Burden of Truth

by Terri Nolan

  “You sound like you’re trying to make it fit.”

  “The coroner will determine the manner of death.”

  “Based on your report.”

  “And the evidence collected by Jacob. By the way, I’m coming to L.A. on Wednesday. I’ll be attending the funeral Thursday.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ll prove my conclusion and disprove all other explanations. I’m crossing my Ts and dotting my Is. May I come by your place on Wednesday?”

  “Why?”

  “Same reason.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t care what you say. A dead man left behind a clear message to decipher. So, by all means, come to town, make sure you have it straight because I’m going to be on your back, Detective Hughes.”

  “I must warn you. I have a Saker watching my back.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Maybe one day you’ll find out.”

  “Your attitude is condescending. And I find your dismissal to be offensive.”

  “I apologize. Look, your friend’s death has no sinister connotations. Don’t create something out of nothing.”

  “If you’re a good detective, you’d check out all the angles.”

  He snorted with impatience. “I know my job. You sound more like a spurned lover than a concerned friend.”

  That was closer to the truth than he knew.

  seven

  Birdie traced a finger across the etched name in the granite monument. WHELAN. Only one marker graced the family plot. Mary Junior. Frank and Mary kept having sons until they were blessed with a daughter. Unfortunately, the child was stillborn and Mary would conceive no more. People don’t think of death until it happens. So Frank bought the biggest plot available in a Catholic facility in which to inter his family. There was room for thirty-six Whelans and Mary Junior would soon have company.

  Holy Cross Mortuary was located on Slauson Avenue next to the cemetery in Culver City. A depressing place full of soft sobs and morose voices. Fake roses scented with perfumed oil couldn’t mask the stale air. Soft piano music filtered through hidden speakers. Birdie glanced through an open doorway into a visitation room. A mourning family, clutching paper programs, sat awkwardly in padded folding chairs lined up in front of a flower-laden casket.

  A woman with a sad smile approached and offered a program.

  “I’m here on another matter,” Birdie whispered. She held up her press credentials. Oftentimes it opened doors because reporters are hunter gatherers, truth seekers, unlike cops who can legally lie. “Is Parker Sands available?”

  She glanced down at the ID and squinted. “Your name?”

  “Elizabeth Keane.”

  The lady dropped the programs onto a round table and exited through a wood-paneled door. A few minutes later she opened another door and motioned Birdie over. “Please have a seat. Mr. Sands will be right with you.”

  On the walnut desk sat a brochure: The Catholic Family Funeral Guide. Birdie imagined a friendly man sitting across the desk. He’d talk about the importance of musical compositions. He’d provide binders with full-color photographs of caskets and flower arrangements. He’d start with the plainest selection and flip through the book until the family settled on the best and upgraded to the $40,000 fancy model with the real silk lining.

  Birdie cupped the snow photo in her hand and studied the face of the man who walked into the room. It was him. He offered his hand. “Hello, Ms. Keane. I’m Parker Sands. You’re inquiring about Matt Whelan? Were you a friend?”

  “Yes. I understand you are as well.” She slid the photo across the desk.

  Sands picked it up as he sat. “Where did you get this?”

  “At his house in Lake Henshaw. Have you ever been there?”

  “No.”

  Birdie took out a reporter’s notebook and a pen. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Who are you exactly?”

  “Elizabeth Keane. Matt’s best friend.”

  “I thought Jacob Hoy was his best friend.”

  “So you know Jacob.”

  “Yes. We all went to St. Bonaventura together.” His eyes dropped

  to the ID hanging around her neck. “Why are you here?”

  “I’d like to see his body.”

  “There is no viewing scheduled.”

  “That’s wrong,” she said, losing her composure. “They’re usually on the day before burial.”

  Sands clasped his hands. “Viewing the departed gives closure to those who grieve, but his brother, Junior, gave us explicit instructions based on Matt’s wishes.”

  “I understand. In lieu of a formal viewing will you let me look at him?”

  Sands had a practiced smile. “As a licensed mortician I cannot permit that.”

  “You embalm bodies and prepare them and dress them for burial. Just a peek?”

  “I’m sorry, but your request is not sanctioned by the laws, restrictions, and common practices of my profession. I wouldn’t even allow it for his family.”

  “Junior is his brother.”

  “He’s a priest who performs a religious service.”

  The conversation wasn’t going the way she intended. Time to regroup. “It must have been strange to receive a body of someone you know.”

  Sands’ shoulders relaxed. “It was a shock when Matt’s father called. Junior seemed especially grieved when he arrived with the body. Matt survived near fatal gun shots and ended up dying from an accidental drug overdose. What are the odds?”

  Birdie stiffened. There hasn’t been an official proclamation of death. “Who told you that Matt died from an accidental drug overdose?”

  Sands’ right eye twitched. “I believe Junior did. He must’ve heard it from Jacob.”

  “And he used that exact wording? Not overdose? Not undetermined?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Please don’t be offended,” said Birdie, “but I’ve never heard Matt mention you.”

  “Matt and I were casual friends. Our paths have rarely crossed since school.”

  “So, you’re a gun nut like Matt?”

  “No.”

