Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script

by Lee Goldberg

  "I knew they would be." Mark shut off the television and went out on the deck to get some air. Steve followed him out.

  The moon was bright enough so they could see the waves crashing against the shore, and the light breeze off the water brushed their faces with sea mist.

  "You okay, Dad?"

  "I feel like we're seeing this case from a forced perspective," Mark said. "One meticulously designed by Lacey McClure."

  "Forced perspective?" Steve said. "Like the little cardboard airplane and the midgets they used at the end of Casablanca to make the plane in the background look far away when, in fact, it was right behind Bogart?"

  "Exactly—but the illusion isn't just used in movies, but in architecture as well," Mark said. "The ancient Greeks made the columns of their buildings slightly smaller at the top to create the illusion of greater height. In Disneyland, Main Street USA is designed to look longer as you enter the park, so you'll hurry in, and shorter as you exit, so you'll linger as you leave. In order for the illusion to work, you have to control how your audience views the environment. Lacey McClure has done an expert job of that on us and I don't like it."

  "She didn't figure that the person who found the bodies would be a doctor, or would be clever enough to determine the actual time of death."

  "But it hasn't broken the forced perspective," Mark said. "We all still see a distant door at the end of a long hallway, instead of realizing it's actually a tiny door at the end of a very short hallway."

  Steve just looked at him. "What door?"

  "In other words," Mark said, "she's still getting away with two murders, unless you've uncovered a mistake I don't know about."

  "I wish I could say that I have. I've gone through Stryker's files, receipts, and reports," Steve said. "His story checks out. Stryker followed Lacey for a few weeks. He got a lot of shots of her with Titus, but nothing incriminating until their rendezvous at the Slumberland Motel."

  "Unfortunately, that's not quite as incriminating as we would like," Mark said. "So what's your next step?"

  "In light of Lacey's perfect alibi, and pressure from the media, the incredibly attractive ADA wants me to concentrate on the Mob angle. I'd like to talk to Daddy Crofoot," Steve said. "Though I suspect that after that press conference today, he's going to be a hard man to find."

  "You'll find him," Mark said. "He just might not be breathing anymore when you do."

  "That would work out well for Lacey, wouldn't it?" Steve said.

  "Why do you think she held the press conference?"

  Steve studied his father, though it was hard to read his face in the moonlight. "You're not usually this cynical."

  "I'm being pragmatic." Mark stared out at the surf. "Lacey McClure knows exactly what she's doing. We're the ones who are lost."

  Mark couldn't sleep, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. After a few hours, he got up and went to the couch, where he sat in his bathrobe, staring at the dark screen of the TV. He didn't have to turn it on to watch the video again. Stryker's tape was on a feedback loop in Mark's mind, replaying over and over.

  It was getting him nowhere, and since he knew sleep was hopeless, he decided to watch another one of Lacey's movies. He decreased the volume to a low hum and watched Sting of the Scorpion, with Lacey McClure as an exotic dancer, known as the Scorpion because of the distinctive tattoo on her back. In addition, she's a masked vigilante, also known as the Scorpion, who goes after sexual predators and kills them, usually after luring them into bed first. Despite the fact that the mysterious avenger and the stripper shared the same name, and moved in the same underworld of the sex trade, none of the cops or bad guys in the movie ever made the connection.

  Mark finished the movie feeling pretty stupid himself, wondering if there was an obvious connection he wasn't making. He sat in the shadows, wondering. And wondering. The house was very still. The rhythmic crashing of the surf was like the tick of a clock, measuring the slow passing of the hours until morning.

  At the first hint of sunrise, Mark showered, dressed, and made a quick breakfast for himself and Steve. They ate in silence, Mark avoiding the newspaper. He didn't need to read any more about Lacey McClure and be reminded that she was not only orchestrating how the investigation unfolded, but was setting the agenda for the media coverage, as well.

  Once again, he thought about forced perspective and wished he could figure out how to break Lacey's hold on how he was seeing the case.

