“Oh. Yeah. Force of habit, I guess.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure. Of course.”
Aleena held the badge up so that it caught the low light spilling in from the bathroom. “Detective,” she said, running her fingers across the lettering.
“Yup.”
“Hmm. They made city hall look like a giant penis. I wonder if that was intentional.”
“It does not,” said Jarsdel. He took the badge away and squinted at it. “It’s symbolic.”
“Of a penis.”
“No, it has real meaning. The tower symbolizes the enduring spirit of the city’s founders, standing tall—”
“Erect.”
“—while the wings of the building signify the expansion from the first El Pueblo, and the base—”
“What penetrating insight you have.”
“Better show some respect,” said Jarsdel, “or you’re looking at a lewd conduct beef.”
“Sounds like something at a fusion restaurant. ‘Lewd conduct beef.’” Aleena took the badge back from him, studying it more closely. “Does everything on here mean something?”
“Of course.”
“Well, don’t say it like that, like I’m supposed to know.”
“Sorry. No secret why I’m slow to make friends. Ever heard of the Shield of Achilles?”
“No, but I know who he is. Invincible Greek guy, except for his heel.”
“Right. Well anyway, the god Hephaestus makes him his armor—long story as to why—including this incredible shield, to fight with in the Trojan War. What makes the shield so impressive—you know, other than being made by a god—is that it depicts a microcosm of the known universe in all these little scenes. You’ve got basic human activities, like people picking grapes or farming sheep, but you’ve also got a siege going on over here and a wedding going on over there. You’ve got the best and the worst and the mundane side by side, and it’s all juxtaposed with the eternal constants, all those things greater than us—the sun, the moon, the constellations. You get what I mean. Anyway, scholars like to debate the significance of the shield, but to me, there was always only one good answer.”
“And that is?” asked Aleena.
“To be among those who renew the world…to make the world progress toward perfection.”
“What’s that?”
“Zoroaster. My baba, my Iranian dad, he was from an old Parsee family, and Parsees are Zoroastrians, not Muslims. Zoroaster said that was the main purpose in life: ‘To be among those who renew the world,’ and ‘to make the world progress toward perfection.’ That’s what the shield is reminding us of. It represents what Achilles is fighting for. Not just humanity as the Greeks saw it, but the whole cosmic balance. If he loses, then all those things depicted on the shield, good or bad, fall into chaos.”
Aleena placed the badge over her bare left breast, over her heart. “And you’re saying this is like that shield? Representing what you’re fighting for?”
“Check out the border,” said Jarsdel. “That design comes from the fasces—Ancient Roman symbol of authority. There in the middle’s the city seal, and you’ve got little images symbolizing the last two hundred fifty years of LA’s history. And behind city hall, those are the rays of the sun, because hey—West Coast.”
“Cool,” said Aleena, “but incomplete. They got no one from the Walk of Fame on there. Like that Wonder Woman I always see in front of the Dolby. Or maybe a tranny hooker or two.” She was quiet awhile, then asked, “How do I look?”
Jarsdel raised himself on an elbow and took her in. She lay atop the covers, her curly brown hair fanned out behind her on the pillow, naked except for the badge.
“Like something worth fighting for,” said Jarsdel. He kissed her fully, dipping his free hand to the moist cleft between her legs. She arched her back to meet him.
“Ready for round two?” Aleena gasped.
“Sure.” He picked up the badge and moved to set it back on the nightstand, then paused, frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
“Thanks a lot, Aleena. Now every time I look at this, I’m gonna see a giant dick.”
She smiled. “My gift to you.”
Chapter 14
The call was passed along to Hollywood Station late the following afternoon. An emergency animal hospital in Toluca Lake had sent a vet out to an address in the hills above Ventura Boulevard, where a dog had been reported seizing in the backyard. By the time the doctor had arrived, the animal was dead. Its owners, she noted, had just returned from their wedding ceremony.
Above the tree line and across the plodding concrete snake of the 101, an orange flare arced into the sky, chased by a cloud of pale smoke. The burst of pyrotechnics signaled the climax of the Universal Studios stunt show, and Jarsdel watched with some longing as the flare cooled and winked out, dropping harmlessly somewhere backstage.
It couldn’t have been more than two miles as the crow flew—a giddy audience sitting enthralled as muscle-bound actors threw looping stage punches, dodged explosions, and plummeted from high scaffolds. Jarsdel knew he could get back in the car and be at the gates of the theme park in under five minutes—plenty of time to spare before the next show, maybe even get a ride in beforehand. When it was over, he could take the backlot tour. He hadn’t done that since he was in grade school and wondered if they still had the shark, the town square from Gremlins, and—his favorite—that big tunnel of churning ice that made it look like you were caught in the barrel of an avalanche.
Jarsdel had only been out of the academy a week before he was called to his first death scene. It was a classic shotgun suicide—barrel under the chin and toe on the trigger. The blast had taken off the front half of the man’s head and distributed it on and around his white faux-leather couch. A piece of skull was even discovered in a nearby fish tank, leaned right up against a mini treasure chest. What remained after the buckshot had done its work wasn’t remotely recognizable as a face—just a splayed mass of pulverized gristle, bone, and bright-yellow fat. On its own, it wouldn’t have been any more upsetting than a pile of roadkill. But the body it erupted from was whole, untouched by the rampage of lead pellets, so the final effect was one of absolute horror, one that lay between what the eye expected to see atop a human form and what it actually beheld.
