. That was it.’

  ‘What was his job?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘He was an actor. In fact, when we broke up, he was waiting on two readings he’d been to. I don’t know how they went.’

  ‘And when he wasn’t acting or going to auditions?’

  ‘I think he used to wait at tables. He did have a job down at the IHOP in Hollywood, but I think he’d left there when we broke up. I don’t know what he’s doing now. We don’t keep in touch; I don’t even have his cell number. How did you guys find out about Troy and me?’

  ‘We found one of your business cards down the back of one of the seats in his car.’

  ‘Well, what do you know?’ Simon paused a beat. ‘But why are you asking me about Troy?’

  Leroy said, ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Troy Keffer has been murdered.’

  Simon went pale, all colour draining from his face. He leaned against the wall. Quinn prepared himself in case Simon collapsed. ‘Wh... how? What happened?’ Now he stood up, the colour returning.

  ‘We believe,’ Leroy replied, ‘that he was attacked and killed in his apartment. In the bathroom, to be exact.’

  Simon stared blankly: either processing the information or recalling the bathroom they had shared.

  ‘Are you okay, sir?’ Leroy asked.

  Simon nodded and ran his hand over his hair. ‘Yes, I’m okay. It was just a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘I understand that. There are a few questions I need to ask you. They might seem strange, but there’s a reason I’m asking. Did Mr Keffer ever indulge in transvestism?’

  ‘What? No. No way.’

  Quinn asked, ‘You’d have known if he did, surely?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes, I’d’ve known, for sure. Why do you ask about that?’

  Leroy explained. ‘He was found not far from where he - where you and he - lived. His fingernails and toenails were painted. Did he ever paint his nails?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘No, never. Nothing like that.’

  ‘We believe,’ Leroy continued, ‘that he was attacked while he was taking a shower. The clothes we found in the bathroom were women’s clothes. The closet in the bedroom was filled with women’s clothes. Inside the main closet, there was a smaller closet which was locked and contained men’s garments. So we have come to the conclusion that he was dressing as a woman on a regular basis, as if that was the norm for him.’

  ‘Keeping a men’s wardrobe for special occasions,’ Quinn added.

  Simon ran a hand over his forehead. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘This is all new to me. Troy never, ever, showed any interest in that, even in the bedroom. In fact, he was normally the dominant one; he would…’ He paused to find the right word. ‘He would usually take the male role.’

  Quinn said, ‘He was killed in the same way as a number of women. Because of what we found, we’re working on the theory that his killer mistook him for a woman.’

  Simon said nothing; he was still processing.

  Nodding his head over to the van, Leroy asked, ‘Do you mind if we take a look in your van?’

  ‘No, I don’t mind. But why? What are you looking for? Am I a suspect?’ He followed Leroy and Quinn outside.

  ‘No, this is just routine, sir.’

  Simon opened the rear doors. Inside the van, on one side, was a set of shelves.

  ‘May we?’ Leroy asked. Simon nodded.

  The shelves were neatly stacked with wire trays, each of which contained a plethora of tools and equipment, and meters, all of which an electrician would need. They noticed one tray was filled with rolls of black, grey, and black and yellow tape. Other trays were filled with reels of electrical wire of varying thicknesses: black, silver, grey, green, brown, red, yellow, orange. There were also trays of wall power outlets and plugs.

  ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ Simon asked from outside the van.

  ‘As I said,’ replied Leroy as they climbed out, ‘just routine.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Why did you and Mr Keffer break up?’

  ‘Nothing dramatic. We were just going in different directions. He had these ambitions to be an actor, didn’t want a nine to five job. I work for myself, so I can work what hours I want, but I prefer the nine to five life. I like to spend my evenings with a boxed set and a glass of wine. We just wanted different things.’

  ‘How was the break-up?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Whose decision? Yours, his, or was it mutual?’

  ‘Kind of mutual; we could both see it coming.’

  ‘No hostility, no bitterness?’

  ‘Not on my part. Wait one minute… you sure I’m not a suspect?’

  ‘We’re trying to get a hold on where Mr Keffer came from, what his story was,’ replied Leroy, hoping that Simon had not picked up on the fact that
he had not answered his question.

  ‘As we said, he was attacked,’ added Quinn, ‘in his bathroom.’

  Leroy picked up from there. ‘There was no sign of a break-in, so we figure he knew his attacker.’