  He went to the hospital for a few hours, but found himself too tired and distracted to work. He canceled all his appointments, rescheduled his meetings, and went home, claiming to be sick. It wasn't entirely untrue. He was suffering from a troubling affliction—a mystery he couldn't solve.

  On his way out, Mark passed Noah Dent, who glared disapprovingly at him.

  "Another early day, Dr. Sloan?" Dent asked.

  Mark pretended not to hear him and continued on to the parking lot.

  The drive home from Community General took him west, through Santa Monica, and then north, up along the Pacific Coast Highway and past the Slumberland Motel. Somehow, on his way to the hospital that morning, the motel had just dissolved into the blur as he drove, and he hadn't even noticed it. But now, stopped at the red light at Kanan Dune Road, he couldn't avoid it.

  The Slumberland Motel rested on a narrow shelf carved out of a hillside, tucked into the shadows, and out of view, of the sprawling mansions set back on the hilltop above. Below the motel, just over the edge of its cracked blacktop parking lot, was a deep ravine blanketed with iceplants, clogged with overgrown plumbago bushes, and littered with fast-food garbage tossed from passing cars.

  It was hardly a location that inspired romance. But as Mark knew from personal experience, it was a place that people passed without really seeing, which made it a good spot for illicit trysts.

  He parked his car across from the last room at the end of the building, looking over his shoulder and backing his car up carefully so he didn't tumble into the ravine. When he turned around and faced forward again, he saw room 16 from roughly the same perspective that Stryker's camera had.

  Mark got out of the car and walked to the edge of the parking lot, overlooking the ravine. He could see where Stryker had probably crouched, behind the flowering plumbagos, to get his view of the room. There were several soft-drink cans and potato-chip bags discarded in the brush. If it wasn't Stryker's trash, Mark figured it belonged to some other spy hoping to photograph a lover's betrayal. It was a comfortable hiding place that offered good cover and a clear view of most of the motel. There was even a rough trail through the brush, leading around to the back of the building.

  He followed the trail, moving carefully so as not to get too scratched up. The trail ended on a slight rise behind a fenced-in enclosure for the trash bins. From there, Mark could see down into the window of the last room, where the blinds were still only half-closed.

  The room was empty, so Mark could keep studying the view without feeling like a Peeping Tom. He noticed that the window frame and the bottom of the blinds created a frame of their own, limiting how much of the room he could see. All he could see was the bed from above and a section of the carpet between the bed and the window. Everything else was blocked by the blinds. He didn't know if that was significant or not, but anything that hinted at a forced perspective nagged at him now. The half-closed blinds didn't change what the camera saw, but it did limit what the camera could see.

  Mark stepped out from behind the trash area and went down to the motel-room window, peering in from up close. He saw a sagging bed with a thin, flowered bedspread with a busy pattern meant to camouflage stains. The pattern wasn't busy enough. The carpet was a faded red with the thick, luxurious pile of a napkin. There was a single vinyl armchair, a bathroom, closet, and a door to the adjoining room. If Stryker had been standing right outside the window with his camcorder, Mark wasn't sure it would have changed anything.

  He went around to the front of the motel an
d walked the length of the purple building toward the office at the far end. Along the way, he could hear the urgent, labored moans of people and bedsprings behind the closed doors and drawn blinds.

  The office reminded Mark of the waiting area at an automobile repair shop. A single vinyl couch, a coffee table covered with auto magazines, and a soft-drink vending machine. The only thing there that one didn't usually see at an auto mechanic's garage was a condom vending machine. As a doctor, though, he was glad the management of the Slumberland Motel was at least making a token effort at disease prevention. Having seen the bedspread in room 16, he had his doubts.

  The paunchy manager wore a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts, and was sitting behind the counter, watching The Young and the Restless. He was about sixty, with short, spiky hair held upright by heavy application of a gel with a scent so strong Mark smelled it as soon as he stepped in.

