Hard Bite

by Anonymous-9

  "Hello Doc. Nice to see you."

  "Same here." She fumbles with her harness.

  "First cable ride?"

  "Other than a tour of San Francisco, yes, this is my first." She gets the hooks unsnapped and gives him a grin.

  An involuntary belly-laugh escapes Doug. "You're okay, Miss Claire. Like to take a look at what we got here?"

  She follows him through the tall grasses, insects taking flight before their feet. They watch in silence as the photographer works, taking in the hideously decomposed corpse, bloated and blistered.

  Claire pulls a small recorder from her pocket and speaks into it quietly. "Classic example of autolusis, breakdown of cells and organs from aseptic chemical process caused by intracellular enzymes." She clicks it off."What do you think so far?"

  "Looks like a stab and dump, at first glance."

  "The stabbing happened elsewhere and then she got dumped off the cliff?"

  "Maybe. But, if she was already dead, why would anybody bother to throw the purse down with her?"

  "There's no sign of a struggle down here?"

  "No footprints, no blood spatter. Looks like she's still right where she landed."

  "The autopsy will say more."

  "Do your thing, and I'll run a check on her ID and see what comes up."

  Doug pulls out his cell and buzzes the Bureau. Finds out Sherryl Lynn Hastings was reported missing three days ago, though she hasn't been seen in six. Her car was found untouched, locked and parked at the beach in Santa Monica. Family back in Idaho waited a few days for her to show up, in case she had flown somewhere last minute for an acting audition. Calls to her cell phone went to voicemail and it lost power or was turned off, because no signal could be traced to a location. An extensive search of the beach revealed nothing, and no one had seen her sunbathing or at any of the concession stands that day.

  "Want me to contact Idaho, Cap?" Doug adds.

  "I'll do it," the Captain answers. "I'll have 'em notify the family too."

  "Tell them I'll be in touch for an interview."

  From the corner of his eye, Doug sees Claire putting on a putrefaction mask. Technically, that means there's going to be lots of cadaverine and mercaptides released as the body is readied for transport. Realistically, it means things are about to get smelly and gruesome. Getting Miss Hastings on the helicopter litter basket isn't going to be pretty.

  Doug returns his attention to the cell phone. "Looks like she's ready to go here, Captain."

  ***

  Winding down Tuna Canyon road behind the coroner van, sun flashes and plays along the hills and ravines. Doug tries to stay focused on the facts at hand and not give way to the dread tugging at his mind. An actress. An aspiring actress. An aspiring actress new in town. Anything less than ten years is new in town. It takes that long to learn the ropes, first in LA and then the way California works. As everybody else in the rest of America knows, nothing in California works quite the way it does in the rest of the country—from legal marijuana to sanctuary cities that protect gangsters and murderers just as well as it does plain law-abiding folks. Yes, in this cop's opinion, Cali marches to a very different set of bongos.

  The seascape of Malibu unfolds, blue as a supermodel's eye, just beyond the signal light at Pacific Coast Highway. Doug takes a left and tries to enjoy the view for a few moments. "Take a mental break whenever you can," his wife always urges him. He knows it's good advice—that a moment of respite lets the mind come back to a subject and see things in a fresh light. Unfortunately, fresh light doesn't always mean "good." He hopes Sherryl Lynn isn't in the percentage of actress-hopefuls who take a wrong turn out of necessity and end up "working in the Valley." "Working in the Valley" is a code phrase for the porn industry, a billion dollar cottage industry nestled in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. From experience, Doug knows that a murder investigation into the life of a young actress sometimes turns up secrets that everybody involved would rather not know. Girls who seem as wholesome as a peck of Idaho apples can lead high-risk lives after sunset. He really hopes for the family's sake, that this isn't so.

  The coroner van is already signaling at the Main exit off the 5. A few blocks of humps and bumps, and they make a right into the Department of Coroner. Claire continues around the block, where a team waits to take Sherryl Lynn to her new resting place. Doug parks and goes to sign in.

