INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL

by Richard B. Schwartz

  Barnes could feel narrow eyes on his back as she and Brighton sat down in their chairs. When he returned he reached into his jacket pocket for a packet of clear plastic gloves. He put the packet on the table and reached into his pocket again, retrieving a flashlight in a green elasticized sling which he flipped on and slipped over his forehead. He opened the vinyl packet, removed the plastic gloves, snapped them on, and walked toward the head of the table.

  “I think you’ve done a very good job,” he said, releasing some of the tension, “and I doubt that I’ll find anything that you didn’t already see, but I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a couple of seconds.”

  Sloat shrugged and stood back from the table. His men looked at Barnes skeptically. Big time O.C. doc visiting the provinces. He started with the dead man’s neck, working it slowly from left to right. Then he moved his hands across the length of the man’s body, touching, palpating, tracing lines and ridges, feeling along the folds and inside the creases. He examined the feet, looking between the toes for needle marks. Except for a tiny bit of dark blue sock lint the feet were unusually clean. He checked the vein line of the penis and the area beneath the eyelids for needle marks. He looked into the ears, redirecting his flashlight. He asked for a clean swab and checked one of the ears, but there was nothing there beyond the dried remains of some crumbly, yellow wax which fell off of the swab and into the waiting evidence bag.

  He looked into the right nostril and then the left, asked for another swab, and probed with it. He put the swab into a fresh evidence bag and shined his flashlight into the dead man’s mouth. Leaning closer and moving the flashlight from side to side, he inserted a series of swabs, placing each of them in a third evidence bag.

  “What is it?” Sloat asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What is it? What have you found?” the woman asked. She was out of her chair now, approaching the table, the sound of her heels suddenly filling the room.

  “Ms. Bennett. Do you know if your brother used snuff?”

  “Snuff? Of course not.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, I’m certain. What did you find?” She put her hand on the base of the table, pausing momentarily at the full sight of her brother’s nude body.

  “Look here,” Barnes said, guiding her toward the corpse’s head and forcing open his mouth. “Lean down . . . do you see it?” He took the flashlight from his head and angled it for her.

  “Let me see it,” Sloat said.

  “Just a second,” Barnes answered. He rested a swab on the dead man’s tongue, using it as a pointer. “There . . . do you see that?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s red, almost like makeup powder, but it looks thicker.”

  “There’s some caught between the bicuspids on either side of the mouth and a little inside the throat. Look, there . . . there’s some on that molar on the left. It’s also in the nostrils. There’s a good-sized piece trapped in the hairs of the left nostril. Look . . .”

  “It’s probably just dirt,” Sloat said. “Did you see the dust outside when you came in? There’s enough blowing around in the air to choke you.”

  “Yes, but the soil here isn’t red,” Barnes said.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of dope,” one of the assistants said. The sister snapped her head toward him.

  “Addicts don’t rub dope on their teeth,” Barnes said. “They rub it on their gums under their lips.”

  “My brother didn’t use drugs,” the sister said.

  “Here,” Barnes said, handing one of the swabs to the assistant. “Check some of it out. Make sure.”

  He returned a few minutes later. “It isn’t heroin or cocaine,” he said.

  “What do you think it is?” Barnes asked.

  “I don’t know what it is.”

  “None of us do. Just tell me what you think it is.”

  “I think it’s dirt,” the assistant said, turning his head away from Sloat. “It looks like it was tinted red.”

  “What in the hell would a man be doing with red dirt in his nose and mouth?” Sloat asked.

  “Here, look,” Barnes said. “Look at his nose and lips. Then look at his cheeks, ears, and neck.”

  “What am I supposed to see?” Sloat asked.

  “His face looks clean but he’s got dirt in his nose and mouth. I’d expect to see evidence that his face had been scrubbed, especially around the cheeks, mouth and nostrils, but everything looks the same, even down below his neck.”

  “The body’s too far gone to really tell.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Barnes said, directing his flashlight. “Look here. There are some particles of blood at the base of his left cheek, right where it meets his chin. A shaving nick. If his face had been scrubbed, those flakes of blood would have come off. Come here, look at his feet and tell me what you see.”

  They walked around to the end of the table.

  “I don’t see anything,” Sloat said.

  “That’s right,” Barnes said. “His feet are clean. There’s no dirt, red or otherwise. Look at the ridge lines left by his socks. They’re clean too.”

  “So what am I supposed to conclude?”

  “I don’t know,” Barnes said, “that’s the point.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s the point?”

  Barnes tried to keep from shaking his head in frustration. “Look, gentlemen, we have to assume that the man did not eat and snort dirt. Even if he had wanted to, this dirt had to have been either imported or homemade. Right?”

  “Go on,” Sloat said.

  “OK. To get dirt in your nose and mouth—something that most people don’t generally want to do—you’d have to fall in it and get a faceful. Right?”

  “So what you’re saying is that the man didn’t kill himself, that he died somewhere else and was brought here.”

  “No, I’m not saying that at all,” Barnes said.