  The manager swiveled around on his stool to greet Mark. "May I help you?" he asked, with a faint trace of a Southern accent.

  "Yes," Mark replied, flashing his friendliest, most ingratiating smile. "I'm here about a guest who rented room 16 three days ago. His name is Titus Carville, but he might have used a different identity when he checked in."

  The manager sighed wearily. "So who are you? The husband, the father, the boyfriend, or the private investigator?"

  "None of the above," Mark said. "I'm a doctor."

  "I get it," the manager said, holding up a halting hand. "Say no more."

  Mark was glad to oblige, since he hadn't figured out what to say next, anyway. Getting information from people who were under absolutely no obligation to give it to him was just one of the difficulties of investigating a murder without any authority whatsoever.

  "You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink," the manager said, motioning to the condom machine. "I wanted to put one of those little vending machines in each of rooms, but my wife wouldn't go for it. She said it would kill the charm of the place."

  "I appreciate your attention to public health," Mark said, almost adding that he'd appreciate it even more if they'd also burn all the bedding.

  "What does my wife know about charm? She doesn't see the people who come in here," the manager said. "She doesn't see some of the bizarre combinations either, if you catch my drift. Her thing is the decor. The style. The ambience."

  "It is a lovely place," Mark said. "Now, about Titus Carville—"

  "We don't get the family or tourist trade anymore. But what we've got is a steady business, we have our niche in the marketplace. But do you know how many times I've been subpoenaed by divorce lawyers to testify?" the manager plowed on, oblivious to Mark's attempt to interject. "You know how many times guys have come in here waving guns and knives at me, looking for their cheating spouses?"

  "I can imagine," Mark said. "I'm interested in the room Carville rented and if he's been here before with—"

  "Love is a battlefield, as the song says, but I don't need to tell you, do I, Doc? I don't even want to think about what you have to see." The manager opened the check-in register and flipped back a couple of pages. "How many of this guy's sex partners are you and the health department looking for?"

  "As many as we can find," Mark said.

  The manager turned the book around so Mark could read it. Mark was mildly surprised to see that Titus had checked in under his own name. It didn't show much discretion, but it did help anyone checking up on Lacey's alibi. What he found odd was that Titus had signed twice.

  "Why did Mr. Carville sign the register twice?" Mark asked.

  "He ended up renting rooms 15 and 16. They're adjoining rooms at the very end of the building," the manager said. "He said that he wanted more privacy, since they liked to

  have a very good time and didn't want any complaints about the noise."

  "I see," Mark said, digesting this new piece of information. "Has he ever been here before?"

  "Not as far as I know," the manager said. "You're welcome to look through the register if you like."

  "Did you see who was with Mr. Carville?"

  "I didn't see anybody, but then again, I try not to," the manager said. "Less chance I'm going to have to testify to anything. They don't compensate me for testifying, you know, and I've got to pay someone to fill in for me while I'm stuck in the courtroom."

  Mark closed the register and passed it back to the manager. "You've been very helpful. Thank you."

  "I had the clap once while I was in Vietnam," the manager said. "The waterworks have never run quite right since then."

  Mark smiled politely, not quite sure of the appropriate response to a disclosure like that, and hurried for the door before the manager decided to ask for a free exam.

  Perhaps if he'd been in less of a hurry, and if his mind wasn't occupied with the new information he'd learned, Mark might have noticed the Dodge Ram pickup that was backed into the parking spot directly across from the office. He might also have noticed the gun the driver was aiming at him out the window.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The first gunshot shattered the glass beside Mark, who dived onto the vinyl couch for cover. The next shot tore a chunk off the couch right above Mark's head. He peered over the edge and saw the truck speeding straight for the office and the couch he was lying on.

  There was nowhere Mark could go and no time to do it if he could. He ducked down again, covered his head with his arms, and braced himself for a lot of pain—not that he had much hope of being alive to feel it.