  “Then how is it you ended up on Mammoth Mountain on the exact day with a bunch of members of a gun association?”

  “I was Jacob’s guest. We keep in closer contact.”

  “Have you spoken with Jacob in the last day?”

  “He called sometime after Junior arrived. He said to take extra care of Matt. I would anyway, but I think it gave Jacob some comfort to express it.” Sands abruptly stood up. “I really must go now. I have a family to attend to.”

  _____

  Birdie licked the powder from a stick of orange Fruit Stripe before folding it in thirds and sucking it. She set the timer on her phone to see how long it took to start chewing—a little game to distract her from the demon on the office wall called a dry erase board. The massive white board was where she made notations for her work; a place to riddle out the puzzles of a crime or keep track of timelines or beats to a story. It represented the vast wilderness of nothingness her life had become when she lost her voice—her work—since becoming sober. It lay hidden underneath a roll-up shade of gray metallic fabric—but even covered, the empty board taunted her.

  She convinced herself to roll up the screen just to see what would happen. When the walls didn’t come tumbling down she picked up a black Expo marker and wrote.

  The process to find truth is methodical, precise, and provable.

  Intuition is not evidence!

  A good start she determined. So she continued.

  Matt = suicide → pain relief? self-punishment? why promise Birdie?

  accident = accident

  Key = unlocks s
ecret thing/sin → why be sneaky?

  Layout of gun, wallet, cell, keys = notice same amount of money @ two locations.

  $89.30 = ?

  She circled $89.30 and rewrote it.

  89 30 = coordinates? reference?

  8930 = code? pin? suffix? password? address?

  As soon as she wrote “address” she dropped the marker and jumped back in surprise. Her eyes shot to the Paige Street mobile hanging from the bookcase. In the sun position was a piece of tin stamped with 8930 Paige Street. The house where the incident took place.

  There must be new information regarding the cold case. Something Matt wanted her to know.

  eight

  Monday, January 9

  Day 241. Just one more. The rising sun shone pink through a crack in the storm clouds. Birdie opened the front door to the sharp scent of wet grass and clean, smog-free air. She took a deep breath of it, pulled it down into her lungs. She took another, sat on the damp brick of her front porch, and picked up the Los Angeles Times. She flipped to the obituaries just as a Crown Victoria pulled in the driveway.

  Her dad, Gerard Keane, stepped out from the passenger side of the vehicle. His adjutant, a Sergeant II—three pointy stripes and a curved one at the bottom, called a rocker, on his sleeve—rolled down the window and waved. She waved back.

  Gerard was captain of Hollywood Station and had been a suit for the bulk of his police career so she was surprised to see him in uniform. He always presented a rugged youthfulness when he wore it. The sun hit his full head of silvery-white hair, creating a halo of light. Premature gray hair and clear blue eyes were a familial trait all the men shared. It was a shockingly good-looking combination.

  A smile of pride split Birdie’s face and she wolf whistled. “My, my, my. Look at my handsome father. I do believe, sir, that you’re walking with a bit of swagger. Is that because you’re wearing the blue today?”

  He laughed and sat next to her. Gave her a hug and kiss. She leaned into him. He had a quiet strength that emanated from deep within. It gave her a feeling of safety.

  “What brings you out here?” she said.

  Gerard handed her a white paper bag. “Running on fumes?”

  When was the last time she ate? Saturday morning?

  “There’s an egg sandwich in there.” He noticed the open paper and frowned. “Don’t be reading his obit. You know who Matt was.”

  “It’s not in here anyway.” She folded the paper closed. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  Gerard put a condoling arm around her shoulder and kissed her head.

  “You really came out here to bring me food?”

  “Just wanted to see how my girl was doing.”

  “You wanted to see if Matt’s death sent me back to the bottle.”

  “Can’t fool the reporter. Mom and I missed you at Mass. You okay?”

  “Define okay. I got notified of Matt’s death and immediately drove to Henshaw House. I looked at the scene, met the detective in charge. Yesterday, Frank Senior beckoned me to the house and introduced me to Matt’s lawyer.”

  Gerard nudged her. “You’ve been too busy to hit the bottle. Whatever helps, sweetheart.”

  “Frank actually touched me. Took my hands.”

  “Really? Did his son’s death thaw the ice king?”

  “Something melted.”

  “Why the lawyer?”

  “Matt left me his estate. I’m his heir.”

  Gerard whistled. “What a class act.”

  “The lawyer is from a Beverly Hills law firm. He’ll be coming by today to bring me some boxes of stuff that belonged to Matt. Papers need signing. Lawyerly business.”

  “Your mom will be happy to help.”

  “I’ll call if I need it. Was Father Frank the celebrant yesterday?”

  “No. Father Gabriel said he’s on bereavement. He’ll be back Wednesday.”

  “Being a priest doesn’t spare him the heartache of losing a beloved brother. Why the uniform today?”

  “Wearing it all week in honor of Matt.” He touched the black band around the badge on his breast.

  She decided to run the money amount past her dad. Verify and double check. “Does eighty-nine dollars and thirty cents mean anything to you? Maybe a monetary value for something specific or a police code?”