  Simon replied, ‘I can’t help you there. We had different social circles. He had his; I had mine. I didn’t really meet any of his friends. They did tend to change, I think; it depended on what project, if any, he was working on.’

  ‘And now?’ asked Leroy.

  ‘Then we both moved on. Aside from that night at the Rim, I’ve not seen or heard from him since I moved my stuff out.’

  ‘To your knowledge,’ asked Leroy, ‘did he ever bring any men home?’

  ‘For sex, you mean?’

  Leroy nodded.

  ‘Not that I knew of when we were together. I was pretty much out regular hours; he wasn’t, he used to spend daytimes at home. It’s possible, I guess; but I never saw any signs of anything.’

  Leroy said, ‘Okay, we’re done here, Mr Simon. Where can we get hold of you if we need to ask you anything else?’

  Simon nodded to the business card Quinn was holding. ‘My cell number.’

  ‘No. Where do you live now, I mean.’

  ‘Not far from here. Alexandria Street. Off Fountain. I used to live in that neighbourhood before I moved in with Troy.’

  Quinn frowned. ‘Little Armenia?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Simon.

  ‘Are you Armenian, then?’ asked Leroy. ‘I could get a slight accent.’

  ‘Second generation. My parents came over here in the seventies; settled and had me and my two brothers and three sisters. Our family house was a block away from where I am now.’

  ‘They still there?’ asked Quinn.

  Simon shook his head. ‘They both passed around ten years ago. We sold the house, my sisters got married and had kids of their own, my brothers too. All moved away from here. But when Troy and I split, I kind of…’

  ‘You wanted to get back to your roots?’ Quinn suggested.

  ‘Something like that, yeah. My Armenian name is Mark - with a k - Simonian, so when I started up my business, I kind of Americanized it.’

  ‘You got a drivers licence?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘Sure.’ Simon took it out of his back pocket and handed it to Leroy. ‘Why?’

  Leroy looked at the licence and handed it back. ‘Thanks. By the way, do you know if he had any next of kin?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘He was an only child, and he told me his parents were both dead. He never spoke about any family. I guess I would have been the nearest next of kin had we still been together.’

  Leroy said, ‘Possibly. It would depend on your status as a couple, and if he left a will.’

  Simon shrugged.

  Leroy turned to go. ‘You have a good day, Marc.’

  Simon called out, ‘What about a funeral or anything like that?’

  Now it was Leroy’s turn to shrug. ‘If he had no next of kin, the state will take care of that. Unless you want to volunteer?’

  Simon backed away. ‘No; no, I don’t. Troy’s in my past now.’ He went back inside the house as Leroy and Quinn got back into the Taurus.

  ‘Well?’ asked Quinn once they were in the car.

  ‘He ticks all the boxes. He knew Keffer, could’ve still had a key. They obviously have history. In his van: there’s tape, there’s wire. I didn’t see any knives or plastic sheets, but…’

  ‘And the other murders? And motive?’

  ‘He could have picked the women up. With his looks, they might not’ve felt threatened. He’d certainly have been able to overpower them. I just…’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Apart from the lack of motive, which might not apply if we’re talking psycho, there’s the question of the pentagram. All that stuff Professor Ramos went through with us: it was so deep. I can’t quite see an electrician…’ He slowly shook his head as his sentence trailed off.

  ‘Yeah, I get where you’re coming from, Sam, but remember, if we’re dealing with a psycho, then the usual rules don’t apply. Remember those case studies Johnson went through with us.’

  Leroy started the engine. ‘Guess you’re right. It was just a hunch, that’s all.’

  As they pulled away, Quinn said, ‘We didn’t ask for where he was when the murders were committed.’

  ‘We will, when – if – we take him in for questioning. So far, we’ve no real evidence. He had matching tape and matching wire in his van – he’s an electrician for Chrissakes. Have you any idea how many electricians and plumbers and handymen there are in this town? All with duct tape and electricians wire.’

  ‘Hundreds.’

  ‘Right. No, let’s just park him. At least we’ve identified who he is and where we can reach him again. We still have the case notes in the trunk: let’s get them back to the station.’ He paused as they turned back onto Franklin. ‘Just my hunch, yeah? But what the hell do I know, anyway? I thought it was over when I shot Cordell.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The killer was restless.

