American Nocturne

by Hank Schwaeble

  Knowing Vincenzo would yank the story out from under me as soon as word of a dead body reached his impish ears, I made a bee-line for South Grand. When I arrived, police cars had jammed the sides of the street and blocked off entry to the parking garage. Several cops were clearing a lane for the coroner’s wagon. I tried to pull in behind it, but my Mustang apparently didn’t look official enough. The cop who stopped me curled the edges of his mouth down as I flashed my press ID and shook his head as if I’d showed him an ACLU card.

  Of course, if I gave up that easily I’d have found another line of work years ago. The Pacific Coast Philharmonic had a huge concert hall housed in a building that made me wonder if the architect had dropped too much acid in his youth. Irregular domes of chrome and glass jutted in odd directions like fragments of a giant beer bottle. The police were crawling all over the entrance to that postmodern monstrosity, but I noticed a smaller, connected building that did not seem quite so secure. I marched over to get a better look and had a hunch that was where the business offices would be. I also knew the farther from the scene something was, the less a priority the department would place on securing it. I have socks older than the cop they stationed at the entrance. He stopped me, but I acted impatient and in a hurry and he was confused enough by my credentials to let me pass. A lollipop would have worked just as well. Rookies. You got to love ’em.

  The inside of the building was the corporate equivalent of a fern bar. The center was dominated by an atrium with paths of colored pebbles criss-crossing through clusters of leafy plants. I walked to the back of the building and searched for a way into the concert hall. Finding none, I headed back to the elevator and tried the second floor.

  The stench was nauseating as I passed the first set of offices. I assumed there had been a sewage back-up recently, since the smell of rotten eggs hung in the air like a fog. Ahead I came up on a janitor tending to a yellow pool of goo. He slathered a mop-full of sudsy water onto the carpet, drenching it. The sharp, pungent fumes of a cleaning solution quickly overtook the other odor.

  “Mopping the carpet?” I asked.

  “Got to lay it on thick to kill the smell,” he said. He was a black man with a huge jaw and huge hands. “Got to get things in shape for the big concert. This mix might even be able to get the stain out’ your shirt, if you want to give it a try.”

  I clamped my nose shut and politely declined as I kept walking.

  Beyond the offices, a set of glass doors caught my attention, but I was quickly forced to divert my path as I saw Lt Sanchez and several uniformed officers on the other side of them. They were escorting a distinguished-looking gentleman in a dark suit and heading my way. The man was tall and lean and impeccably arrayed, with perfectly coiffed hair and a goatee that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but that he managed to pull off. They came through the doors like a task-oriented conga line. I doffed my hat and leaned against the parapet, playing the part of the world’s number one atrium fan before any of them could take notice of me. Fortunately, the group headed in the opposite direction.

  The tall man with the patch glanced back over his shoulder and I turned away again to look out over the atrium. He made a comment to the others that his office was just up ahead, and I heard him mention the staff had been given the day off in anticipation of the hectic week ahead. That explained why the building was so deserted.

  As the voices disappeared behind a set of doors, I slid along the edge a few steps. I managed to hear the man with the patch say, “The young lady finished a private reading in here with me first thing this morning. Poor girl was way out of her league. The audition’s recorded on tape. I can give you a copy, so long as I don’t have to listen to it again. I’m sorry to say, she was dreadful.”

  I stared down into the atrium for a few more seconds, waiting to make sure they were out of sight. I noticed some large fragments of glass on the stone paths. Glancing up, I saw one of the huge slanted panes was missing. A few jagged, glinting shards jutted out from the metal frame.

  Hoping none of LA’s finest looked back, I slipped through the double doors and wandered through a maze of hallways, passing studios and classrooms and storage areas, until I reached a bank of elevators. I took one to the ground floor and stepped out into a huge lobby. The main entrance was to my right, so I veered left and stepped up to a row of tall doors that opened into a vast circular auditorium, with a semi-translucent ceiling high enough for bungee jumping. The exits on the far side looked to be in the general direction of the parking garage, so I made my way through the aisles.