  “Well what are you saying?”

  “This man shows no evidence of dirt on his feet or ankles. Assuming for the sake of argument that his face was in the dirt it would take a serious effort to clean him up afterwards. None of us has seen any evidence of such an effort. His hair is clean, his ears are clean, his eyes are clean, and there is no dirt on his clothing.

  “If he actually was in the dirt somewhere he didn’t walk around in it. He was an artist, not an angel, so we know he didn’t hover over a pile of red dirt and then drop down for a sniff and a taste. Let’s say he died elsewhere, some place we might be able to identify, some place with red dirt . . . if his body was brought back here and doctored to make it look like a simple suicide somebody did a world-class job on the outside of his body and then forgot completely about the inside. Does that seem likely?” Barnes paused for a moment before continuing.

  “We know he died from hanging. That’s clear from the marks and the blood pooling . . .”

  “But look at the rope,” Sloat interrupted. “If there really was foul play and somebody wanted to make it look like a suicide they wouldn’t use nautical rope. They’d use something from around the studio. That stuff is a dollar a foot; what’s it doing here? It raises questions. Somebody fabricating a suicide wouldn’t want to raise questions. Maybe he was working with some powder for clay or something . . .”

  “Working it in his mouth?” Barnes asked.

  “Somebody said something about makeup. Maybe that’s a woman’s makeup. Maybe he was kissing and nuzzling her and really started to get into it.”

  “She’d have to be an Apache, painted up to go after the Union Cavalry,” the M.E. said.

  “With all due respect, Dr. Barnes, how long have you worked sex/drugs/and violence cases in southern California? Are you going to stand there and tell me that you haven’t seen things a lot stranger than this?”

  “Look at his hands,�
�� his sister said. They both turned to her simultaneously. Sloat’s assistants stepped closer to the table.

  “Leave the bags on,” Sloat said. “I don’t want any contamination.”

  “Of evidence?” the sister asked.

  Sloat didn’t answer her.

  “The right hand looks clean. I don’t see anything,” the youngest assistant said.

  “Look here,” Barnes said, angling his flashlight. “The nails of the left hand appear to be clean, but look at the back of it, especially the ring and index fingers.”

  The sister stepped in, blocking Sloat’s way. She bent over as Barnes adjusted the poly-bag and spoke. “There are red particles in the creases, but nothing under the nails and nothing on the front of his hand. That doesn’t make sense . . . unless his hand brushed against something or he used the back of his hand to wipe his nose. There should be dirt under the nails and on his palms and fingertips. And if he washed his hands there shouldn’t be dirt on the back of his fingers. It looks as if he might have wiped his hand and left a little residue.”

  “Assuming you’re right—that it is dirt—what does that prove?”

  “It doesn’t prove anything,” Barnes answered. “It shows that there’s something going on here that we don’t understand. It’s certainly not some woman’s makeup, because if he was kissing and nuzzling and really getting into it (as you said), there would be some residue on his fingertips and palms. There isn’t.”

  “Detective . . .”

  It was one of Sloat’s assistants.

  “What, Gibson?”

  “I’d like to go downstairs again.”

  “You said there was nothing there.”

  “Maybe there’s some dirt down there, something that would explain this.”

  Sloat’s impatience turned into expectation. “OK, let’s take a look. Maybe there’s some crud on the furnace or hot water heater. Maybe he lit a pilot light and got a mouthful of rust and dirt.”

  The entrance to the cellar was next to a converted kitchenette at the rear of the building. There were wooden steps lit by a cobwebbed bulb. Sloat’s assistants checked the furnace first. The pilot light was off and the gas valve arm was perpendicular to the line. “It’s been shut off,” Gibson said.

  “The hot water heater’s electric,” Barnes said, “safer for earthquakes. Look along the top of the foundation, beneath the subfloor. Maybe something was stored along there. Some people use those areas as shelves.”

  After a thorough search of the forward area of the cellar they were standing together under the light. “There’s nothing back there at all,” Sloat said. “No tools, newspapers, mowers, no garbage cans, nothing.”

  They walked through the single remaining portion of the cellar. One area at the rear had track lighting, a set of stationary tubs, and a jack for a phone. It was a large space: at least fifteen by twenty-five feet. There was some gray powder and gravel on the floor and some scrape marks in the cement. In the center of the nearest wall were double, steel doors.

  “Loading ramp?” Barnes asked.

  “I don’t know,” the sister said. “I’ve never been down here.”

  “We’re in the back section of the building,” Barnes said. “There must be a driveway at the back of the lot that leads to those doors. Materials could be unloaded here and items stored for pickup.”

  He walked over to the doors and shined his flashlight along the edges and into the lock. “Did you dust this?” He could see that they hadn’t.

  “No,” Gibson answered. “I will.”

  Barnes returned to the center of the room and shined his flashlight on the floor. “This dust looks like pieces of green cement. It’s not from this floor; it’s too fresh.”