  Downstairs, autopsy bins and tables have just been cleaned. Doug gives a quiet prayer of thanks. Walk into the autopsy chambers of LADC at the wrong time and it could be confused with the abbatoir at a sausage factory, in spite of the small, neat sign attached to a cupboard that reads:

  Good housekeeping is everyone's responsibility.

  Please keep the area clean.

  Today so far, things are relatively quiet. He grabs a mask and puts it over his nose and mouth. Sherryl Lynn is still clothed. Claire collects small samples of hair and materials with a pair of tweezers, depositing each sample into small glass jars. She cuts the remaining clothes away from the body and performs a quick series of swabs that will reveal, after analysis, if Miss Hastings was raped or sexual assault was involved. Snapping the lid closed on the swab receptacles, it's time for a close look at Sherryl's arms and hands. "No defense wounds," she says abstractly, moving on to the nearest stab wounds. "Maggots." Taking a fine scalpel, she opens one of the entrance areas and gives no indication of the smell releasing from the opening. Doug reflexively tucks his tie inside his shirt. The room may have been clean when they started, but when probing begins on a body in decomp, it doesn't stay that way for long. No telling what will spray across the room.

  "I'm changing my mind about the stabbing," Claire announces, without lifting her eyes.

  "Huh, why?"

  "You know how raccoons have those long claws?"

  "Uh huh..." Where is she going with this?

  "I've seen this before. They like to make entry wounds in a cadaver and then come back later to scoop maggots out of the site." Claire smiles at Doug's wretched expression.

  "Sort of like takeout for coons?"

  "Possums do it too. They come back again and again to the body." She probes at another festering wound. "That's what it looks like to me. Anyway, I'll test the materials on her clothing, check the wound sites and wait for the coroner."

  "If she wasn't stabbed, what killed her?"

  "Most likely the fall. If toxicology comes back clean and internal injuries are consistent with a fall, then that's what most likely happened."

  Doug scratches his chin. "Could've been an accident? She sure wasn't robbed. But how did she get up there? Her car was parked in Santa Monica."

  "Let me know what you find. Right now, we're going to start cutting."

  "I'm leaving. I'll call the bureau and notify the family that it's not been deemed a homicide." He moves to go, then pauses. "You know, Doctor Claire, the first time I came to an autopsy, an ME came by and says to me, 'Don't worry, Doug, around here you won't have to lift a finger.' The guy reaches out and picks a severed thumb off my shoulder. A real severed thumb. Somebody put it there as a joke. That was my welcome around here."

  Claire's eyes twinkle. "Keepin' it light for you, Detective. That's the way we play it 'round here." One of the vials with hair in it is still in her hand. She shakes it at him. "Thanks for keeping a sense of humor."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ding dong morning time. Must've died and gone to hell by the looks of it. Ohhh. The dungeon. At Pebley Mansion. Now I remember. Sure is quiet in here compared to Washington Boulevard. Eyes adjust to the gloom. Cinda's wrapped in a sheet on the gurney. Sid snores gently, inside the human cage. Events from yesterday come back. The Silverado assassins. The clumsy attempt to hit me. Two guys against one in a wheelchair and a) they can't hit me with a truck, and b) they miss at close range with a rifle. I'm beginning to suspect the intervention of God. What a waste.

  My eyes roam over the dangerous walls. I recognize a few samurai katana swords an
d wakizashi daggers in the collection, some authentic, some reproductions. The jewel is an authentic Yasutsugu School blade from the early Shinto period, carved and signed by the maker. I've studied a little Bushido and read Miyamoto Musashi's The Book of Five Rings.

  Found out last night you can pluck any piece off the wall and handle it. We have to be real careful in here with Sid.

  It's so quiet inside these stone walls—conducive for a good think. My mind roams over how Bushido warrior conduct inspired the code of the vigilante. Thugs kill randomly, or for anyone who pays them to kill—probably the modus operandi of the two stooges from yesterday, whoever they are. There might be some code for their band of thugs but it doesn't extend outside their clan. Rape, murder and pillage are fine outside their own community. Not so the knight, the samurai and the vigilante. Vigilantism is a response to the failure of law enforcement. The vigilante bridges a gap between violation and justice, a perp and his punishment. It's nothing new. I'm nothing new. I've said it before and I'll say it again: The circumstance I found myself in—broken in bed, crushed like a worm—gave birth to Vigilante Cripple Man so he could roll justice across Los Angeles, one hit-and-run driver at a time.

