A Twisted Path

by Steve Winshel

  “Let’s get something straight. What Tina does is none of your business. And what I do is definitely none of your goddamn business. But if it were, then you wouldn’t have any reason to get in my face. We’re adults and treat each other with respect. Something you should learn to do.” A little bit of the fire went out of Carlito’s eyes and he looked mildly confused. Now was a good time to back off and let him regain some dignity. “You want a sandwich some time, you come on by.” Furyk thumbed in the direction of the sandwich shop and followed Carlito’s gaze as he looked first at the Hoagie Haven, then back to Tina’s salon a couple doors away, then back at the sandwich shop. A glimmer of understanding poked its way through.

  Furyk started off across the gas station, leaving the kid to put it all together and decide how he wanted to deal with it. Waiting for the light, Furyk looked at the salon and thought about how it was Wednesday, the first day of the week for Tina since she didn’t work Sunday through Tuesday. And he thought about how he could really use a haircut. The light turned green and he angled toward the salon instead of the sandwich shop to make an appointment – two appointments, actually.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The coroner’s department for LA County was located on Mission Road, adjacent to the USC Medical Center. Prole made the 1.2 mile drive from the courthouse in just under 25 minutes, not horrible for lunch hour downtown. She had two bodies to check on, homicides in the last couple of days that had some similarities. Nothing exciting like a serial killer, but maybe there was some connection between the two men in their early thirties. Reading the autopsy reports gave her the facts, but catching the coroner between vivisections and grilling him was a better way to fish for bits of info that might suggest a connection. The LA Coroner was so busy dealing with the high body count, despite the passionate and political promises of the Police Commissioner and his pals on the payroll that homicide rates would come down, that investigative forensics took a back seat to simply identifying cause of death and basic stats on the slobs in the body bags. But mostly what Prole wanted was to ask about the Wick murder. Lots of stab wounds, the report showed – though Prole already knew that from having stood over the body and counted the puncture marks in the guy’s shirt. What had caught her eye was the ferocity of the attack. Some of the wounds had chipped ribs or gone a quarter inch into shoulder and arm bones. Lot of force behind the attack. Merrill Wick didn’t seem to carry much of a wallop, but then again when motivated by anger or some bullshit psychotic mental state, anyone could pump up the adrenaline. The other thing was the time of death. The coroner had been a little vague, giving a pretty wide window that might as well have said, “he died on the night of the 12th.” She wanted to know more and thought if the coroner would just focus for a goddamned minute, she’d get more.

  She parked in front of an available hydrant and went up the stairs in front of the blocky cement building two at a time. Keys and change jangled in her pocket and the little burst of energy reminded her she hadn’t been on a run for a few days. The gym beneath the station house had a lot of modern, frou-frou equipment for cardio and weights, but she preferred a run on the streets late in the evening and some dumbbells in a dank room that smelled of sweat and hard work. She reminded herself to take a run that night, no matter the time or how crappy she felt. Banging through the glass doors, she headed straight to the third floor where they kept the bodies. Not like in the movies where the fridges and their stiffs were all kept in the basement. The assistant coroners like to be able to look out a window once in a while as they cut, removed, and weighed organs and sliced into corpses of all shapes and sizes. She passed the double-doors leading into one of the two autopsy rooms, which looked more like a hospital operating room, and almost bumped into the Coroner as he pushed open one side with his head down, buried in a chart.

  “Jesus, Kramer, you tryin’ to add another body to your list?” Prole barked as she pulled up just in time. Dr. Kramer looked up distractedly and adjusted his glasses while wearing a quizzical look. Not used to the bifocals that required him to use the top parts to see things not literally under his nose, it took a moment for him to adjust. Though only ten years older than Prole, Kramer had the air and demeanor of a senior citizen. It was unintentional but effective. He was widely respected as a physician and meticulous coroner. Never ruffled in a court case or by the stream of prosecutors, defense attorneys, and reporters who hunted him down at home or on camping trips during the few hours each year he wasn’t in the office, he was slow-moving and smarter than most.