That had almost been Jarsdel’s last day. It was obvious he wasn’t ready, not for what the job really called for. He was faking it, playing dress-up, and was certain everyone could tell, that they could see it in his ill-fitting uniform and shiny new badge and the way his gun hung awkwardly on his hip. All he wanted to do was run, run back into the arms of what was warm and familiar. He’d tell his parents they were right, that he’d made a terribly foolish mistake, and promise he’d somehow manage to piece his old life back together. Maureen too. They’d only been apart half a year, and he thought he might have a chance at winning her back. Not a good chance, perhaps, but it was worth a try. Anything was worth it to get away, to be anywhere else other than standing over the shattered remains of a man he’d never known and didn’t want to know.
He struggled to remember how he had conquered that moment and moved past it, but that was almost five years ago now, and the answer didn’t come. He hadn’t scampered home, and he hadn’t called Maureen—that much he recalled—but his actual method for mining some hidden reserve of resiliency remained beyond his reach. That was too bad, because at the moment, he could use whatever wisdom he could tap into.
Morales moved into his periphery.
“Let’s go.”
But Jarsdel didn’t want to go. He could hear the sobbing even from where he stood, the kind of long, braying squalls that only sounded from the absolute depths of misery, like the cries of the damned.
It was an old and surely tired axiom—one trotted out at every police academy in the world—that when ever
yone else flees from danger, it’s the cop’s job to run toward it. That arrangement was fine with Jarsdel, was something he’d made peace with, even if it should one day cost him his life. That might very well be the price of being among those who remake the world. But attending to the grieving held no appeal for him. Grief and despair were such fluid and adaptable monsters, and he had neither the skills nor the weapons nor the desire to meet them on the field. He wanted foes he could touch, ones that could be contained by a pair of handcuffs and a reinforced steel door.
Jarsdel followed Morales up the short path to the front door. Along the way, he noticed a painted iron lawn sculpture of a sleeping Saint Bernard, front paws curled around an oversized bone. Stuck in the grass next to it was a warning sign, red lettering on white: Beware of…oh, never mind.
The door began to open before Morales could ring the bell. It did so slowly, as if nudged by a gentle wind, but soon the detectives could make out a figure in the murky light of the front hall. He was young, perhaps in his midtwenties, with close-cropped dark hair and pale skin. Tattoos twisted their way out of the sleeves and collar of his T-shirt; Jarsdel saw claws, teeth, and tentacles, the faces of Gothic horror authors, and scattered words done in Courier font. There was Apep, Leviathan, Jörmungandr, Vritra, and Cthulhu.
“Cameron Dysart?” asked Morales.
“Hey,” the man said. “I guess you’d better come in.”
The detectives stepped inside just as another wail rose from somewhere in the house. It reached its peak, hanging high for a moment like the urgent blast of an air-raid siren, then broke apart into a hitching, gasping staccato that, on its own, might have passed for laughter.
The door shut behind them, and Dysart spoke. “It’s this way.”
Jarsdel and Morales followed him through the Craftsman bungalow and into the living room, where dozens of wrapped wedding gifts were stacked in front of the hearth. To their left, French doors opened onto a patio and a small, fenced-in yard. The wail started up again, and Jarsdel was grateful when they were led outside. He shut the door softly behind him, which at least robbed the cries of their sharp clarity, and descended the three steps to the lawn.
Beyond a pair of handcrafted Adirondack chairs—the kind made from repurposed wine barrels—Morales and Dysart stood over something draped with a mint-green bedsheet. Jarsdel slipped in beside them and looked down at the oblong shape. He glanced at Morales, who gave a single nod, and squatted, slipping a glove over his hand. He pinched the sheet on the hem nearest a dark stain—brick red on its way to crimson—and peeled it carefully back.
The dog’s head was enormous, more like that of a bear cub than a canine, and it stank of bile and blood. The muzzle was thick with both. The huge jaws had clenched violently in the animal’s death throes, nearly severing the blackening tongue that poked from its mouth. The eyelids were drawn up halfway, exposing filmy corneas caked with the residue of thick, cloudy tears. A leather collar was fastened around the neck, ID and blue plastic registration tag hanging from its metal loop. The ID was in the shape of a paw, the name SAHJHAN printed in all caps, a smear of dried blood obscuring the owner’s phone number beneath.
Only a few flies had managed to work their way under the sheet, but now many more descended to light on the encrusted fur of the dog’s face. Jarsdel wondered how they’d arrived so quickly and spotted several piles of pinkish vomit scattered about the yard. These squirmed with flies, and Jarsdel guessed they owed their hue to the dog’s ravaged insides.
