by Joseph Flynn
Dr. Dahlgren said, “The victim’s blood alcohol content indicates he was highly intoxicated at the time of his death.”
That fit with Tibbot being foolish enough to attack Ron’s father, the chief thought.
“In addition,” the ME continued, “the estimated time of death was after midnight. So besides being very drunk, he may well have been fatigued. A brutal physical attack from behind had to be physically shocking, perhaps even paralyzing, and when you’re hemorrhaging like, well, a stuck pig, you lose strength very quickly.”
Ron and Tall Wolf looked at each other.
Keely saw the silent exchange and asked, “What?”
“There was no urine or feces at the crime scene,” Ron said.
Dr. Dahlgren nodded. “The victim’s bladder was empty upon examination and his bowels at the anal terminus were clear.”
John Tall Wolf said, “We wondered if the killer was in the house long enough to have seen Tibbot use his bathroom, waited for him to take care of business before going to work.”
Keely said, “That’d fit in with wanting to keep the scene neat.”
Ron added, “Now, I think the special agent and I are wondering whether the killer was in the bar where Tibbot was imbibing, saw him drink to excess.”
“Making himself an easier mark,” Tall Wolf added.
“You guys are pretty smart,” a female voice said.
Standing just inside the entrance to the morgue was a woman in a business suit and sensible shoes. The outfit was stodgy; the woman was anything but. She had dark brown hair worn in a pageboy style, high cheekbones, an olive complexion and a raptor’s unblinking gaze. She looked fit enough to compete in a triathlon and crowd the top male competitors at the finish line.
“You must be Special Agent Tall Wolf,” she said to John.
“And you’re the FBI?” he asked.
She nodded. “Special Agent Abra Benjamin.”
“Chief Ketchum?” she asked Ron.
“Yes.”
She handed him a manila envelope.
“The photos of Mr. Tibbot you requested. Sergeant Casimir Stanley asked me to pass them along.”
Ron took notice that the manila envelope holding the photos was still glued shut.
The newly arrived feeb hadn’t been snooping.
Special Agent Benjamin stepped over to Tibbot’s mortal remains and looked at the bruise thereon. She bobbed her head, making the others think she’d overheard their entire dialogue.
Turning to Ron, she said, “When it rains it pours, huh?”
Abra Benjamin had cabbed it to the hospital so she rode back to the chief’s office at the Muni Complex with Ron. Keely Powell, who seemed even unhappier than Ron to have a feeb on hand, and this one in particular, rode back to police headquarters with John Tall Wolf.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” Benjamin told Ron.
Sparing her a glance, he said, “And yet here you are.”
“I’m really not that bad.”
“We’ll see.”
“I could have begged off, even though Deputy Director Byron DeWitt asked me to come out here.”
Keeping his eyes on the road, the chief said, “You can blow off your bigshots?”
“I just completed a long, difficult assignment. I’m overdue for time off.”
“I won’t ask what the case was. Spare you saying you can’t tell me.”
“Thanks. I was in the deputy director’s office with Special Agent Sharon Kilbride when a call came through. The head of the BIA’s Office of Justice Services, Marlene Flower Moon, asked if Sharon might represent the bureau on the matter of the dirty bomb you found.”
“But she’s not as good as you?” Ron asked.
“Every bit as good and more. Sharon trained me. But she’s also eight months pregnant with twins. The deputy director thought that might slow her down a little.”
No doubt that was the point, Ron thought. Bring in a feeb who was all but immobilized.
“Sharon’s due to go on maternity leave any moment now, and Deputy Director DeWitt thought she shouldn’t be too far away from her own doctor, hospital and, of course, her husband.”
Ron nodded. “Perfectly reasonable decision.”
Abra gave him a look, decided he’d meant what he said.
It was a point in the local cop’s favor, the new fed decided.
She continued, “If the request had come in one day later, Sharon would have been on leave and I would have been on vacation. You’d have had some guy from the end of the bench to deal with. He probably would have been happy just to sit back, take in the scenery, scrounge a little credit for the bureau at the end of things.”
Ron pulled into his summer parking space, the one outdoors, and looked at Special Agent Benjamin. He asked, “Is this where I’m supposed to snap my fingers at my bad luck?”
“I heard about the problems SAC Francis Horgan caused you when Reverend Isaac Cardwell was killed up here. So I wouldn’t blame you if you gave me the finger. But I hope, in the end, you’ll see you’re better off with me.”
Ron looked at her and laughed.
“You want to tell me the real reason you’re not on vacation right now?” he asked.
