by Philip Cox
‘That’s the one. That’s why Farmer asked for me. They just found his brother.’
FIVE
It was not long before Leroy arrived at the crime scene. After his conversation with Quinn, he made his way to the front of the hotel. A taxi was pulling up, and disgorged a party of four, complete with suitcases. He stood to one side while the bell-hop met them, and wheeled their bags inside to reception. One of the party, a grey-haired man, paid the driver, and the cab sped off.
A few minutes later, a black and white pulled into the hotel grounds. Briefly acknowledging the two uniformed officers in the front, Leroy climbed in back, and the car sped off.
As they drove up the ramp to the Hollywood Freeway, they could see the traffic was moving slowly, maybe about thirty. The officer driving leaned over to the dashboard, and pressed a switch. Immediately Leroy could hear the siren wailing and could see the passing bushes illuminated by the red and blue lights.
‘Hey guys,’ he said as they joined the freeway and moved into the number four lane, ‘there’s no need for the siren, is there?’
The second officer turned round slightly. ‘Sorry, sir, but Detective Farmer insisted. He wants you at the scene like yesterday.’
‘Okay.’ Leroy shrugged and sat back in his seat.
Twenty minutes later, they were travelling south down Vine Street. Just after the intersection with Hollywood Boulevard, they made a right to go down an alleyway. The entrance to the alley itself was cordoned off; the black and white slowed down as it approached the cordon, until a young female officer raised the barrier to allow them access. The driver switched off the lights and siren as they made their way along the alley. Round a couple of turns the road opened out. Leroy peered out of the window. Two cruisers were parked at one end of the opening, the red and blue lights on one still flashing. An SUV was standing adjacent to the opposite wall, next to a portable arc light, which was illuminating the scene.
The cruiser pulled up and Leroy climbed out. The officer driving wound down his window and said, ‘We’ll be parked over there when you’re done, Detective. Take you back to your wedding when you’ve finished here.’
‘All right, guy. Thanks.’ Leroy patted the car roof and turned to face the crime scene. He noticed the cruiser back away as he walked up to the group of around half a dozen men milling around. One of them, a stocky, balding guy in his late forties, noticed him approach.
‘Hey Sam, thanks for coming,’ said Bill Farmer. ‘Sorry to drag you away from the party.’
‘No sweat. So what exactly do you need me for, anyway?’
‘Come and look at this.’ Farmer led Leroy through the small crowd. When the group parted, Leroy could see a car – he could recognise it as a Chevrolet, but couldn’t make out the model – parked at a forty-five degree angle to the wall. A foot behind the rear nearside wing was a body. A man’s body, face down, except for a pair of black underpants.
‘Take a look,’ said Farmer.
Leroy glanced over at him and knelt down next to the body. Under the lights from the arc lamp, he could make out a few facts. The guy appeared Caucasian, and must have been around five feet six tall, around a hundred and sixty pounds. The dark hair, which showed a few wisps of grey behind the ears, was cut short, no more than an inch. The back, which was smooth, except for a few dark hairs at the foot of the spine, appeared unblemished, although there were a couple of dirty marks, which seemed like oil stains.
Just below the underpants, at the top of both legs, were dark marks matching the tread of car tyres. It looked as if a vehicle had gone over the legs twice, as there were two tread marks, one being not quite superimposed on the other. Leroy looked over at the Chevy. The tyre treads matched. The lower legs were untouched also, but there were scratches on both feet, and it looked as if the soles of both feet had been bleeding.
Leroy looked up at Farmer. ‘This the car that…?’
Farmer nodded. ‘Drove over the legs, then back again.’
Leroy stood up. Stretched a little. ‘Who called this in?’ he asked. ‘Who was driving this?’
‘The two over there,’ replied Farmer, indicating to a couple standing next to a pair of uniformed officers in a doorway. Leroy looked over.
They both seemed twenty-somethings. The guy was quite short – five feet, Leroy guessed – and looked Asian. The girl, same height but with a lighter frame, looked Hispanic. Both were smartly dressed: he wore a dress shirt, top three buttons open; she was wearing a short dark dress.
