by Bob Hamer
One of the investigators conducted a gunshot residue test on the victim’s right hand. He swabbed the web and palm with a diluted solution of nitric acid. The swab tested positive for barium and antimony, evidence of GSR (gun shot residue).
Conflicting evidence stemmed from the fact the weapon remained in the clinched hand of the victim. Experienced investigators knew most victims drop the gun once it is fired. This evening wasn’t going to end with a quick check of the appropriate box on a crime report.
The victim appeared to be Middle Eastern not Russian. The sergeant ordered one of the deputies to run vehicle registrations on the six cars parked along the road next to the park. It was a good hunch. Five of the cars came back registered to Russian-Armenian names. The sixth, a 2001 Ford Explorer, was registered to Rashid Aziz Khan in Venice. The sergeant guessed Khan was his victim. He called the station and ordered a computerized driver’s license photo, and a deputy rushed it over.
The photo confirmed the identity. They had their victim identified, but now more questions arose. Why would Rashid Aziz Khan chance driving a car without identification? Why drive from Venice to commit suicide in West Hollywood? He was carrying no identification, maybe it was a robbery. But if that were the case, why leave a gun wrapped in the fingers of the deceased? Maybe he got off a shot as well? Hence the GSR and two “pops.” Could someone have come after the “suicide” and stolen the wallet from a dead man? There were many questions for the homicide detectives.
Photographs of the crime scene were taken before the coroner’s investigators arrived, and white tape outlined the location where the body was discovered. The coroner’s investigators obtained much of their preliminary information from the homicide detectives with whom they worked on numerous cases. Like the homicide detectives, the investigators had the authority to interview witnesses, follow up on leads, collect evidence, make identification, and notify the next of kin. Typically, though, in a homicide all of the work was done by the detectives.
Based on body temperature, lividity, and rigor, the time of death was placed between 8:30 and 9:30 p.m. The investigators could not be any more precise.
The investigators placed Rashid in a black body bag and zipped it. He was placed on a gurney, loaded into the coroner’s wagon, and transported to the main facility of the County Coroner’s office on Mission Road near the County USC Medical Center. An autopsy would be conducted the next morning.
The L.A. County coroner’s office investigates more than six thousand deaths annually; more than one thousand of them are suspected homicides. This death fell within the “suspected homicide” category. The law required an autopsy, the cost of which, nearly $5,000 if privately requested, would be borne by the county.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The security guard at the Wilshire Boulevard office building notified LAPD. Two young uniform patrol officers arrived within fifteen minutes. The guard was a retired small-town cop from Missouri. He and his wife moved to Los Angeles years before when their children relocated to the West Coast. By all appearances he had consumed a few too many free doughnuts throughout his career.
He took the guard job after his wife died the previous year. He was old but effective enough behind the lobby security desk. All that was required of him was to monitor the alarm system, log in after-hours visitors, and at least twice a shift ensure every exterior door was locked.
The guard enjoyed talking with the young officers who responded. He always loved sharing war stories about the “good old days,” especially before the Supreme Court gave these “barnyard wastes” more rights than they deserve. The officers were kind, listened to a few stories, and took a report, but the security guard provided little substance.
“This here board lit up like a Christmas tree. Something triggered the alarm. Had a cat set it off a few weeks ago so I headed down to the basement for a look-see. When I opened the door, I heard footsteps; and by the time I got down there, I seen four men running. They got out the back before I could catch up. I think I scared ’em off. I checked all the doors. Nothin’ disturbed. I think I got to ’em before they was able to pull any crap.”
“Sir, did you get a good look at them. Can you give us a description?”
“They was runnin’, son. All I seen was their backs. They was all medium build, medium height. Couldn’t tell you their age. Never seen any faces, but they ran pretty fast. Must be younger than me.”
The young officer laughed.
“Pretty sure they was all white or at least brown. I could see hands, and they weren’t black. You know, maybe Mexican.”
“What about clothes, sir. Can you describe what they were wearing?”
“They was all wearing jeans, I think. . . . Wait, one guy, the slowest one, or at least the one pullin’ up the rear, was wearin’ a gray sweatshirt with green paint on the back of the right sleeve.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s about it.”
There was little more the officers could do but take a report. They checked every door in the basement. All were locked. Nothing seemed disturbed and nothing was missing.
As they started back up the stairs, dispatch reported a drive-by shooting a few blocks south of Wilshire. The officers raced to their unit, leaving the guard at the bottom of the steps, who hollered, “You guys be safe.”
Trespassing at an office building was low on the crime priority list. The officers were back in service within twelve minutes of going “10–7.” They would complete the report at the end of watch and submit it to the watch commander along with dozens of others filed that evening.
Nothing much would be done about the intruders. The watch commander might increase patrols in the area for the next few evenings, but short of that there was little he could or would do.