Benjamin kept a poker face for ten seconds and then she laughed, too.
“John Tall Wolf has a habit of finding his way into cases the FBI considers to be ours. I thought I’d —”
“See if you can give him a run for his money?” Ron asked.
“Eat his lunch,” Abra Benjamin said.
There was room in Ron’s office for two men and two women to work, but he thought the egos involved might be a little happier with more elbow room. He commandeered the department’s conference room, had sparkling water, ice tea and nutritionally correct snacks sent in. He also called in Mayor Steadman’s press secretary, Annie Stratton.
He had the room’s miniblinds closed by the time she arrived.
“Everyone, this is Annie Stratton. She’ll handle media relations for us as necessary.”
The chief introduced Keely, Tall Wolf and Benjamin to Annie. Everyone understood she would be the mayor’s pipeline into their activities. If anyone got too far out of line, they’d find out who had the real clout in town.
Ron didn’t think Tall Wolf would push things. If Keely got ticked off at Clay, she’d just go back to L.A. Benjamin was the wild card. Her mention of the connection she had to the bureau’s deputy director was a none too subtle way of saying she wouldn’t be easily dislodged.
Ron asked Annie, “Any clamoring from the press about the bomb?”
“Not too much. Would have be a lot more if … you know.”
“The bomb went boom and I made a sudden departure?” Ron asked.
“Yeah, that would have been news. Right now, we’re at about the level of when the FBI finds a wannabe jihadist and sets him up with a phony bomb, lets him try to set it off.”
“Yeah, they’re good at that,” Keely said.
The words were complimentary. The look she directed at her female counterpart said Benjamin should be plying her trade in Washington or New York right now.
“We do our best with whatever task we’re given.” Benjamin replied, looking at Keely.
In other words: Fuck off, honey.
Ron and Tall Wolf kept straight faces.
Annie said, “Well, I’ll let you know if you need to watch out for reporters.”
Ron thanked Annie and let her make her escape.
He opened the envelope with the photos of Hale Tibbot that Sergeant Stanley had sent his way. He put them up on the white board positioned at the far end of the conference table. The top row featured shots from the crime scene. The bottom row exhibited photos culled from the public record.
Ron saw what he was looking for immediately. He took a post-mortem crime scene close-up and centered it beneath the two rows. To the right of that shot, he put a photo of Tibbot that had been taken at a costume ball of some sort. The late real estate tycoon wor
e a narrow mask over his eyes, but the rest of his face was easily recognizable. To the left of the center photo, Ron placed a shot that had the air of a CEO’s portrait, all business and steely eyed intensity.
Turning to Keely, Ron asked, “What do you see?”
“The death picture and the party shot have the same hairstyle on the vic; the other one has the part on the other side. It’s a more severe look. Meant to intimidate,” she said.
Tall Wolf added, “The business look is the norm. The party shot is the exception.”
Ron offered Abra Benjamin the chance to comment.
She gestured at them to continue.
Keely gave a shake of her head and contributed a further thought.
“No way the killer restyled the vic’s hair.”
“Right,” Tall Wolf said. “The way we think he killed Tibbot, he must have mussed up the man’s hair.”
Ron articulated the logical conclusion.
“Someone brushed or combed Tibbot’s hair after he died. But I don’t get the feeling it was Glynnis Crowther.” Ron turned to Benjamin. “Ms. Crowther was Mr. Tibbot’s housekeeper.” Looking back at Keely and Tall Wolf, he continued, “What I think, there was a person who was in the house at the time of the murder. Maybe someone who saw the killer come and go.”
“But didn’t expose his or her presence to the killer,” Tall Wolf said.
Keely gave Abra Benjamin another look, as if challenging her to say something.
The FBI special agent chose to remain silent.
Keely turned to Ron and Tall Wolf. “You look at how neat the late Mr. Tibbot’s hair was before he got shorn, it’s clear his hair had been restyled. If Tibbot was gay or bisexual, the gesture might have been made by a gay man. But if you look at the picture of him in costume, it looks like that’s a woman’s hand on his shoulder.”
The photo had been cropped to leave only Tibbot in view, but the hand on his shoulder did look feminine. Ron called Sergeant Stanley, described the photo in question and asked if the sergeant could find an uncropped version.
“Right away,” came the response.
Ron asked Keely, “Would a woman make that mistake? Putting the part on the wrong side.”
Keely deferred to Tall Wolf who said, “Maybe that was where she wanted to see it all along.”
Keely nodded and gave Tall Wolf an approving smile. She asked, “Do we know if Tibbot was single?”
