by M. Z. Kelly
“I made us some Flaming Grasshoppers,” Natalie said, holding out a tray of drinks. “The recipe’s a breeze. You just take a little bourbon, throw in some sugar and water, then toss in a handful of Mentos.”
Mo took one of the drinks and sniffed it. “You sure this ain’t gonna explode when it hits my stomach? I seen what happens when you put Mentos in Coke.”
I’d heard somewhere that the candy released a gas in the beverage, causing the soda to erupt like a mini-volcano.
“Down it in one gulp and you’ll be fine.” Natalie looked at our attorney. “You wanna try one?”
Krump’s tongue was hanging out, but it had nothing to do with the drink. Natalie was wearing a miniskirt and a low cut blouse. He stammered, “I’d better…I don’t drink…on duty.”
Natalie shrugged and brought the tray over to me. I’d had some of Natalie’s drink-priors, including a recent bout with something called Barking Hedgehogs that had left me with the world’s worst hangover. “I’ll pass,” I said.
Meanwhile, Mo had done as Natalie had suggested, slamming down her Grasshopper in one gulp. She smacked her lips together, took another drink off the tray, and said, “That’s the ticket.” She rubbed her stomach. “I don’t feel nothing ‘bout to explode down there, so far.”
I noticed Krump seemed frozen in place, his eyes still fixed on Natalie. I tried to break the tension by saying, “Why don’t we all go over to the kitchen table and talk.”
After we’d all taken seats, Bernie had settled down, and Natalie had also downed a drink, we got down to business. I pulled the crumpled-up eviction paperwork Mean Gene had given me out of my briefcase and showed it to Krump. “It says we have to vacate the premises within seventy-two hours for conduct detrimental to the health and welfare of the other residents. That leaves us with just forty-eight hours to do something.”
Krump swallowed but didn’t look at the paperwork. “Did you say Mean Gene?”
“The suing machine,” Mo confirmed. “He’s related to Maude Finch, the president of the residents’ council here at the Starlight.” She studied Krump, who sat there speechless, frozen in place again. She looked at me, then back at the attorney. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Krump pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “It’s just that our adversary has a certain reputation.”
Mo’s dark eyes remained fixed on him. “How long you been an attorney?”
Krump swallowed again. “This will be my first case.”
Mo’s eyes looked like two small planets in orbit. “Geeze. Just our damn luck.”
“We got us a virgin,” Natalie said.
“Probably in more ways than one,” Mo agreed.
My faith in our lawyer was also dropping like a rock, or maybe a Mentos in a Coke bottle. “What can you do to help us, Mr. Krump?”
We got more silence and more empty stares. Our attorney’s face was slick with sweat. His body then began to shake and he started gasping for air.
“I think he’s having some kind of breakdown,” Mo said.
“If you’re gonna croak, don’t do it here,” Natalie said. “We got us enough problems.”
“B…baagg,” Krump wheezed.
Mo looked at me. “What’d he say?”
“I think we wants a bag.”
Krump nodded his head vigorously. Natalie went into the kitchen, found a paper bag, and brought it over to our attorney.
“Don’t tell me he’s gonna barf,” Mo said. She looked at our attorney. “If you’re gonna toss your cookies, don’t do it in here. I see people barf and I upchuck faster than a Coke bottle with a load of Mentos.”
Krump took the bag and began breathing into it. After a couple of minutes, he seemed to regain some control. He finally surfaced for air and said, “Sorry. Anxiety attack. I only get them when I think about having to appear in court…” He started wheezing again and went back to the bag.
Mo looked at me. “What we gonna do? Mean Gene’s going chew up his pasty ass and spit it out.”
“Maybe we should just put a bag over his head when we go to court,” Natalie suggested.
We gave Krump a couple of minutes more before he managed to regain some control. Mo then said to him, “Keep your bag handy, look at our eviction papers, and tell us what you’re gonna do.”
We got more shaking, heavy breathing, and bag work, as our attorney studied the paperwork. He finally surfaced for air again and mumbled something that sounded like a legal term.
“I think he said it’s a no brainer,” Natalie said.
“Unlawful detainer?” I said, looking at Krump. “Is that what you said?” I got a vigorous nod, then a finger went to his nose like he was on some kind of game show. “What does that mean?”
He went back to the bag, took a couple of breaths, and mumbled something unintelligible again.
“I think he said erection,” Natalie said. She looked at Krump. “Are you having a reaction to some kinda sex drug?”
We got a furious head shake, more deep breathing into the bag.
“Eviction,” Mo said. “I think he meant eviction.”
Krump placed a finger on his nose again, before diving back into the bag. He surfaced a couple of more times and said something about the mobile home park needing a court order to evict us.
Mo looked at me. “This is ridiculous. We take this guy to court and Mean Gene’s gonna wipe the floor with him. What we gonna do?”
“I knew a guy like this once,” Natalie said. “The doctor said some anxiety attacks are brought on by low blood sugar.” She went into the kitchen, then brought over one of her Flaming Grasshoppers. She said to Krump, “Try one of these.”
She got a headshake and more heavy breathing.