  That's when he noticed the manager standing in front of him, legs apart, holding a sawed-off shotgun in both hands, facing the oncoming truck.

  The manager fired, blasting open the truck's hood, which flew up, completely blocking the driver's view through the windshield.

  The driver wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right, his bumper clipping the edge of the office, shattering the remaining windows and smashing the condom vending machine.

  The truck burst into traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway, where it was immediately sideswiped by a Ford Explorer, which went spinning into oncoming cars, colliding with an Impala that had a pair of surfboards strapped to its roof. The Impala jumped the curb and careened into the gas station, slamming into a car parked at the pumps, the impact launching the surfboards like missiles. The boards sailed through the windows of a minivan and became lodged inside, the ends sticking out of either side of the empty vehicle.

  The shooter's truck veered out of control in a screeching U-turn that took it across the motel parking lot again and straight over the edge of the ravine. The truck tumbled down and disappeared into the dense brush below, kicking up a huge cloud of dirt and leaves.

  Mark sat up and gaped at the destruction. The floor was covered with broken glass, bits of cinder blocks, and condom packets from the smashed vending machine. The motel manager hadn't moved. He stood in place in his Hawaiian shirt and shorts, bleeding from dozens of wounds caused by the flying glass, the shotgun still smoking in his hands.

  "I need you to sit down for a moment," Mark said, leading him to the couch, using a copy of Road & Track magazine to brush away the broken glass. "My name is Dr. Mark Sloan. You didn't tell me your name."

  "Phil," the man said, taking a seat and holding the shot gun across his lap. "Phil LaLonde."

  "Phil, I'm going to examine you." Mark wiped blood out of his eyes, suddenly aware of the sting of his own injuries. "Are you feeling any pain?"

  "Mostly in my wallet. I had this window replaced two weeks ago," the manager said. "That guy is going to pay for it."

  "I think he already has," Mark said, then noticed a steady stream of blood spilling from inside the bend of Phil's left knee. The popliteal artery had been cut, and the blood loss had to be stopped fast.

  Mark gathered up some condoms, tore open the packets, stretched out the prophylactics, and quickly tied them together into a band.

  "What are you doing?" Phil asked.

  "Making a tourniquet." Mark
placed the tourniquet above the wound and twisted it tightly enough to stop the blood flow. "Now you can tell your wife that the condom machine really does save lives. Stay here until the EMTs arrive."

  Mark stepped through the frame that once held the office windows and hurried to his car, popping open the trunk and yanking out his medical bag. He took a roll of gauze and wrapped it like a sweatband around his head to keep the blood from his scalp wounds from running into his eyes.

  Then he put on a pair of surgical gloves, picked up his bag, and went to the edge of the ravine, peering over cautiously in case the shooter was on his way back up to finish the job.

  The truck lay at the bottom, upside down, its wheels spinning, the dust still settling around it. There was no sign of the driver. Mark wasn't about to go down and check on him. Not only would Mark be presenting himself as a target, he also didn't want to risk injuring himself going down the steep hillside, especially when there might be people on the street who needed his immediate attention. The shooter, whatever his medical condition, would have to wait for help from the fire department and the EMTs.

  Mark hurried out onto the highway, where traffic was snarled around the accidents. The SUV that had sideswiped the shooter's truck was in the center of the intersection, dented on all sides. Several cars that had collided with the SUV were stopped haphazardly around it, the drivers staring at the damage to their vehicles and talking ferociously into their cell phones. Mark hoped one of the people thought to call 911 before their insurance agents. In his rush to treat the injured, he'd forgotten to make the call himself and his cell phone was back in his car.

  He leaned into the crumpled S.U.V., where the driver, a woman in her thirties wearing a seatbelt, was lifting her face from the airbag that had deployed from her steering wheel. She seemed slightly dazed, but otherwise he didn't see any obvious signs of injury.

  "I'm Dr. Mark Sloan," Mark said, giving her a quick visual examination. "Can you tell me your name?"

  "Mary White," she said.