a postmodern society where relatively enlightened Islamic mores and laws, including a liberal and flexible interpretation of sharia, have supplanted a centuries-old, nature-based tribal animist religion. However, vestiges of prior beliefs and rituals remain, sometimes melding with the modern Muslim approach. Among these are sun and water rites, the worship of specified trees and shrubs, and fishing calendars based on astrologic configurations preserved as nostalgic folktales but revered, nonetheless. In some cases, such as sutma, contracted from the animist sutta anka enma—literally washing away mortal sin—ancient customs persist in Sranilese society.
The origins of sutma remain unclear. McGuire and Marrow (1964) hypothesize that a passive approach to the treatment of “deserved death” arose as a reaction to cannibalism, specifically as a means of preventing the consumption of enemy flesh following battles, because illness had been observed following cannibalistic victory feasts.
Ribbenthal (1969) attempts to link sutma to Buddhist influence, though evidence of any extensive interface between Sranilese animism and Buddhism remains evasive. Wildebrand (1978) attributes the belief to a generalized idealization of nature and presents as proof the ascendency of Salisthra, the guardian spirit of the forest, to the top of the animist pantheon.
Whatever its roots, sutma has proved resilient, impressively so in an age where other animist elements have ceded dominance to monotheistic religions. In contrast with Western norms advocating quick burial, and the Hindu belief in purification through immolation, sutma insists upon unfettered exposure to the elements of any organic material construed as being linked to maliciousness, insincerity, or sinfulness, in order for the sinner to gain access to the afterlife. Though not practiced as extensively as it was by Sranilese island tribes, when the merest accusation of immorality could lead to prolonged, often demeaning public postmortem displays, sutma occasionally emerges when a violent crime has taken place, most commonly in remote villages, when inhabitants seek out the comfort of maranandi muru, The Old Way.
Milo saved, printed. Sighed. “Teddy kills a girl in that house so the sultan sees that goddamn pile of wood as sinful organic material.”
I said, “He’s making sure his brother reaches the afterlife.”
“Teddy met up with some family justice?”
“Justice in this world, compassion for the next.”
He looked up Professor MacElway’s Yale extension, talked briefly and amicably to a startled scholar of emergent and divergent cultural forces.
MacElway confirmed it: In some animist cultures, murderers’ huts were left “fallow.”
Milo said, “Guess the sultan’s a traditionalist. So where do Backer and Doreen figure in, to the tune of fifty G’s?”
“What if Backer and Doreen were paid by someone to burn the place down in order to jeopardize Teddy’s celestial journey? They couldn’t get to him directly because he’s either dead or under royal protection back home in Sranil. But knowledge of sutma would present a partial alternative.”
“Keep the bastard out of heaven. Someone who believes in the old ways?”
“Or doesn’t, but knows the royal family does. With no ability to exact physical revenge, keeping Teddy in perpetual limbo could be a potent psychological second choice. And it would explain why Doreen hacked into Masterson’s file.”
“Pinpointing Teddy’s real estate so he can dangle over the pits of hell forever. That’s the case, they’d have to know something about Sranilese culture.”
“Didn’t take you long to get the basic facts.”
“The information age ... okay, let’s go with this for argument’s sake: Someone pays Backer and Doreen fifty G’s to whip up some vegan Jell-O. Then why didn’t they just do the job? Why keep visiting and using it as a love-nest?”
“That could’ve started as scoping out the job,” I said. “Figuring out where to stick the explosives, time their escape. But once there, they decided to mix business with pleasure. Because that was Backer’s thing: love under the stars in the company of plywood and drywall and rebar. That might go back to his adolescence. If he started early as a teenage firebug, sex and kaboom could’ve formed an interesting mix.”
“Coupla ex-delinquents warming up the grill with a little body heat.”
“Delinquents who got away with something spectacular,” I said. “That’s a huge high, and people who go through tremendously arousing experiences young often develop intense bonds to those experiences.”
“Pheromones and accelerant,” he said. “Then ten years of God-knows-what. What do you think of the fact that Backer turned outwardly respectable but Doreen ended up selling her body?”
“Maybe he was less burdened by guilt and she had enough conscience to want to punish herself. Or he was smarter and better educated, came from an intact, supportive home, and made smarter decisions. Whatever diverged them, they reunited here in L.A.”
“Chemistry.” Smile. “Organic chemistry.”
“For all we know, despite Backer earning a degree, he never abandoned his sideline and someone out to avenge Teddy’s victim made contact. Unfortunately for him and Doreen, the sultan found out. Their bodies left in the turret could be a warning to anyone else considering messing with sutma.”
He stood, raised his arms, touched the low ceiling. “Desi and Doreen play with the big boys, pay for it with a bullet and a choke-out. With time taken out to jam a bigger gun where it was never meant to go. What’s that got to do with the old ways?”