Leroy turned to Farmer. ‘What’s their story? Hooker and john?’
Farmer shook his head. ‘No, no. Nothing like that. Guy out with his girlfriend. It’s her birthday, apparently. He was taking her to a concert up at the Bowl.’
Leroy snorted. ‘One present she wasn’t expecting.’
‘Yeah. Not even gift wrapped.’
‘What were they doing back here, anyway? If they were going to the Bowl, I mean.’
‘They said the traffic was all snarled up, and they were afraid they’d be late,’ said Farmer. ‘It was the guy driving, and he thought he’d take a shortcut.’
‘Through here?’
‘Says he was sure he could make it through to Highland this way. Said they arrived around here, realised they had taken the wrong turn. He tried to make a three point turn around here, and felt the axle go over something.’
Leroy nodded. ‘Then moved the car again to get clear. Hence the two tread marks.’
‘That’s it,’ Farmer said, then paused a moment. ‘Anything you want to ask them?’
Leroy shrugged. ‘Your investigation, Bill. In any case, I’ve been drinking, remember?’
Farmer nodded and Leroy knelt down again. Looked over the body.
‘Cause of death?’ he asked.
‘Take a guess,’ said Farmer.
Leroy stood up. Scratched his chin and looked down at the body.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said to Farmer. ‘No obvious COD here, but tomorrow the ME will declare it was cardiac arrest.’
SIX
It was just past midnight when Leroy eventually made it home. After looking over Bill Farmer’s crime scene, and discussing with Farmer how similar this scene was to the one he had been to the previous day, there was nothing else he was able to do there.
‘Appreciate you coming, Sam,’ Farmer said, resting his hand on Leroy’s shoulders.
‘No problem, Bill. I owe you one anyway.’
Farmer laughed. ‘Probably. Anyhow, I’ll get that black and white to take you back to your guy’s wedding.’
Leroy looked at his watch. ‘Nah. Not worth it. They’ve probably left for their honeymoon now. I guess I’ll just go home.’
‘Whatever. They’ll take you home. You still in Venice?’
‘Yeah, but don’t worry; I’ll take a cab.’
‘Like hell you will. They were going to take you back Downtown, weren’t they? What’s a few more miles?’
‘If you say so, Bill. It’s just-’
‘If it eases your conscience, don’t put in for overtime for tonight, okay? I guess that kind of evens out the cost.’
Leroy shrugged and laughed. Farmer waved over to the black and white which was still parked fifty or so yards away. The headlights came on, and the car eased over. Leroy got in the back again and gave the officers his address.
‘No sirens please this time, guys,’ he said as he settled down in the seat.
They made their way onto the main streets and eventually headed west along Santa Monica Boulevard. Leroy felt a little disappointed about having to leave his partner’s wedding early, but was sure he understood. He took out his phone and sent Quinn a text: Sorry had to leave. On way home now as late. Have good honeymoon.
After he had sent the message he said to the officers in front, ‘Appreciate you taking me back, guys. I could’ve taken a cab.’
‘Not to worry, sir,’ the passenger replied. ‘I know Detective Farmer was keen to get your opinion.’
‘Let’s just ho
pe we don’t get a call,’ added the driver. ‘Otherwise you’ll have to get that cab. Or come with us.’
Leroy’s phone bleeped: a text messaged was coming through. He checked the screen. It was Quinn.
No problem. Left ourselves. At our own hotel now.
Leroy nodded. Just as he put the phone back into his pocket, it bleeped again. Quinn again.
Btw what was at the scene?
Typical, thought Leroy, and replied, Tell you when you back at work. Enjoy your honeymoon detective.
Lmao came the reply.
Leroy frowned. Lmao?
Quinn replied, Laugh my ass off.
Leroy shook his head and put the phone away. Only Quinn would be asking about somebody else’s crime scene on his wedding night. He reflected that if he was in a hotel room with Holly Quinn, a John Doe in a Hollywood back street would be the last thing on his mind.