The suffering would have been total, the terror felt as the poison ran its maniac course unimaginable. Jarsdel believed that the extremes of emotion were felt more acutely in an animal. A dog lived purely in the moment, could not conceive of the timeline it had ridden to the present and would from there split off into one of countless abstract futures. A dog could rocket between the poles of joy and fear without effort and without the tempering influence of deliberation.
“He was gonna be the ring bearer,” said Dysart. “But at the last minute, Amber was like, ‘We should see if T.K. wants to do it.’ That’s her nephew. He’s nine and does ballet.”
Jarsdel laid the sheet back in place and stood up. “Who found him?”
“She did.”
“She being your wife?”
“Amber, yeah. Someone gave us as a wedding present this whole box of bully sticks, and she was gonna run one outside for him here before we went to the dinner thing tonight. The reception.” He made a strange sound, a plaintive sigh of some sort that ended with a rasp of unvoiced air. “My question,” he went on, “is, like, what are you guys gonna do about this? The vet said this has been going on for years? And you guys did nothing?”
“Sir,” said Jarsdel. “I understand this is an extremely upsetting time.”
“Upsetting?” Again came the sigh, and Jarsdel used the time to try to think of something to say.
But Morales spoke up and in a tone Jarsdel hadn’t heard from him before. It was gentle, with the same soothing cadence he used when addressing grieving family members, but there was something more. Good law-enforcement officers were born with the potential for mental toughness, the ability to proceed with the job at hand without getting derailed by revulsion, shock, and anger. But veteran murder cops like Morales, whose lives had been defined by death for so long, were other creatures entirely. They required more than naturally hard shells. No feeling human could withstand an onslaught that constant and remain aloof. It became a daily labor, a wrestling match between a finite mortal body and an ever-vigorous, eldritch horror, whose bouts—at best—ended in a draw. In Morales’s words, Jarsdel could hear that he’d lost this one.
“I’m sorry this happened to you.”
Dysart looked at him. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”
There was silence for a while, and Jarsdel realized the crying from the house had stopped. He turned to look in that direction and found himself face-to-face with a slight woman standing barefoot in the grass and wearing an oversized bathrobe—her new husband’s, Jarsdel supposed. Her nose and cheeks were bright red, a color made more startling by the dark hollows running beneath her eyes. Her sandy-blond hair hung damply around her face.
“Hi,” she said.
Dysart took a step toward her. “Amber. Babe. You should go back inside.”
His bride put her palm out to stop him. Dysart hesitated but made no further move.
“Excuse me,” said Amber and made her way through the group to her dog’s side. She knelt there, putting a hand on the rigid form beneath the sheet.
“I’m so very sorry,” said Jarsdel. “But the more we can find out from you this early on, the better chance we have of catching the person who did this.”
Amber gave no reply. Just swept her hand in small, slow circles.
“If you’d prefer, we can just talk to your husband.”
Still nothing. Jarsdel and Morales exchanged a look and were about to suggest to Dysart that they come back another time when Amber stood. She regarded the detectives, brushing the hair from her face.
“Go ahead.”
Morales already had his notebook out. “Thank you. What time did you get home?”
“Hour and a half ago, I think.”
“And your dog was still living when you arrived?”
“Barely. He was on his way out, and I don’t think he could see me. Could smell me, though. I hope he could, anyway.”
Morales made a few notes. “And that’s when you called the vet?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name, please?”
“Dr. Lindy. That’s her first name. What everyone calls her. I actually don’t think I…Cam? Do you know her last name?”
Her husband looked down at his feet. “No. Sorry.”
“We can get it for you,” Amber told Morales.
“No prob. We can figure it out. Can you think of anyon
e who’d want to do something like this? Any enemies or, you know, unbalanced individuals?”
“My ex doesn’t like Cam. But he lives way up in Alameda. And he also loves dogs, so…”
Morales turned to Dysart. “Sir? Can you think of anyone? It could’ve been something relatively minor. Maybe you got into an altercation recently? Rear-ended someone or fought over a parking space?”
Dysart thought about that but soon shook his head. “Nothing like that. Not that I can remember.”
“What about anything out of the ordinary? Get the feeling someone was following you? Hang-up phone calls? Prowlers?”
“No.”
Jarsdel jumped in. “Deliverymen? Someone who rang your bell with a package, then when you answered, maybe said they had the wrong address?”
Dysart and Amber silently checked in with each other, then both answered no. Morales and Jarsdel continued the questioning, getting the locations of the ceremony and the reception—which would now be canceled—along with the names of their wedding planner, officiant, and DJ. Jarsdel had read the case file so many times that he already knew none of them had come up at any other point in the investigation.
This had been the freshest Dog Catcher crime scene so far, but by the time Jarsdel and Morales left, they were even more mystified as to the killer’s identity than they’d been before. How did he pick his victims? How did he know so much about them, down to the start time of their wedding ceremonies?
The detectives made their way back to the station in morose, frustrated silence.
Chapter 15
Morales was back in court on his Hollywood nightclub stabbing case, this time under a defense subpoena. It was a desperate move on behalf of their client, a clumsy Hail Mary, their case hinging on making Morales appear he had bungled key aspects of the investigation. He’d been livid when he received the summons. “They are going to repent at motherfucking leisure for this.”
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