  “Detective Sunny, how nice to see you.” Prole hated her first name and should have disliked his use of it in addressing her in this odd way, but for some reason she didn’t quite understand, she didn’t mind. “I imagine you’re here to chat about Dr. Wick.”

  Prole didn’t bother suggesting they go to his office and look at the report. Kramer either had a photographic memory or too much time on his hands that allowed him to spend every waking moment reading and re-reading reports until they were memorized. He’d have all the information she needed in his head. They’d start with Wick and then get around to the other two bodies.

  She skipped the pleasantries, which didn’t faze the Coroner. “You’ve got a big window on time of death.”

  “Yes, well now, I believe I suggested death occurred some time between 9:30 p.m. and 1:30 a.m. Can’t really narrow it down much further with the information I have.” He said it kindly, without accusation.

  Prole got the message. “The wife isn’t talking about much of anything, but the one thing she said was that she saw him take his last breath. Just like that: ‘I saw him take his last breath.’ That was it before the lawyer shut her up.”

  “Did she mention what time it was?” Kramer’s question was asked with complete sincerity and lack of understanding of how real people behaved during crises.

  “Nah, I don’t think she jotted down the time or anything.” Prole rolled her eyes, “but the 911 call from the daughter came in at 11:43 p.m. so if the wife isn’t full of shit and the ice princess daughter didn’t catch a movie and a bite of dinner before calling 911, then we can narrow it down a little, ya think?”

  Kramer either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the exaggeration, though he’d raised an eyebrow at the expletive. “That is very useful information, Detective. Thank you – I will add that as an addendum to my report. Once you confirm the statements of the wife and daughter.” He smiled more broadly, happy to see Prole because she always sparked his day.

  “Anything else? You holding anything back, doc, or should we talk about the carcasses that came in the other day?”

  Kramer turned toward his office and started walking, assuming Prole would follow. She did. “My assistants did those autopsies and I haven’t reviewed the preliminary reports yet, so let’s go take a look together. Nothing else on Wick. Your information tells us exactly when the attack occurred, but that’s all we know.” He kept walking as if he’d just commented that the air conditioning was a little high in his office. Prole hurried her step and cut the distance between them. She pulled on his shoulder and he spun around, almost losing his grip on the papers in his hand.

  “You know what? What did you say?” She gave him a tight-lipped glare that was supposed to embarrass him into confession. His smile hadn’t changed and he was still thinking about the two new cases they were going to discuss.

  They stood in the hall as a couple of young women in white lab coats identical to Kramer’s, split and went around them. “Well, yes, of course I know that the attack occurred forty-one minutes before the time of death, give or take a minute or two.”

  Prole was incredulous. “Okay, sorry for being a dumbshit, but could you share with me how you have this amazing insight and why it’s not in the report?” Kramer took off his glasses and rubbed them absently against his coat.

  “Well, now, Detective, putting aside the fact that you are by no means a dumb…well, you know what I mean…the information is in the
report.” Prole gave him a withering stare that had no such effect. “I clearly state in the final autopsy report that the cause of death was asphyxiation due to accumulation of blood in the lungs. Given the single puncture wound to the lungs – the other penetrating wounds either hit bones, secondary vascular sites, or in the case of one wound – L5 – nicked the spinal cord – it was easy to calculate. Respiration for a man of that age, size, and condition, modified to reflect the trauma as well as the inhibition on the diaphragm’s operation due to the two non-lethal punctures what would have impaired breathing function, made it quite straightforward.”

  “Jesus Christ, Kramer, cut to the chase – how the hell do you know exactly when he was stabbed?”