  Gerard thought a moment. “Hmm. N.I.R.” It was a running family joke. N.I.R. is LAPD shorthand for “no independent recollection.” It was also Keane shorthand for “I don’t know.”

  “8930 is the Paige Street address.”

  “Is that so? Why is it relevant?”

  “Matt left that amount of money in his truck and the exact amount in his kitchen.”

  “Probably a coincidence.” Gerard flinched. Matt’s anal nature was legendary. “Mom’s hosting her card group tomorrow night. I’ve been ordered out of the house. How about dinner with your old man at the Westend like we used to?”

  “Sounds good. Six o’clock?”

  “Perfect.” He kissed his daughter on the nose. “Okay. It’s off to work for me. I love you, sweetheart.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  _____

  Birdie flipped through a worn copy of The Los Angeles Police Department Manual that she’d filched from her Uncle Louis’ basement—a place she was forbidden to be in the first place. The theft cost her a month’s allowance and worth every cent. The manual became an invaluable resource during her crime reporting days.

  Under VOLUME 3 – MANAGEMENT RULES AND PROCEDURES, numbered headings listed 890 and 895. No 893, nor 8930. Skipping ahead to VOLUME 4 – LINE PROCEDURES the highest numerical heading was 871.

  Well, the numbers didn’t refer to a police procedure. She closed the book and called her cousin, Arthur.

  “Is the pin still in place?” she said.

  “Don’t worry, the grenade hasn’t gone off.”

  Arthur used to have anger issues and a fast temper. His behavior improved when he took up mixed martial arts: a dangerous combination of boxing, street fighting, kung fu, and wrestling. And now he was a cruiserweight champion of submission moves.

  Arthur and Matt’s pairing at Rampart Station occurred because of the Paige Street Murder—so named for the street where the incident happened. Matt and Hugh Jackson were partners working Hollenbeck. They responded to a 211 hot shot and radioed in two armed suspects. Jackson was killed during the encounter. Matt returned fire and killed the shooter. The other suspect got away. The guy Matt killed turned out to be an off-duty cop, Antonio Sanchez, who worked narco in Van Nuys. His partner was Arthur Keane. They had the unfortunate nickname of Double A because both had quick-to-fire electric personalities like the standard battery. This fact alone made Arthur the number one suspect. The one that got away.

  After Paige Street, the commander of Central Bureau, a big dog named Ralph Soto, orchestrated Matt’s transfer into Rampart Division. Ditto Arthur’s. He coupled the pair, making them partners. It was a strange setup from the get-go that still had gossipy cops talking. But Arthur and Matt defied all the scrutiny and rumors. They not only worked well together, their friendship and socializing bonded two families. They also had the unique distinction of having the longest-running partnership in the department.

  Matt’s death didn’t just hit Birdie hard. Arthur was surely feeling intense sorrow.

  “Are you staying off the mat?” said Birdie.

  “Kidding me? That’s my salvation, baby. The bag, the mat, it’s where I work it all off. You staying off the bottle?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve been chewing down my teeth.”

  “Have stock in Wrigley’s?”

  “I wish. They’re owned by Mars, which is a private company.”

  “Hmmm,” he said, distracted.

  Birdie heard the distinct sound of ice clinking in glass as Arthur took a drink. />
  “I always expected him to come back after the domestic,” he said. “I never thought it’d end this way.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Couple weeks.”

  “Did he seem depressed?”

  “Naw. But he wasn’t the same after the shooting. He disappeared into himself. Almost paranoid.”

  “Really? I never saw that.”

  “You wouldn’t. Matt always put on a happy face when you were around. He wouldn’t burden you with his junk. You’d already been through hell with a cold-turkey withdrawal before he was shot.”

  Right. Birdie had just begun to feel whole. She even resumed jogging. When Matt got shot she took all the energy she had been spending on herself and focused it on his recovery.

  “Listen, Bird,” continued Arthur. “I know this has been a hard-ass year for you. Matt’s death doesn’t have to make it worse. Don’t dwell on the loss. He wouldn’t want that.”

  Wrong. Matt wanted her to dwell on something.

  “I’ll pass that advice back to you. It’s too early in the day to be drinking.”

  “Busted.”

  “As always. Hey, I have to get ready for a meeting with Matt’s lawyer. He’s delivering some of Matt’s property this morning. Before I hang up, does the amount eighty-nine dollars and thirty cents mean anything to you?”

  “Not as money. Take away the decimal.”

  Birdie’s heart beat fast. Verification on the way. “I looked in the manual. Nothing matches.”

  “Eight. Nine. Three. Zero,” said Arthur with slow and deliberate enunciation.

  “I must be dense,” she lied.

  “Man, you are out of work mode. It refers to a big scandal. The one you want to solve.”

  “It’s the Paige Street address.”

  “Bingo.”

  She told Arthur about the money left behind by Matt in his truck and at his house.

  “This pisses me off. Definitely not nice of him to leave you a hint like that, what with your natural predilection of getting tangled with crap. He’s a bastard—God rest his soul.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Birdie. “I’ve already investigated Paige Street along with every crime reporter in this city. The damn blue wall is intact and the one inside the investigation isn’t talking.”