“That was intimidation, just as Jernigan suggested, to control the scene—or to obtain information. What Doreen and Backer knew, who else was involved. The element of surprise was a big part of the hit: That sperm stain on Doreen’s thigh suggests Backer was pulled off her just as he came. They were both overpowered, he was interrogated, shot, leaving a cowed, terrified Doreen. And just in case that didn’t impress her, out came the big gun.”
“You have that way,” he said. “Drawing ugly pictures.”
Perfectly put. Thousands of sleepless nights proved it. I smiled.
He got on the phone. “Moses? Busy? Good, c’mere. And start working on your charisma.”
CHAPTER 22
Moe Reed said, “Sure.”
Accepting the assignment to revisit the Indonesian consulate without emotion.
As he headed for the door, Milo said, “Don’t you want to know why?”
“I figure something came up on that dead-girl rumor, you want me to press my source for details.”
“Nothing came up, Moses. That’s why I need you to press.”
“Consulate closes at four, I’ll be there by three. She comes out by herself, I’ll try to get some face-time. She doesn’t, I’ll tail her till I get a clean opportunity.”
“What’s your source’s name?”
“She wouldn’t say, Loo, and I didn’t push, figured her telling me anything was more important.”
“Okay, Moses, like I said, charisma. If you need to buy her a few drinks, tab’s on me. If it’s a dim, cozy place I promise not to tell Dr. Wilkinson.”
Reed’s love interest was a physical anthropologist in the bone lab. “Liz is cool. And the girl’s probably Muslim. They don’t drink.”
“Good point,” said Milo. “Okay, candy’s still dandy.”
“You want me to go easy or hard on her?” said Reed.
“I want you to do what it takes to squeeze out every bit of info she’s got on Prince Teddy and that Swedish girl.”
“I’m thinking I’ll go real slow, not threaten her unless I’m smelling bullshit, then it’s full press.”
“Keep doing that, Moses.”
“Doing what?”
“Thinking,” said Milo. “Be the guy who stands out from the crowd.”
I drove away from the station with Milo in the Seville’s passenger seat, fidgeting, rubbing his face, growling about L.A. traffic, all those scofflaw morons who kept cell-phoning, look at that idiot weaving, look at that brain-dead asshole stopped at a gr
een, what’s a matter, don’t we have a shade you like, loser?
The Star Motor Inn sat on a gray block of Sawtelle, between Santa Monica and Olympic. Ricki Flatt answered the door wearing the same high-waisted jeans and an oversized black Carlsbad Caverns T-shirt. Her hair was loose and frizzy, her mouth small. Behind her, the bed was made up to military specs. Images flashed on a TV screen not much larger than my computer monitor.
“Lieutenant.”
“May we come in?”
“Of course.”
The room smelled of Lysol and pizza. No sound from the TV. The show was a cooking demonstration, a fluorescent-eyed woman so thin her clothes bagged, bouncing with joy as she stir-fried something. Carrots, celery, and a lump of what looked like yellow Play-Doh.
One of Milo’s rules-to-live-by is Never Trust a Skinny Chef. Sometimes he applies that to detectives. To any profession at random, depending on how the day’s going.
One time I couldn’t resist and asked about personal trainers.
He said, “I’m talking real jobs, not sadists.”
His mood during the drive had grown progressively more foul. You’d never know it from the way he handled Ricki Flatt. Sliding a chair close to hers, leaving me to perch on a corner of the bed, he un-holstered his softest smile—the one he uses with little kids and old ladies. With Blanche, too, when he thinks no one’s looking.
“Get any sleep, Ricki?”
“Not much.”
“Anything you need, please tell me.”
“No, thanks, Lieutenant. Did you get into the storage unit?”
“Haven’t heard back from Port Angeles PD yet.”
“I just hope Scott doesn’t find out I held on to the money.”
“I explained that to them.”
“It makes me nervous—having it in my possession.”
“It’ll be out of your life soon.”
“Is it drug money, Lieutenant?”
“No evidence of that.”
“I really don’t see it. Desi was never into drugs.”
Milo shifted closer. “Ricki, we’re working really hard to figure out who murdered Desi, but honestly, we’re knocking our heads against the wall. If I ask you questions you may find upsetting, can you handle them?”
“Questions about what?”
“Desi’s early days. When he was seventeen.”
“That far back?”
“Yes.”
Ricki Flatt’s eyes tangoed. “You’re talking about the Bellevue fire.”
Milo began to blink, managed, somehow, to curtail the reflex. He moved even closer to the bed. “We need to talk about the Bellevue fire, Ricki.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Doing our homework.”
“Someone’s murdered, you go into their childhood?”