  “Well, Sunny, in fact I don’t know exactly when he was stabbed the first time because I am not entirely sure how long the attack lasted or precisely what order the wounds were inflicted, though I must say I have a good guess since…” Prole made a rolling gesture with her hands to get him to make his point already. “Yes, okay, well now, my point is that assuming the attack occurred fairly rapidly and the blows all came in quick succession, then the amount of blood in the lungs tells me how long the victim lived after the attack. The single puncture wound would draw a certain amount of blood into the lungs, which is based primarily on respiration – how many breaths did he draw before death? Using the facts I’ve already shared with you, I calculated approximately 243 inhalations before death occurred. That converts to 41 minutes. I can show you my figures if you’d like, though the details are all in the report.” He seemed excited to get back to his office so he could show off the work he’d done.

  Prole gave him a quick clap on the back. “I’ll swing by later and talk to you about the other guys. I’ve got some stuff to do.” She turned and strode away. Kramer put his glasses back on and peered through the top half as Prole disappeared down the hallway. He liked her and thought the structure of her torso was particularly impressive, strong and resilient, supported by sturdy legs that might have been those of a sprinter. He thought his mother might enjoy meeting her some time, too, maybe for dinner one evening. If the good detective could watch her language a bit.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Henry’s Tacos sat on the corner of Cahuenga Blvd not far from an almost-hidden 101 freeway entrance in North Hollywood. Despite the name of the city, it was in the San Fernando Valley and the oppressive heat, socked in by the constant layer of smog, was heavier because of the glare of the early afternoon sun. Margolin’s gleaming black Mercedes reflected waves of heat, incongruously parked between a twenty-year-old brown pick-up that leaned heavily to the right either because of age or the stack of lawnmowers and ladders in the bed and an even older Toyota Corolla the color of mustard that had sat out in the sun too long. He watched, air conditioning blasting and barely deflecting the heat despite the tinted windows, as a black-and-white Sheriff’s cruiser did a U-turn in the middle of Cahuenga from the right lane. If there’d been any traffic in either direction, they’d have had to decide quickly whether to brake or flip off the single rider in the cruiser. Margolin instinctively looked at the line of half a dozen men waiting to order at the outside window of the taco stand, assuming they’d all seen the maneuver and would scatter. He didn’t consider it bigoted or racist to take for granted they were all illegals. No one moved. Neither did the families with kids or clusters of workers sitting at any of the five or six outdoor picnic tables that served as Henry’s sit-down dining area. Two men standing next to a trash can, hunched over slightly as they ate the fresh mix of pork or beef or whatever was in the meat stew that made the tacos a draw for all skin colors within twenty miles of downtown LA, cast quick glances at the Sheriff’s car but didn’t interrupt their meal. It disgusted Margolin to see these people sitting in the hot sun, feeding their faces, taking up space even though it was space Margolin had no interest in inhabiting.

  The cruiser pulled parallel to the Benz and stopped for a second. The driver gave Margolin a deadpan stare and then pulled ahead and parked against the red curb twenty feet up. Margolin always had trouble reading the LA County Sheriff and didn’t know whether he was supposed to wait, walk over and sit in the Sheriff’s car, or go get an order of the filthy tacos so he could watch the man drip juice and melted cheese onto his already-sweaty shirt and tie. He watched the driver’s door and after a minute it opened. The Sheriff didn’t get out. It seemed like every cop in the world took his time, letting trepidations build in the civilian population, the power of a gun on his belt and the authority to ruin your day something to be savored and played out. Sheriff Brant finally emerged, car door pushed out into the right-hand lane of Cahuenga so anyone coming in that direction would have to swerve or stop until he got out of the way. Brant looked around, reflective glasses bouncing the glare into any eyes that looked his way, and eased his way onto the curb. Without looking at any of the men in line, he walked up to the counter and nodded. Thirty seconds later he had a brown cardboard open-topped box and enormous drink container handed out from behind the window. Turning, still ignoring the paying patrons, he stood still and looked up at the sun, smiling. Burnt nose blistering for the hundredth time in this life, ruddy cheeks closely shaved and not too jowly, he took in the heat. Ten seconds later he was wrapping on Margolin’s passenger door with the heavy metal ring he wore on the index finger of his right hand, steam rising from the four engorged tacos in the box in his left hand, arm curled around the drink to keep it near his face and the straw stuck in his mouth. Margolin hit the Unlock button and there was a sudden rush of super-heated air battling for supremacy with the output of the air conditioner as Brant swung open the door and wedged himself into the front seat.