Suddenly the car radio crackled and burst into life. ‘Any unit, a 211 just occurred at West Pico Street at Sepulveda. Suspect was a male black, six-foot, approximately 180 pounds; shaved head, goatee, white t-shirt, dark baggy pants. Weapon used was a revolver. Code 3. Incident number 555 in RD 193.’
‘That’s the gas station,’ the officer driving said. ‘You coming with us, Detective?’
‘No. Just drop me off here, will you?’
‘Sure thing.’
The cruiser pulled up and Leroy got out. He had barely closed the door when the red and blue roof lights began flashing, the siren started, and the car made a U-turn in the middle of the traffic and headed back east.
Leroy watched as the red and blue lights disappeared into the distance, and the wail of the siren merged into the ambient sounds of the Saturday night traffic. He looked around to get his bearings: he was outside a music store on Santa Monica and 19th.
‘Shit,’ he said aloud. Nineteen blocks to the ocean. Then it was another three and a half miles to get home. He looked around again to see if he could see a cab. None. He squinted as he peered into the distance east. He thought he could make out a bus in the distance. He thought he could make out a bus stop on the corner of the next block, so sprinted down to 18th street. Sure enough, a bus arrived within seconds.
‘Fantastic,’ he said aloud, as he saw it was a Big Blue Bus, route 1, which would take him into Santa Monica, then it would turn left along Venice Main Street. He got on, paid his fare, and settled down in a seat halfway down the bus.
He alighted twenty-five minutes later at Windward Circle, Venice, and made the seven short blocks’ walk home in fifteen.
Home was a second floor apartment in a small three storey building on 23rd Avenue, between Pacific Avenue and Speedway, a short walk from the ocean. The streets were deserted as Leroy made his way to his building and up the stairs to his floor. He let himself in, and flopped onto the couch. Checked his phone: at least no more messages from Quinn.
He sat up and leaned forward, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. Now, the evening had not quite panned out as he had planned. He was kind of looking forward to his partner’s wedding, but with the normal uncertainties he guessed most unattached people feel at events like this. Although he was happy for Quinn, he felt a tang of envy. If things had been different…
He sat back and thought about Bill Farmer’s crime scene. Not his ideal Saturday night, but he was glad Farmer had called him over. The two cases must be connected; the similarities could never be coincidence. The day before - or rather now, two days before – he had been called to an office parking lot in Century City. Three people heading home after a party had discovered a dead male, wearing only underpants, lying by a car. As with Farmer’s body, there were no signs of trauma. It was only at the preliminary autopsy – preliminary as it was late Friday night when the body was examined – that the cause of death was stated as cardiac arrest. There was going to be a full autopsy Monday morning.
He rested the back of his head on the couch and closed his eyes. After some very long shifts, he was exhausted. Sunday was to catch up on about three months’ sleep deprivation. Monday morning, he will be talking to the ME about his and Farmers’ John Does.
Within seconds, Sam Leroy was in a deep sleep.
SEVEN
Regular as clockwork, Captain Preston Patterson arrived at work at eight in the morning. Never, ever late; never early either.
Except today.
Patterson made a $200 cash withdrawal at the ATM in the red entrance lobby of the LAPD building on Butler and Iowa and briskly walked in. The large analogue wall clock showed the time as just after seven fifteen. The young officer sitting at the reception desk and her two colleagues milling around the lobby acknowledged Patterson’s greeting, then gave each other a look of surprise at his early arrival.
Patterson made his way down the corridor of the single floor building, feeling rather pleased with himself that he was arriving at work so early. He was in early as he had a mountain of paperwork to finish, and would rather work early than late. And there was the weekly conference call with the other captains and the Chief of Police, where they would spend an hour and a half discussing each Division’s crime statistics and clear up rates.
And today he had another call to make.
Despite his early start being of necessity than choice, he still could not help puffing his chest out slightly as he strode past the still empty desks to his own glassed-in office. He knew some of the lower ranks made a joke of his regular as clockwork arrival time, so they’ll be laughing on the other side of their faces when they arrive and see me at my desk.
Patterson was just about to stride the last few yards to his office when he stopped dead in his tracks. Sitting at a desk, feverishly studying some paperwork and a PC screen, was Detective Sam Leroy. Leroy looked up at Patterson.