  The first exit I tried opened into the bright late-morning sun and led to an area behind the parking garage. A stretch of grass with a row of date palms spanned the distance behind the garage from the concert hall to the street corner, running the length of the remainder of the street to the right. The back of the garage was to the left, with its concrete walls four feet high extending between a set of gigantic round stanchions. At the end of the stretch of grass, two cops were sharing a laugh, facing the street, not looking back. Over the short wall, I could see the blue and white county coroner’s van, affectionately known as the ‘meat wagon’.

  I walked up to the wall and snapped some photos as one of the men from the van spread open a body bag. Too many people were milling around to get a clear look, but when they lifted the body, I saw a young woman with a face caked in blood and two gristly, shadowy orbits where eyes would normally be. About that same time I noticed the sewage problem wasn’t limited to the administrative offices.

  After snapping a few more pictures, I decided to see if I could find any witnesses lingering around the concert hall. When I turned around, all I saw were two blue chests. Each had a shiny badge pinned to it.

  * * *

  “We found this guy sneaking around the back of the garage, Lieutenant.”

  I had managed to gain entrance to the crime scene, but not the way I had intended. One of the cops who found me had me in a pincer grip just above my elbow. He squeezed it extra-tight for a moment before he let go, lifting me just enough so that I stumbled forward.

  “Hey! I thought you only did that to motorists,” I said, rubbing my arm. I looked at Lieutenant Sanchez and smiled widely. “I mean, can’t we all just get along?”

  “That’s okay, Maloney.” Sanchez’s eyes locked on to mine, burning with apathy. Beautiful green apathy. “Mr Kolchak was just leaving. Weren’t you, Mr Kolchak?”

  Miranda Sanchez was as close to a Latin love-goddess as an LAPD detective would likely ever come. She had long curves of shimmering onyx hair that framed her face like a glamorous advertisement, a body that showed fat only where God could have possibly meant for it to be, and a smile that had every swinging Dick Tracy and Joe Friday in the region begging to be Mirandized. Despite a few run-ins, I can honestly say I’d never seen her angry with me. Would ‘twere I could incite any such passion in a woman like that.

  “Of course I was,” I said. “But as I’m making my exit, would you mind telling me what happened to the young lady’s eyeballs?”

  Still rubbing my elbow, I took the opportunity to look beyond the lovely detective as I spoke, taking in the surroundings. Uniformed cops were in abundant supply. A guy in a short-sleeve button-down shirt with a pocket-protector was taking pictures of something on the ground, but I couldn’t make out what it was. Farther off, a man in a checkered sportcoat was talking to a well-dressed younger man who looked to be in his twenties. The younger man looked slightly effeminate and very serious. I caught his eye briefly and he looked away. The man in the sportcoat scribbled something in a notepad every time the younger man spoke.

  “And who’s that guy over there?” I asked, filling the momentary silence. “C’mon, Lieutenant. At least give me a hint about how the poor girl died.”

  “That is Phillip Ashcroft. He’s the assistant to the director. He discovered the body. As for the young woman, the department will be releasing a statement, Kolchak. You know the drill.”
>
  “Yeah, that I do...” I snapped my fingers. “Drill! So you’re saying somebody drilled her eyes out! Perfect! The Black-and-Decker Killer! Thanks, Lieutenant! What a gal. A page one exclusive.”

  She screwed her lips into a terse pucker and lowered her eyes. A tiny shake of her head was meant to let me know how disappointed she was in me.

  “I didn’t say any such thing,” she said.

  “Right. ‘Unnamed source close to the investigation’. You know you can count on me.”

  Sanchez tossed her head back. She seemed to stare at the cement above for a moment, her hands shoved into the stealthy pockets of her suit-skirt. At first I thought she was getting mad, and what may have been a twinkle of pride buzzed through me. Then I realized she was just calculating.