  He was watching again.

  And waiting.

  And watching.

  This one was different. He had noticed her while he was at work. Only noticed: no contact, no interaction. From where he was, it was easy to subtly watch, to surreptitiously observe.

  It was in the refectory. The first time he became aware of her, she was sitting at a table, alone, eating her lunch. Nibbling would be a more apposite term. The table she was using had ten seats each side: she was sitting at one end, and the three others who were at the same table were occupying the seats at the other end. There was no interaction, no eye contact.

  It was the same other times of the day. Whenever he caught sight of her, she was always alone, clutching her belongings as if they were the most precious thing in the world.

  He was no professor of psychology, but there was no way she had a boyfriend. She was too shy, too introverted to form any relationship, surely.

  The killer empathized.

  She did drive, though; so there had been some interaction with the driving instructor. That, of course, made it easier to follow her home. He was not surprised to learn she lived at home: such a stupid term, he reflected; surely wherever you lived was home. But, not unexpectedly, she still lived with her parents. A twenty-five-minute drive away to the safety and security of a family home with a well-manicured front lawn. A four by four on the drive. All that was missing was the white picket fence.

  Whilst not unexpected, the fact that she lived with her family made things slightly more difficult. He could hardly break in during the day and wait for her to get home. The last thing he wanted was to bump into the girl’s mother or worse, a muscular big brother. He massaged his arm at that thought: it still ached from the other evening. He would have to find somewhere else to apprehend her. Away from his workplace, of course.

  She was younger, too. Twenty-three, he estimated. Younger than he would have liked, but her suitability overrode all his age parameters.

  He preferred them to be in their thirties. As an old colleague was wont to say, ‘old enough to know what to do, but young enough to still want to do it.’

  Only in his case, they didn’t want to do it.

  He was the youngest of four children. Three older sisters and him. His sisters used to bully him because of his height. At school, the other boys used to bully him about the size of his pecker. He would dread soccer practice because of the mandatory showers afterwards. The boys also bullied him because he was clever. He reckoned his IQ topped the rest of his class put together. Not just academically; he was always able to think through problems, think outside the box. In other words, he was different to the other boys.

  As he grew older, he became more and more shy, more introverted. He found it impossible to form friendships. Outside of his parents and sisters, there was never any close relationship.

  His intellect, his geekiness and l
ack of normal interaction exasperated his parents. His mother was accepting, but his father, who was frequently drunk, accused him of being gay, something that a rattan cane would get rid of. The beatings were a regular occurrence, until his father was so drunk one night, that he somehow mistook a bottle of drain cleaner for whiskey.

  He tried to get dates, but when he did pluck up courage to ask a girl on a date, he was so tongue tied, they laughed. In his teens, he tried an agency, but after half an hour in his company, the girl would say she was expected home, or had to do homework. Speed-dating was equally disastrous: he was just ‘too geeky’.

  He did consider whether he should get himself a prostitute, just for the experience, but could not bring himself to do that as he felt they were dirty.

  So he concentrated on studying, and his career. With some success. Eventually he secured a position in Los Angeles, which gave him residential status in the United States, where he had been for the past fifteen years.

  He happened across a thirty-something woman in the local library. They got to chat, and the conversation went on for several hours, during which they adjourned to a bar, then a restaurant. He found her interesting as she was fascinated by the occult, and witchcraft, so most of the conversation was one-sided, but he felt he was a good listener. Plus, listening didn’t require much talking, enabling him to hide his awkwardness. He recalled his colleague’s maxim, and this woman seemed the ideal. Not too young, and not too old.

  He clumsily invited her back to his house, thinking that was what people did. Much to his astonishment, she accepted. He had the feeling, as they stood in his kitchen, that she was having second thoughts. Maybe it was the expression on her face. Maybe it was because she had run out of things to talk about, and he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  She kept checking her watch.

  Finally, she downed a glass of wine and declared, ‘I need to call a cab soon. Let’s cut to the chase.’ She began to unzip him. He stood there, head raised, and eyes closed. Then she began to laugh. ‘What the fuck can I do with that?’ she cried.

  Embarrassed, belittled, and angry, and almost as a reflex, his hand reached out for a kitchen knife. She screamed as he stabbed her in the neck and chest, once, twice, three, four times. She collapsed in a heap at his feet.