THE PHONE RANG. THE sound startled Matt and Caitlin. Both were in a deep sleep. Matt rolled over to answer the phone. The bedroom shutters were slightly opened, and Matt noticed it was dark outside. He was disoriented and couldn’t figure out when this interruption was occurring. He looked over at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. When his eyes finally focused, he saw it was 2:43 a.m.
Matt’s first thoughts were something had happened to his mother.
He picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Matt, sorry to call at this hour. It’s Dwayne.”
“What’s wrong?”
Caitlin sat up. “Who is it?”
Matt put his hand over the receiver. “It’s Dwayne. It’s okay.”
She collapsed back onto the pillow and rolled over.
“Matt, you still there? Matt?”
“Yeah, sorry, what’s going on?”
“I got a call late this evening. I’m at the West Hollywood substation. A deputy found Rashid dead in Plummer Park with a single gunshot wound to the head.”
“Rashid? You mean Omar’s brother?”
“Yeah.”
“Murder?” Matt asked.
“It looks like murder. I don’t think it’s suicide. Might be a robbery gone bad. They notified me after they checked L.A. Clear.”
L.A. Clear was a law enforcement clearinghouse in which the various agencies in and around Los Angeles County “registered” the subjects of their investigations. It began with drug investigations in the late ’80s when a subject brokered a cocaine deal between an informant for one agency and an undercover officer with another department. The ensuing arrest of all the interested parties resulted in a near “friendly fire” shootout, “blue on blue” as it was known in law enforcement circles. No one was hurt, but the clearinghouse was borne out of that incident.
“It took awhile to identify the body,” said Dwayne. “He wasn’t carrying any ID. I’m going with deputies to the motel to notify Omar.”
“So what happened?”
“I’m not sure. They found
the Explorer parked on the street. Rashid was wearing the sweatshirt with the green paint on the right sleeve.”
“The bank robbery suspect? You think Rashid could have been behind that string of robberies?” asked Matt.
“He fits the general description in terms of size and weight. Several witnesses thought the robber might be Middle Eastern. One described the get-away car as a green SUV. I think he may have been our suspect.”
Matt was awake now. Caitlin slept through the entire discussion. “So who did it, his own people or a tweeker looking to grab some easy cash?”
“No clues yet. We’re going to hit Omar pretty hard. If we don’t arrest him, keep a close eye on him at the clinic the next few days, assuming he even shows up.”
“I can’t believe Omar’s involved in the robberies,” Matt said. “He’s at the clinic every afternoon and late into the evenings. Most banks are closed before we finish up. When were the robberies?”
“They were all during the day. He may not have participated, but he just might know about them and where the money went. More than $90,000 has been taken. We need to trace the funds.”
“I’ve seen the motel,” said Matt. “It’s no penthouse suite at the Ritz.”
“I’m guessing the money went back to the Middle East or to support cell activity here.”
“I need to see you. I picked up something at the clinic today that may be important. Looks like a recruiting brochure for terrorists. I need you to get it to a translator.”
“Did you get it from Omar?”
“Yeah, sorta, I found it on his desk.” Matt wasn’t about to tell Dwayne how he really found it.
“Sounds good. Get it to me, and I’ll have one of our people take a look at it. I’ll call you after our meeting with Omar.”
DWAYNE FOLLOWED THE TWO deputies in a marked black-and-white unit from the substation to the Venice motel. It was 3:30 a.m., and the streets were nearly deserted. There was little reason to be out at this hour. However, when the patrol car turned on to Lincoln Boulevard, a prostitute was standing near the corner negotiating with two potential customers. Once they spotted the deputies, they scattered like roaches exposed to light.
A travel brochure might describe the motel as within walking distance of the Pacific. It probably wouldn’t say you have to walk through a gang-infested neighborhood to reach the ocean.
The Shoreline Crips controlled much of this area. Their graffiti was everywhere, marking their territory, recording their history, telling the world, “Enter at your own risk.”
This neighborhood was in LAPD’s Pacific Division. As a courtesy Dwayne called the Watch Commander at Pacific and advised him of the situation. The Watch Commander offered to send one of his own units over, but Dwayne said that wouldn’t be necessary. There was little sense tying up more units than needed, especially since this was only a notification. The Watch Commander appreciated the heads-up and said he would increase patrols in the area for the next hour or so.
The motel was a horseshoe-shaped, one-story building with fifteen units. There was one parking space for each unit. No pool. No amenities. No turn-down service with a mint on the pillow. Although at one time it may have catered to vacationers, the motel now serviced residential transients who stayed a week or a month at a time. In all actuality a few of the rooms were subrented at hourly rates by women practicing the world’s oldest profession.
Dwayne and the deputies pulled into the parking area. The headlights illuminated the motel trimmed in a distinctive green. Even with the naked eye, Dwayne knew it matched the color on the sleeve of Rashid’s sweatshirt.
There were few cars in the parking lot so Dwayne assumed there were rooms available. The surveillance team had previously identified Omar and Rashid’s room. Dwayne and the deputies walked directly to it. There was little sense in disturbing the manager at 3:30 in the morning. If he needed to be interviewed, that could be done at a more reasonable hour.