  “No one knows about the eyes, Kolchak. Let her family deal with it first. Let them start to cope before it becomes tabloid fodder. Please.”

  That was low, insincere, insulting, and effective. It was also part of the game.

  “Never let it be said that Carl Kolchak is insensitive,” I said. “And I’ll tell my editor that in the spirit of all this mutual cooperation I was informed… what, exactly?”

  Sanchez parted her lips and smiled in that ambiguous way only pretty women can. “The woman died sometime between nine am and ten am this morning. A Haz-Mat team was here earlier and did their thing before we started processing. It’s not ebola or anything like that. And the coroner’s investigator is already close to ruling out foul play.”

  “What? No foul play? What about the eyes, then? And all that blood?”

  “Animals, Carl. Birds, most likely. It appears a large flock of birds became confused, took a wrong turn into the garage, and panicked. The victim probably had an aneurism, or embolism.”

  “Birds? You mean, giant killer birds?”

  “Hardly. We’re talking about small birds. Several died in the confusion. Starlings. Or so some of my people tell me.”

  “And they ate her eyes?”

  “This is all post-mortem, remember. A deal’s a deal, Carl. Nothing about the eyes. Okay? You got more than you deserve, so if you don’t mind, I need to wrap up this scene.”

  “Okay. One more thing, Miranda. What is that awful smell? It’s all over this place.”

  “This is LA. There’s always something rotten around, Carl.”

  I nodded and walked out toward the bright street, telling the cop escorting me to take his knuckles off my arm and to put them back on the ground where they belong. I thought about Sanchez’s last comment as I drove away, and took some consolation in the knowledge that at least one thing she told me was true.

  Sometime after lunch I quietly turned in a story about the body being found. I kept my word to Vincenzo. Since I couldn’t even wrestle a name out of the bureaucracy, even from my usually reliable sources, the piece was short. The rest of the day saw me bounce between my computer, the LA Observer’s morgue, and the downtown branch of the public library.

  Fact: European starlings first arrived in this county in 1890 and have since spread nationwide.

  Fact: No known case of starlings attacking a person has ever been reported.

  Item: The smell of rotten eggs is a signature odor of sulphur.

  Item: Sulphur is a common name for brimstone.

  Those last two tidbits came from boredom. I did an internet search for ‘rotten eggs’ and ‘odor’, knowing there was something about that smell that wasn’t right. Maybe I was making some inferential leaps. But I wasn’t finding any other way to bridge the gaps.

  I swung back by the office late in the day. Vincenzo was on the phone and he caught sight of me through the door to his office. He covered the bottom of the handset and barked my name in a loud whisper.

  “No, dear,” he said into the phone. “Yes, dear. Thirty minutes. Yes, dear.”

  He hung up and sighed before turning his attention to me. I was standing in his doorway, rocking on my heels.

  “Yeah, Tony. What’s up?”

  “Carl, I heard about the death at the symphony this morning. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’re a busy man, Tony. I did a brief write-up. Just the way I thought you’d want it.”

  “Yes, Carl. I saw. I commend you on your restraint. It was very… factual. For a change. How is the symphony article coming?”

  “Fine, Tony. I’ve been researching symphony-related stuff all afternoon.”

  “Good. Very good. Look, Carl. My sister-in-law happened to call this afternoon and I promised my wife that autograph was as good as signed. Again. To make it easy on you, I made a few calls myself, pulled a few strings, and I got you an appointment with Von Mueller for tomorrow morning at ten am. At his hotel. Please, please don’t screw this up.”

  “Don’t worry, Tony. I’m all over it.”

  I heard him grumble a thank you. There was something going on with him I didn’t quite get. There seemed to be a lot of that going around.

  My line was ringing when I reached my desk. It was Francine Collingsworth, calling to say she saw my story and was pleased.

  “I just wanted to thank you, Mr Kolchak. Finally, the truth is getting out.”

  “Yes, well, I’m taking a lot of heat, Ms Collingsworth. You neglected to mention your tenure at a psychiatric institute.”