“He’s a lost cause,” Mo said. “We might as well start packing, get ready to live on the street.”
Natalie wasn’t deterred. She grabbed Krump by the hair, titled his head back, and poured the drink down his throat. She then released our attorney and studied him for a moment. He seemed better and was no longer shaking and hyperventilating. We then got her pronouncement. “I think you all should start callin’ me Dr. Natalie.”
“He does seem better,” Mo said. She regarded Krump with one eye. “Can you talk?”
We got a couple of heavy breaths before he said, “I’m…” He cleared his throat. “Much bet…ter.” He looked at Natalie. “Can I have another one of those…Grass…hoppers?”
Dr. Natalie worked with her patient for another twenty minutes. Three Grasshoppers later and Hermes Krump was a new man. He was lucid and confident. There was just one problem. He was also drunk.
“Our strateegee is cl…clear,” Krump stammered. “We file a wr…written response, dd…demand an unlawful dd…detainer process. You can’t be evicted without a ff…formal hearing.”
We all agreed to what he proposed, probably because we had no other options. Natalie then whispered to us, “He’s off his tits. I’d better drive him home.”
She had a point. While our lawyer was no longer having a panic attack, he was seriously inebriated.
As they were leaving, Mo turned to me and said, “Now all we gotta do is worry ‘bout one thing when we go to court.”
“What’s that?”
“A drunk Krump.”
As it turned out, Mo was only half right. Our drunken attorney had another problem. Maybe it had something to do with his medical condition. Or the fact that he had a stomach full of sugar, water, Bourbon, and Mentos. All I know is that when Krump walked into the street in front of my friend’s mobile home, he suddenly erupted like Mount Vesuvius.
FIFTEEN
When I got to the station the next morning, Leo and I met with Darby and Buck in the bat cave to divide up duties. The lieutenant was away at a meeting, but Selfie and Molly joined us to give us a couple of updates.
“We talked to Crime Scene LA,” Molly said. “They’re unwilling to cooperate and provide any information about the IP address attached to
the original video clip of our victim. The site is owned by a woman named Jilly Montrose, if you want to talk to her.”
“I’ve heard of that site,” Darby said. “The cow…” He cleared his throat. “Buck and me can go by and lean on Montrose.”
Buck looked annoyed with his partner, but agreed to what he suggested, then said, “We can also do some follow-up on Duncan and Hanks this morning, talk to their families. Maybe they can give us something more on what went down the night they were shot.”
“In the meantime, Mr. Gooseberry is set for arraignment for the murder of his manager this afternoon,” Selfie told us.
Our crime analyst had her rhinestone glasses on a silver chain that made me think of a librarian with pink hair.
Selfie went on. “You might want to get with the DA before that, see if he’s going to proceed with filing charges.”
“That fat ass ran down his manager,” Darby said. “From what I hear, Howard Slade was into Gooseberry for big bucks, and the fat ass made good on some threats when he didn’t pay up.”
“He had another story when I talked to him in the hospital,” I said. “He had an alibi for the night Slade died. He was with a couple of groupies named Billy and Ricky. I’ve got their addresses.”
“I didn’t know our boy swung from both sides of the plate.”
“They’re women.”
“Then they’re hookers, or blind and stupid to have hooked up with that asshole. His alibi is worthless.”
“We’ll check it out,” Buck offered, trying to take the edge off what his partner said.
“In the meantime,” Molly said, “that meeting with that forensic anthropologist I mentioned yesterday is set up for ten thirty this morning at UCLA. She’s teaching a POST class for law enforcement officers on cults, rituals, and mythology.”
POST was California’s Police Officer Standards and Training requirements. The program was administered by the state, with mandates for annual training regarding everything from active shooter situations, to the psychology of criminal behavior, to weapons training.
“What kind of professor is an expert on rituals for the dead?” Darby asked. “Is that what they’re teaching in schools these days? No wonder the streets of Hollywood look like they’re full of zombies.”
He looked at me, maybe remembering that I’d recently done a zombie-rap performance with my elderly former landlord and my friends as part of a fundraiser for charity. Outtakes of us making a spectacle of ourselves had been running on a cable TV station that was promoting a show called Hollywood Detective. Leo and I had agreed to do the show to help out a victim, and I was still trying to live down the performance.
Molly said, “Dr. Castillo is a nationally recognized expert on cults and rituals as they relate to both primitive cultures and mythology, as well as current issues in society. She’s written several books on the subject.”
“You ask me, it’s a complete waste of time.” Darby looked at me. “You and the legend can go talk to her. We’ll do the real police work.”
Darby’s reference to ‘the legend’ was a nickname some cops had given Leo because of his years with the department and his past work breaking some big cases. My partner wasn’t fond of the moniker and glared at Darby, but otherwise didn’t respond.
After pushing paperwork around for an hour, Leo and I made the twenty minute drive from Hollywood Station to UCLA in Westwood. The sprawling campus was beautiful, with lots of brick and ivy-covered buildings.