The motel complex wasn’t well lit. Three light poles were supposed to illuminate the parking lot, but only one was operational. Broken glass under two of the poles confirmed the lights had been shot out. All the residents must have been asleep. The chairs in front of each unit were empty, and there were no lights on in any of the rooms.
The deputies stood back away from and off to the side of the door in a defensive posture and unfastened their holster snaps. Experience and training taught them not to stand directly in front of the door where an unexpected shotgun blast could end their careers if not their lives.
Dwayne also stood to the side and reached over to knock on the door to Omar’s room. There was no response. He knocked louder. Again no response. One of the deputies stepped forward and with the business end of his nightstick banged a couple of times on the door.
From inside Omar’s room came a faint response. “Who is it?”
Neither Dwayne nor the deputies responded. Dwayne continued to knock. When Omar came to the window and pulled back the curtain, he saw the two uniformed officers.
Dwayne held up his credentials and pressed it to the glass. Omar nodded his head, acknowledging their presence. Dwayne could hear the chain latch being unhooked and saw the door handle turn. Instinctively the deputies placed their hands on their weapons. Dwayne cleared his jacket but no one drew his weapon.
Omar opened the door, standing there in his boxers, obviously unarmed.
“Omar Azia Khan?” said Dwayne.
“Yes,” responded Omar, “what is this all about?”
“Sir, may we come in? We’d like to talk to you.”
Omar complied. All three officials entered the tiny motel room, a dark, damp residence whose stale air discouraged hospitality. The younger deputy headed straight to the bathroom and cautiously opened the door. “It’s clear.”
“There is no one else here,” said Omar.
The furnishings were sparse, as would be expected. Two twin beds, a TV, a single nightstand, a small table with two chairs, a refrigerator, a hot plate, and a microwave were included in the monthly charge. The room was cluttered with several boxes of clothes and a stack of newspapers, magazines, and books.
Omar cleared Rashid’s bed and brought out the two chairs, offering the three men places to sit. One of the deputies took a chair and sat close to the door blocking the only avenue for entry or egress. The second deputy placed the chair at the opposite end of the room. Both deputies remained silent during the interview; their uniformed presence at 3:30 was sufficient.
Omar sat on his bed, and Dwayne sat across from him on Rashid’s bed.
Looking in Dwayne’s direction but failing to make eye contact, Omar said, “This is most troubling you would come to me at this hour. What is wrong?”
“Do you have a brother named Rashid?”
“Yes, of course. If you know my name, then you must know I have a brother.”
“Where is he?” asked Dwayne.
“I do not know. My brother sometimes works late.”
“You mean he works until 3:30 in the morning?”
Omar was confused and still not quite awake. He was visibly shaken by the presence of the three. “I am sorry. What is all this about? My brother is not here. I do not know where he is. He has been in this country several years. He has many friends. He may be with his friends. He does not tell me where he goes.”
Dwayne pulled out a small notebook and continued the questioning, taking notes as Omar answered. He still had not told him Rashid was dead.
Omar explained he had been in the United States for only a few weeks and worked for World Angel Ministries. He described his work at the clinic and the classes at UCLA. From everything Dwayne knew, Omar was telling him the truth.
“Does your brother have a sweatshirt with green paint on the sleeve?”
Omar ran his fingers through his hair as he answered
, “Yes. He told me he leaned up against the pillar in front of our door just after it was painted a few months ago.”
Dwayne continued the questioning. He never took his eyes off Omar, who refused to make eye contact. “Omar, an individual matching a description of your brother and wearing a sweatshirt with green paint on the right sleeve, is suspected in a half-dozen bank robberies over the past two months?”
“Are you saying my brother robbed these banks?”
“That’s exactly what I am saying.”
Omar put his head down and shook it. He paused before answering.
“Omar, do you know anything about this?”
Still no response.
Dwayne repeated his question and added, “We know he did this. He’s committed a crime. He’s done something that is wrong in any country and by the rules of any religion. We have photos of him in the bank, taking the money, using a gun, walking out of the bank with the money in his hands. By doing this so openly, with so much evidence, your brother has brought shame to himself, to you, and to your family.”
With that Omar raised his head. “You are right. If my brother did this, he has brought shame upon our family.”
There was a long moment of silence. Dwayne had opened the door with “shame,” and Omar responded.
Omar continued, “I do not know exactly what he has been doing. Sometimes he comes here with much money. But he does not keep it. He calls someone I do not know. They meet. He gives that person the money. I did not know he was robbing your banks. My brother does not like this country, and he wants to support my people back home who do not like the Western ways.”
“Do you like this country?” asked Dwayne.
Omar responded with a series of questions. “What does it matter what I like? Why did you come at this hour to ask about bank robberies? What do you want?” Omar glanced at the bedside clock. “Why would you decide to question me and my brother at 3:30 in the morning?”