  Anyway, I can sleep in or I can apply energy to what really counts, my work. Even if we're on the lam, I need to keep working. I try to be quiet and reach for the backpack with the phone in it, but it bumps and rustles. Cinda wakes.

  "What are you doing?" One of her eyes squints at me.

  "I need to check my email."

  She looks at me like I'm daft. Takes a deep breath. "Dean, we need to get out of here."

  "We just got here. Your idea, by the way."

  "Out of Los Angeles."

  I know she's right. But I can't do it on my own and don't want to ask her.

  "You should leave me here now. Get out while you can."

  "I can't."

  I've never seen the set of her mouth like that. Seen it before in my wife, though. It means "not moving."

  "Why? I'll be gone sooner or later anyway. You know that. Save yourself."

  "We can still have some time together… until you go."

  There it is on the table. She's saying she won't leave. A strong man would drive her off, make her leave for her own good. A strong man would slap her silly. Instead I say, "I have cash in a safety deposit box at the bank. We can grab the cash and go."

  "Let's do it now."

  "Baby, it's Sunday. We just need to hang out till tomorrow morning when the bank opens."

  A couple of tears fall from her eyes but she wipes them away and straightens up. "I'll go back to my place and get a few things."

  ***

  While Cinda is out, a tap comes on the door. "Señor, is okay to clean the room?" I call out, "Sure, come on in." A lady with a bucket filled with spray bottles and cloths gives me a cheery smile. "Hola!" She props the door wide open. I guess that's the signal for Sid and I to vacate. It's a good time to take Sid out for a walk anyway. Get him acquainted with the environs of Pebley Mansion.

  ***

  Orella's heels click on the tile as she throws a jacket over her shoulders and marches to the front door. "Help me with the dogs," she says to Luis.

  She's not dressed for dog walking. Not in that pencil skirt with her hair teased high and curled. She looks ready for a Beverly Hills cocktail party. "Where you going?" he asks.

  "Bel Air."

  "With our dogs?"

  "That's where he is."

  Luis looks stupefied. "Where who is?"

  "Luis, think! We have eyes over the whole city. Our people clean homes, they take care of buildings and properties."

  "Some cleaning lady called you with a tip about the wheelchair guy?"

  "He's not hard to spot. A cash reward helped."

  "Bel Air! They got armed guards, surveillance. The streets are all the way up in the hills. There's no place to run."

  "You think I'm stupid?" She gives him a warning smile that could frost chilies.

  "No Mama."

  "Good. Because I don't want you to worry. Now help me with the dogs."

  She bustles to the back door. Luis exits behind her.

  "What gun you taking?" he asks.

  "After what happened to you, I'm going to use a gun?"

  On the top of the trash can is an empty vacuum-wrap package. Luis stares at the label: Certified Monkey Meat. Product of Argentina. He looks at the dogs waiting expectantly in their pen. "You been feeding them this?"

  "They love it."

  "There's none left. They're hungry right now."

  "I know that Luis. I'm taking them to breakfast."

  ***

  It's a beautiful day at Pebley Mansion. My chair makes slow progress on the gravel, but there's a winding cement walk skirting the building that isn't too bad. Sid wears his collar and leash, walking alongside my chair. I may be imagining it, but Bel Air clouds appear fluffier and whiter against the brilliant blue sky than they do in Venice. The mansion's carved front doors are wide open and a mop and bucket brigade is in full deployment.

  Sid and I are almost at the grand front steps when we see them. The front gate is just closing—I catch a glimpse of a big SUV, a woman standing beside it, but my attention is drawn to two large pit bulls, walking unescorted through the gate as it closes behind them. One is brindle brown with half of a left ear. The other is black with a white stripe around its eye like a bad Mike Tyson tattoo. They're heading for us. It doesn't take a genius to figure trouble's coming. I reach to release Sid's leash, but he's already got it. The little bastard secretly knows how to unhook himself.