  “Ya want a taco before the shit hits the fan?” The smile didn’t soften the effect Brant intended to make, his large body in the small space, food and drink taking up room and oxygen. He was imposing and the butt of his gun was visible on his left hip, now pressed against the leather armrest Margolin was hoping would keep him from actually touching knees or hips with the Sheriff. “’Cause you and I got a whole lot of shit to talk about.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Felicia was almost out of cash and the greasy kid working the late shift at the front desk of the Motel 6, who’d thought he’d won the lottery last night when she gave him a hand job to let her stay the night, wasn’t on duty the next day. There was just enough for gas money and unless she could do some hooking at a truck stop along the interstate, she’d need to get somewhere within a quarter tank’s distance that would be safe. She’d rinsed her panties out in the stark bathroom and hung them across the paper lampshade by the bed, basking the room in a faint rose hue made more garish with the heavy drapes drawn and blotting out the mid-morning sun. A threadbare towel wrapped around her boyish hips and a brown pull-over that still had stains from last week’s scrounged meals kept her warm against the air conditioner she left at full blast. The sounds of the Six Flags amusement park across the freeway drifted through the curtains but a world away.

  Drops of water from the panties landed on the local section of the LA Times she’d forfeited fifty cents to buy from the machine out front when she couldn’t find one to steal at the motel entrance. Merrill Wick’s picture was on the third page, pulled from some archive or photo album, showing her during happier times. The splotches of water distorted the first paragraph, but the girl had already read enough. Wick was guilty, though they didn’t come out and say it. The only question was whether she was insane or evil. Felicia sat back down on the bed, head between hands, and looked down at the tatty carpet that hadn’t been vacuumed probably since before she was in high school, though that was only a couple of years. She absentmindedly picked at a scab on her knee, exposed by the short towel that hardly had enough material to encircle her narrow torso. The scab was old yet fresh, repeatedly pulled and scratched and worked over by ragged nails that tore at the skin. It was punishment, meted out over the years, done without thinking or conscious reas
on. A drop of blood fell to the carpet and immediately disappeared. Then another, and two more, coincidentally in the same rhythm as the water falling from the scrap of cloth resting on the lamp. She didn’t cry or make a sound at all. Just looked over at the picture as the puddle on the paper invaded Merrill’s face and turned the black and white image into a blob of newsprint where Merrill’s features could no longer be distinguished. The girl put both hands to her own face and rubbed, pressing hard against the eyes and cheeks, pushing hard and twisting the flesh. She didn’t stop as a firm knock on the door quickly erupted into an insistent pounding. The manager wasn’t going to let her eke out another night here.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Furyk left the salon with slightly shorter hair and plans for the evening. Tina had been between clients and given him a quick trim. She’d said it just like that, a quick trim, while shampooing his hair with long, slow strokes. The usual hair wash girl looked on with a pissed-off sour face. That was how she made her tips and worked her way up the ladder of the salon caste system: start as a sweeper, then on to washing hair, then you got a chair where you could do the dye jobs and fluff cuts that put real money in your pocket. But Tina had insisted. Furyk was glad for the long plastic sheet draped over his body, since the shampooing and Tina’s gravelly voice gave him a hard-on, not to mention the unavoidable cleavage that seemed to be right in front of his face the entire time. The actual haircut was anticlimactic but the thought that Tina would wear the same torn T-shirt and low-slung jeans to dinner that night made it a nice lull. He didn’t mention meeting cousin Carl.