‘Morning, sir,’ Leroy said.
Patterson was temporarily taken aback.
‘Morning, Sam. You’re in early.’
‘I could say the same, sir,’ grinned Leroy.
‘Yes, well; very funny. I have a mountain of paperwork to do. Plus a dozen or so calls.’
Leroy sat back and took a sip from a paper cup. ‘Right.’
‘So why the early start for you?’ asked Patterson, resting his attaché case on an adjacent desk.
‘It’s this John Doe we had in Century City on Friday. Just trying to get to grips with it.’
Patterson frowned as he tried to recollect the case.
‘Ah, yes. The guy in the parking lot. Just heart failure, as I recall.’
‘So the preliminary examination said. The full autopsy is this morning. I’m planning on catching up with the ME later.’
‘Seemed open and shut to me.’
‘Captain, he was in a parking lot just dressed in his shorts.’
‘There was an office party upstairs, wasn’t there? He probably picked up a workmate, they went to one of their cars for some action, and it was too much for him. How much alcohol in his system?’
Leroy shook his head. ‘The prelim said there was a little; one unit maybe.’
‘Like I said, seems open and shut. I wouldn’t spend too much time on this one, Sam. How many unsolved homicides on our books?’
Leroy nodded and sipped more coffee. ‘A dozen or so. I know. That’s why I came in early.’
‘Very commendable. Any case, Sam, Perez takes up his post later in the week. Should take the pressure off you.’
‘I know, but Quinn’s on honeymoon till the 26th.’
‘All the more reason not to waste time on unnecessary cases,’ said Patterson as he picked up his case and turned to leave.
Leroy scratched his chin and returned to his paperwork.
‘By the way,’ asked Patterson, turning round, ‘you left early on Saturday?’
‘Yeah,’ Leroy relied, sitting back again. ‘I had a call from Bill Farmer.’
‘Hollywood Division, yes? What could he say to call you away from your partner’s wedding?’
‘He had his own John D
oe that night. Back of Hollywood Boulevard.’
‘Not unusual surely? A body in Hollywood on a Saturday night.’
‘That was my reaction when he called and asked me to take a look.’
‘And?’
‘You want to know something, Captain? His John Doe was exactly the same as mine. Lying on the deck in his underpants, no obvious signs of death. Another heart failure, I guess. Another open and shut case.’
Patterson stared at Leroy a moment, then said, ‘Well, I’ll let you get on, then. You’re obviously very busy. But don’t forget those other cases, will you?’
‘Of course not, Captain.’
Leroy leaned forward and resumed leafing through the paperwork on his desk. Patterson said nothing more, and walked to his own office. Went in and closed the door.
As he heard the door close, Leroy sat up. Something was different. He frowned as he tried to figure out what.
That was it. Patterson was one of those senior officers who normally left their office door open.
EIGHT
One of the dozen unsolved homicides was that of a homeless guy, found over a week earlier. Early one Sunday morning two joggers were running across Clover Park, a small city park, roughly one half block by three, used by local families for baseball, football, soccer and most other sports.
As the two tracksuited men passed a small brick building in the centre of the park, one of them began running on the spot.
‘Can you hold on, Tyler?’ he asked the other, who was also by now jogging on the spot. ‘I need to take a piss.’
‘Sure, go on, Will,’ Tyler replied. He was now working out in the middle of the path.
The building comprised two small bathrooms, men’s and women’s. To get access to the men’s room Will had to walk - or rather jog – round a small partition and through a doorway with a pictogram of a man beside it. There were two urinals and two stall doors. Will opened the right hand side door.
Outside, Tyler heard Will call out for him. He stopped working out and ran into the bathroom. Resting one hand on the wooden doorframe, he saw Will standing by one of the stall doors. The door was open, and sitting on the pedestal, slumped up in one corner was a man. He was wearing a dirty checked shirt and grubby dark coloured combat pants. Short, curly grey hair, goatee beard to match. He was staring, mouth and eyes wide open, up at the ceiling. There was a large black hole either side of his head, and a thick, black trace, now dried, running down his temple. The whole bathroom smelt bad.