  “They stuck me in there. After they drove my husband to an early grave contesting the will. Because I was sick of their plotting and scheming, because I stood up to them, they called me crazy and had me committed. Bastards.”

  I was surfing the net as we spoke, only paying partial attention to the conversation. That affair didn’t seem half as important as it had this morning.

  “Yes, Ms Collingsworth. But I don’t appreciate being used to get even.”

  “You haven’t been used if it’s all true, Mr Kolchak. Not the way you’re thinking.”

  “Maybe it is true, but I can’t prove it, and your cousin won’t return my calls, the one who gave me that blanket corroboration. It turns out he’s had business disputes with your late husband’s family himself. So this whole thing has zero credibility now.”

  “If it’s more proof you want, Mr Kolchak, I can give it to you. I can point you to a witch they approached to have the curse countered. She contacted me a few weeks ago and told me about it.”

  “Contacted you? Why would she do that?”

  “Because, Mr Kolchak… I was the witch who cast the hex in the first place.”

  * * *

  Francine Collingsworth owned a little bungalow in Manhattan Beach. It had been her weekend home before her husband died. Francine blamed his death on a nasty fight with his family over a will. Benjamin’s father had tried to leave all his shares in the business empire he had built to Benjamin. This was not well received by the rest of the family. Ben Collingsworth had left home at eighteen, skipped Stanford in favor of a community college, and spent his days writing poetry on the beach. When he married Francine, he was working at a used book shop. She had no idea he was a potential heir to a billionaire. Apparently, when he reached the end of his life, Harlen Collingsworth decided he wanted to leave control of his wealth-machine to the one person who proved he didn’t want it.

  Ben defended the will as matter of principle, according to Francine, but died before the dispute was resolved. The family won, and the Collingsworth fortune passed through intestate succession. Most of the estate was divided among nine children. Francine received several million. She kept enough to live on, gave the rest to charity. All she wanted was her husband back. And some revenge.

  She was waiting for me in the doorway when I arrived. I took a seat in her living room, which could only be described as new-age chic. Francine herself was decked out in beads, a flowing white gown with a flowery pattern embroidered around the neck, and a crème-colored silk scarf covering her head and tied off to the side, gypsy-style. Anyone could tell she was someone who at heart was a beautiful, free spirit, uncomfortable with her role as a bitter, aggrieved w
idow.

  I listened to her story, how she became immersed in the occult following her husband’s death, how she used her stock in the company to demand audits, propose shareholder initiatives, and generally to be a pain in the ass of the rest of the family. Committing her was a way of forcing a sale of her shares.

  “So I cursed them, Mr Kolchak. Every damn one of them.”

  “And this curse again… you said before it involved sins being revisited?”

  “Yes. Every time they screw someone over – in life, in business – someone in their family will suffer an identical fate.”

  “Poetic.”

  “I thought so.”

  “And this other witch? Mehitobel what’s-her-name… some of the other family members went to her?”

  “Yes. She told them they had to counter their transgressions by doing good deeds. We shared quite a laugh. She knew I’d appreciate it.”

  “And she’ll talk to me?”

  “She’s expecting you to contact her.”

  I flipped my notepad shut and thanked her.

  “Let me ask you something, Francine,” I said as I took a few steps toward the door with her. I fanned a hand at the extensive collection of books adorning the many shelves of her living room. “You seem to be a learned student of the occult. Does the presence of brimstone mean anything to you?”

  “I don’t understand your question.”

  “Let’s say if a person dies, and there’s the smell of brimstone around. Maybe even quantities of the stuff. Would that signify anything?”

  “Well, I’m a Wiccan, Mr Kolchak, not a necromancer. But, I can tell you that brimstone is historically associated with conjuring.”

  “Conjuring? You mean like, spirits?”

  “I mean, like demons. How did you say the person died?”

  “I didn’t. All I know is she was missing her eyes.”

  “Well, in that case, I would say you are definitely dealing with a demon.”