  The pits catch Sid's scent and break into a lope. "RUN!" I scream. Sid skitters like hell but he's no match for well-muscled dogs. They're gaining, kicking up gravel as they run, digging in for traction with their powerful chests. Sid takes a hard left and shoots up the stone steps, through the front doors and into the grand foyer. Screams—a bucket of soapy water flies out the door and overturns down the stairs, soaking the dogs. They don't slow for an instant, right on Sid's heels. Sid takes a flying leap onto a suit of medieval armor.

  Attached to the arm of the suit is a mace, one of those ancient clubs with the iron spikes all over the ball at the end. The dogs are right below, baying and snapping. Sid scrambles to the shoulder of the suit, knocks the helmet off. A hundred grand worth of historic hardware bounces across the floor. This enrages the pits and they start jumping at the suit, pushing at it with their paws. Sid holds on with all four hands but the steel is slippery. The dogs know they're onto a good thing. They jump at it harder and harder until it rocks crazily. Sid screams as the whole thing goes over. SMASH, it pins the brown pit's front paw on a spike. Blood spurts from his crushed limb. Frenzied, he gnaws at his own leg.

  In a flash, Sid takes a long bound over the head of the black pit and flies down the steps. The black pit gives chase. I roll forward and block the dog for a split second which gives Sid a tiny advantage. He speeds for the back of the mansion and our dungeon. I roll frantically that way. Screams come from the cleaning woman inside and she rounds the corner waving a towel. I arrive just in time to see Sid cornered on the back wall, screeching bloody murder and clinging to the wooden torture rack. It's solid and sturdy, won't tip over, but the ceiling is low in here and the slavering pit leaps higher and higher, saliva dripping. One more jump and he's going to have Sid between his teeth.

  The katana dagger is right beside me. I snatch it off the wall and throw. BOING, it stabs into the wood a foot away from Sid. In a flash Sid grabs it, and as the pit makes another jump, Sid shoves the blade right down the dog's throat. A sickening howl, a mighty belch of blood. The dog falls to the floor, gargling on the contents of his own artery.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sources connected to the disappearance of Sherryl Lynn Hastings tell us authorities found her body yesterday, deep in Tuna Canyon. Sherryl Lynn, an actress with commercial credits for Diet Zero drink and Tidy White Cleanser was breaking into films and well-kno
wn to casting directors. "She had the kind of fresh looks and appeal that America loves," said veteran agent, Dolores Rhinegold, of Academy Booking Agency.

  Pulling up at the Department of Coroner, Miles Davis and John Coltrane aren't quite finished blowing blue. Doug kills the Charger's motor anyway and goes to sign in. He finds Claire in a basement office.

  "The lab analyzed the hair," Claire states. "Raccoons made those wounds on her body, it wasn't a stabbing. The DNA found birds, squirrels, rats and one unidentified hair. Everything checked except this one." She holds up a vial with a dark brown hair. "I remembered seeing another hair similar. So I went back and checked samples from the dog-kill case. There was a beige and brown hair. Scale patterns of the cuticle and meduellan index are identical. I'd say these hairs probably came from the same animal."

  "Was that one tested?" Doug points to the first vial.

  "Yes, but only for what it isn't. It was matched with all the common animal hair, including others at the scene, and it's definitely not any of the normal animals found in that locale."

  "Not from a dog?"

  " Nope, the lab is sure."

  "Mind if I check those vials out?"

  "All yours."

  ***

  Dr. Anita Lemberg holds both vials to the fluorescent light and squints at them, turning the tiny hairs this way and that. Finally, she places the vials on her stainless steel exam table and shrugs her shoulders. "No clue, Doug. I could guess, but your guess would be as good as mine. I would normally say this looks like a dog hair—a husky puppy or an Alsatian. But that's already been disproved by the lab. They say it's not a dog. So my wild stab is that this is some kind of exotic animal."

  Doug raises a brow. "Meaning?"

  "Meaning I'd head to the LA Zoo and inquire there."

  ***

  "I'm sorry Detective, the Chief Veterinarian's been called over to the giraffe compound," the sympathetic receptionist explains. "A Masai baby is birthing, and the mother's having a hard time."