  “It could be anything,” Sloat said. “Grit from somebody’s shoes. Something that fell off a dolly from a delivery truck. Something from the driveway or parking lot. If this is where they made deliveries you’d expect grit on the floor and scrapes and gouges in the cement.”

  “Find anything on the door or handle?” Barnes asked.

  “No,” Gibson said. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? On a delivery door?”

  “I’ll check the outside,” Gibson said. “Maybe they always opened the door from that side.”

  “Makes sense,” Barnes said. “You’d have to show the driver how to get in, so you’d direct him around to the back and open it from that side. The porch encircles the building. It would be easier to just walk around and open the doors from the outside than go into the house and take those old wooden steps. Especially if you were expecting a driver; you’d have your keys with you and you could open it right up.” He didn’t believe all of it, but he could see that Sloat wanted to.

  “I’m not getting anything on this side,” Gibson said.

  “Nothing at all?” Sloat said, impatiently.

  “No, sir. There’s nothing here.”

  “The D.A. is unlikely to proceed with this. I’m sorry,” Lieutenant Brighton said.

  “I know,” she said, “I felt it five minutes after the lab people arrived, but I still can’t understand why. How can they just let it drop?”

  It was the first words they had spoken after she had agreed to let Brighton drive her home in her car. Albers was following in his cruiser.

  “The unanswered questions are immaterial, no matter how many there are, because there’s no evidence of foul play. At least not yet. They could find something lethal in his bloodstream, but unless it’s fast-acting they could claim he ingested it himself. And why would someone who wanted to kill him do it twice? You can make a poisoning look like suicide just as easily as you can a hanging.”

  She sat quietly, staring through the scattered lights of oncoming traffic. “Your brother was an artist, Ms. Bennett,” Brighton said. “Artists work in multiple media. They’re always getting their hands dirty in some way. Unless the dirt on his body has some criminal dimension to it it’s just not enough to build a case on. We can make some enquiries and we’ll certainly do additional tests, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up . . .”

  A few minutes later she broke the silence: “It’s funny . . . there’s always someone on these roads, even at five in the morning.” Brighton turned toward her, thinking about a response, but her head was turned away as she spoke into the void.

  Chapter Two

  Angeles Drive, La Cañada

  Sunday, 6:40 a.m.

  Diana opened the glove compartment as Bill Brighton turned onto Angeles Drive. The garage door opener was clipped to a bracket on the side nearest the driver. Except for the owner’s manual the box was empty. “It’s the third one on the left,” she said. The house was a low-slung, pale-yellow stucco two-story with a shake roof and a deep rear yard. The front yard was covered in dusty ivy that had been trimmed neatly along the edges. It projected four or five inches above the ground, its roots rising like miniature, woven mangrove. In the center of the yard was a configuration of young fan palms; along the lot line on either side were decorative, shoulder-high, redwood fences with sprays of purple and red bougainvillaea. The yard had been professionally designed and maintained.

  She hit the button and the door slowly rose. “I want to get something from the other car,” Brighton said. “I’ll only be a second.” He pulled Diana’s car into her garage, got out, and walked down the driveway. Albers had pulled up to the curb and turned off the motor on the police sedan. “Her brother called her right before he died. I want to record the message on her answering machine,” Brighton said. Albers reached around and retrieved a thick, faded attaché case from the back seat. He popped open the pitted brass locks, exposing a pair of miniature tape recorders and other electronic gear. The recorders were secured by small rubber straps. “Take your pick, Lieutenant,” he said.

  Brighton went in through the garage. The door opened onto the kitchen. Dia
na was standing next to the double, stainless-steel sink, drinking a glass of water. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.

  “No thanks,” he answered, “I just want to listen to the phone message and then get out of here so you can be alone and get some rest.”

  “It’s right there,” she said, indicating a phone on an antique pine washstand in the corner of the kitchen. When she put her black bag on its lower shelf he saw that it was too big to be a purse.

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he answered. “I didn’t notice the bag in the darkness.”

  “I could never bring the joy to people that David brought, so I decided to do what I could to alleviate their pain. David took care of one side, so I thought I’d try to take care of the other. I started to practice just as David made his first big sales. After a year and a half he asked me to help him invest his income. I asked a friend of mine to help. David’s money was invested conservatively but he was still very successful. When he saw the numbers he urged me to keep half of the return. He cared little for the money and wanted to be sure that I was secure. I refused and suggested instead that we establish a foundation. He lived modestly, returning most of his personal income to principal. Later he issued instructions to set aside one-fourth of the return on the investment for me. He was adamant that I accept it. I decided to give up my private practice and do other work. I help out with several clinics in the city and at two VA hospitals.”

  Brighton stood there silently. “I know what you’re thinking and I don’t mind your asking,” she said. “These things will all come out if you proceed with the investigation. I told you that we were very close. The two of us were all that remained of the family and he felt strongly that he should share his success with me.”

  Brighton let her continue.

  “The value of David’s investment portfolio now stands at approximately $58,000,000 and the recent returns have been hovering between 6 and 8 percent. Lately I’ve been returning most of my share to the foundation account.”