“We go as far back as we need to.”
Ricki Flatt picked at the bedcovers.
Milo said, “The fire’s been on your mind. That’s what you meant by political.”
“Not really,” she said. She hugged herself. Rocked. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I’m not trying to be evasive, but I just can’t accept the fact that my brother was some sort of paid arsonist. But fifty thousand... that’s why I didn’t sleep last night. And the Bellevue house was huge and so was where Desi was... I can’t bring myself to say it. Where it happened.”
“Two huge houses,” said Milo.
“I drove by last night in a cab. To that place. Even with just the framework I could tell it was massive. I kept telling myself it meant nothing, what connection could there be?”
“Tell me what you know about the Bellevue fire, Ricki.”
“That boy—Vince. He wasn’t murdered, he burned himself up, it was basically an accident.”
“Van Burghout.”
“Van,” she said, trying on the name.
“You didn’t know him well?”
“I’m sure I saw him if he came to the house with Desi but he never registered. Desi was popular, there were always kids over. And when the fire happened, I was at college.”
“Out of town?”
“No, U of W,” she said. “Geographically not far, but I was into my own life.”
“The arson file names Van as one of Desi’s hiking companions.”
“Then I guess he was.”
“Did your family discuss the fire?”
“We probably talked about it, it was a big local story. But as I said, I wasn’t living at home.”
Ricki Flatt folded her lips inward, fighting tears. Milo placed a hand atop hers. She lost the battle and burst out sobbing.
Rather than hand a tissue to her, he dabbed.
Ricki Flatt said, “Now I’m a traitor.”
“To who, Ricki?”
“My family. I just lied, we didn’t talk about the fire. It wasn’t supposed to be talked about. Ever.”
“You parents said that?”
“Unspoken rule, Lieutenant. Something I just knew not to talk about. That wasn’t my parents’ usual way. That’s why I’ve always suspected Desi was involved.”
“Those kinds of secrets,” said Milo, “every family has them. But being honest doesn’t make you a traitor. Not now, that’s for sure.”
Silence.
“You want justice for Desi, Ricki. Would your parents have had a problem with that?”
No answer.
“Would they, Ricki?”
Slow head shake.
“Tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know anything,” she said, “I just feel it. Always have.”
“Apart from your parents clamming up, what gave you the feeling?”
“For a start, Desi’s books. He had these counterculture books in his room. How to build homemade weapons, how to disappear and hide your identity, techniques of revenge, The Anarchist Cookbook. A whole shelf of that, above his computer.”
“Your parents were okay with that.”
“What I told you was true. Mom and Dad were all about developing our own sense of morality. Though one time I did hear Dad make a comment, being a firefighter he still had that law-and-order thing going on. I overheard him telling Desi those books would’ve been branded as treasonous in other societies and Desi answering that those societies deserved to disappear because without free speech nothing mattered. And Dad coming back that free speech was important but it ended where someone’s chin met someone’s fist. And Desi ending the argument the way he usually did. By being charming. ‘You’re absolutely right, Pops.’ Dad laughed and it never came up again. That was my brother, all honey, no vinegar. Unlike me, he never wasted energy arguing with Mom and Dad. He was the easy kid.”
“No overt rebel,” said Milo. “So he got to hold on to his treasonous books.”
“And his foldouts from Hustler, no matter how gynecologic and how much Mom considered herself a feminist. And his Che poster and whatever else he wanted. I’m sure Mom and Dad never imagined him doing anything more with those books than reading.”
“Until the fire.”
“The weekend after the fire, I was home for the weekend. Getting my laundry done, Ms. Independence. Mom and Dad were at work but Desi was home so I knocked on his door. He took a really long time to unlock, didn’t seem thrilled to see me, wasn’t the least bit warm. Which was odd, generally we’d share a big hug. But this time he looked flustered, like I’d interrupted something. My first thought was something adolescent—you know what I mean.”
“Those Hustler foldouts.”
“He was seventeen.” Blushing. “Then I saw that his room had been completely rearranged, even the bed was in a new place. Desi was always neat but now it looked downright compulsive. A lot less stuff in the room. Including the books. All gone, and in place of the Che poster he’d hung a photo of moose in the forest. I made some wisecrack about redecorating, had he turned gay or something. Instead of laughing like he normally would’ve, he just stood there. Then he edged me away from the door. Not by touching me, by inching forward
, so I was forced to leave or bump into him. Then he closed the door behind him and we both went to the kitchen and he was the same old Desi, smiling and funny.”
I said, “Focusing on you instead of his room.”
“Desi was great at that. He could make you feel you were the center of the universe. Then he’d ask for something and you just said yes, no hesitation.”
“Did you ever bring up the fire?”
Evidence Page 18