The Department of Anthropology was located near a tree lined courtyard, and, after a couple of inquiries, we found Dr. Rosalind Castillo in a classroom with about sixty law enforcement officers. We stood at the back of the lecture hall, intently listening as the professor finished up with her class.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there is a change occurring in the world,” Castillo said. “Homicide is a crime where one, or more, human beings causes the death of another. That crime used to be personal, a killing response to a perceived injustice that was suffered by an individual. While crimes of that nature still occur, we are entering an era where the act of killing is no longer a response to a perceived wrong. Killing is now impersonal, belief-oriented, and it happens on a mass scale. Unfortunately, these will be the killing fields of our future.”
After the class ended, we took a moment before going over and introducing ourselves. We then went upstairs to Dr. Castillo’s office, where Leo and I took seats across from her while Bernie flopped on the floor next to me. The professor’s work space was cluttered and full of artifacts, including pottery and some primitive masks, that she’d probably collected in her work. I noticed the shelf behind her was lined with several books she’d written.
Our cult expert was probably in her mid-sixties, with braided silver hair, parted down the middle. She wore a couple of brightly colored scarves, draped over a loose cotton dress. Her appearance reminded me of pictures I’d seen of students from the 1960s.
Castillo wasted no time getting down to business, telling us, “I’ve seen what’s been on television about your case. It’s…” She exhaled, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “If you want to fill in some details for me, I’ll then give you my take on everything.”
Leo and I took a few minutes, going over what we knew, telling her how the victim was posed and painted. We then described her dress and wig, the fact that the body had been shaved, and that sodium hydroxide had been used to partially remove the flesh.
“We don’t know a lot about the ritual, but we believe the murder could be tied to the Day of the Dead celebrations,” Leo said.
Castillo nodded. “Based on what you’ve said, I think there are some general similarities.”
“What specifically can you tell us about the ritual?”
“Do you have some photographs of your victim that I could look at first?”
I removed the crime scene photos from my briefcase and handed them over. “Just a warning. These are very graphic.”
Dr. Castillo took a couple of minutes, sifting through the images. The room was silent as she studied the photographs. The only sound we heard was the chatter of students from somewhere outside her office and the professor’s short breaths as she reacted to the horrific images.
When she’d finished reviewing the photos, I said, “As you can see, what was done to the girl’s body was methodical and precise. During the autopsy, it was also determined that her heart had been removed.”
Castillo’s brows went up. “Her heart.”
“According to the coroner, a knife or other cutting instrument was inserted through the abdomen, up through the diaphragm in the process. The heart was then ripped out of her chest, causing her death.”
“A message was inserted into the chest cavity,” Leo added. My partner took a moment, showing her a copy of the Latin inscription and associated biblical reference.
Castillo studied the message before her gaze wandered off as she considered what we’d told her. She then looked back at us. “I’m going to digress for a moment and give you some background that I believe is relevant.” Bernie lifted his head in reaction to some students who raised their voices in the courtyard, causing Dr. Castillo to smile. She then went on. “There is a legend in Aztec mythology about the Queen of Mictlan, the ruler of the underworld. She presides over the afterlife with her husband. Her duties involve watching over the bones of the departed during the festival to the dead. The Day of the Dead rituals that are common to Mexican and Latin American traditions evolved from these ancient Aztec traditions.”
What she’d said was interesting, if not a little spooky, but I wasn’t sure how it helped. “Do you think our victim is symbolic of these traditions?”
Castillo nodded. “Yes, and I think what happened has ties that go back to the roots of these rituals. Tradition has it that the Queen of Mictlan was born and then sacrificed as an infant. Her spirit now walks the earth as the goddess of death. The Lady of the Dead is represented in mythology with her jaw open to swallo
w the stars during the day, making her a creature of the night.”
Leo looked at me, then back at Castillo. “Do you think whoever did this to our victim was recreating this myth?”
“Yes. The Aztec traditions and what happened to your victim are consistent.”
“You mean, because of the way our victim was posed and painted?” I asked.
“That’s only part of the similarity.”
“What else are you referring to?” Leo asked.
“The body of your victim was without skin and her heart was removed. Those factors are consistent with the Aztec myth. I believe your victim is the Lady of the Dead.”
SIXTEEN
Leo and I exchanged glances again, realizing that what Dr. Castillo was telling us made it likely that our crime was even stranger than we could have imagined.
“Our crime analyst did some research on the Day of the Dead,” I said. “She came up with the name Catrina for the female figure that I think you’re referring to.”
Castillo shook her head. “La Calavera Catrina was a likeness, using a female skeleton that was dressed in a similar manner to an upper class European woman during an earlier era. It was intended as a satire of a Mexican woman, whom the artist felt has aspirations of adopting European traditions. While that image is the modern day prototype for the female figure representing the goddess of the dead, I believe the elements of your crime, especially involving the removal of the flesh and the heart, are more rudimentary, suggesting whoever was involved has some knowledge of the historical background of the traditions.”
Leo scribbled notes in his pad and asked, “Do you think we’re dealing with someone who is highly educated, maybe an expert in this area?”
“Perhaps. But it’s impossible to say without more information.”
I took a moment to process what she’d said. The idea that we had a modern day killer, recreating an Aztec myth that was several hundred years old, seemed incredible. I then remembered serial killers often engaged in strange practices and beliefs.