“He was,” Ron said, “and if he wasn’t straight, he at least liked to play the part in public. He had female companions at campaign appearances.”
“Well, maybe he also had someone in his life who was more discreet. Say a married woman,” Keely said.
“If not a married woman,” Tall Wolf said, “maybe someone who worked for him.”
“Or maybe the answer is a lot simpler,” Keely said, looking as though an idea had just occurred to her.
Ron and Tall Wolf waited for her to explain.
When she didn’t, they both understood why.
She didn’t want to share with Abra Benjamin.
Sergeant Stanley, stepping out of character, was slow in providing the photo he’d promised to produce quickly. Maybe he was being intentionally unforthcoming, too. Ron turned to Special Agent Benjamin.
“Have you had the chance to check into your hotel yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Hilton.”
Keely let just the hint of a smile show. The Hilton was okay. In Goldstrike, it was probably better than that. But no way would Benjamin’s lodgings be anywhere nearly as swank as hers.
Chalk one up for the local copper.
Ron said, “Would you like me to drop you off there?”
“Are we done here?”
“I think so. For the moment.”
“Then I’ll take the ride.”
Benjamin gave Keely and Tall Wolf a farewell nod, but no one said goodbye.
On the way to the hotel, Benjamin told Ron, “Ms. Powell doesn’t like me.”
“She thinks you’re holding back. I think Special Agent Tall Wolf feels the same.”
“And you?”
“Well, you told me how helpful you’re going to be.”
“I was just trying not to be the pushy FBI type from Washington.”
“That’s one possibility,” Ron said.
“What’s another?”
“You’re willing to listen to anything useful we might think of, but you want to keep your good ideas to yourself.”
“I’m really not like Francis Horgan. A local homicide doesn’t interest me.”
“We’ll see,” Ron told her.
“I’m here about that bomb you found.”
“Oh, well. I’ve turned that investigation over to Tall Wolf.”
Benjamin’s skeptical look said she didn’t believe him.
“You’re not going to make things easy for me,” she said.
“We’ll see what we can work out,” Ron told her.
Chapter 12
An hour before sunset, Ron took one of the police department’s patrol craft out onto Lake Adeline. He’d asked Keely if she’d like to come along, but she said she wanted to go for a walk around town, get a feel for the place, maybe spot someone wearing a T-shirt that said, “Bad guy. Arrest me now.” If things weren’t that obvious, she’d told Ron, maybe she’d just see some creep whose looks she didn’t like, follow him back to his den of iniquity.
Keely liked to joke, but there was some truth to her jest.
Goldstrike wasn’t a gated community.
It would be good to know of someone who stood out for the wrong reasons.
As long as the cop involved didn’t get accused of profiling.
Ron had asked John Tall Wolf if he’d like to go for a cruise. He’d said he had enough of the lake from his previous night on the water. Besides that, his boss had just arrived in town. He’d have been happy to blow her off for a good reason but that would just delay the inevitable.
Ron asked, “You think maybe she wanted someone like Special Agent Benjamin to wind up here?”
John gave the question some thought. “Maybe, if she thought some hard charging feeb might take me down a notch.”
Ron laughed. “You said you wouldn’t want to be in my position. I think I feel the same way about you.”
The chief told the special agent about Abra Benjamin wanting to eat his lunch.
Tall Wolf said, “She can eat whatever she wants. What interests me is doing the work.”
Ron nodded. He liked that.
He could have called Benjamin and invited her along for a sunset tour. Only he didn’t trust her, not yet, and he’d lied to her about turning the bomb investigation over to Tall Wolf. Lying to a federal agent was a crime, a favorite avenue of prosecutors to obtain a conviction when they otherwise might come up empty. Ron had always thought the right to lie, except under oath, was a part of free speech.
Not that he’d want to use a Constitutional argument if he had to defend himself in court.
The Supreme Court had broadened not narrowed the federal government’s claim on honest statements from anyone speaking to its minions. Highly ironic, Ron thought, when you considered how many whoppers the White House and Congress foisted on the public.
If Benjamin ever called him on lying to her, he’d cover his jaunt on Lake Adeline with a claim he’d just been going about his normal duties, serving and protecting his community. He liked his chance of that playing well with a jury. He was sure he’d have Mayor Steadman in his corner.
Assuming Clay hadn’t been convicted of playing a role in Hale Tibbot’s death.
That was a thought that continued to torment Ron. Whether Clay or his own father had anything to do with Tibbot’s murder. Maybe the whole idea of Clay wanting to do a movie based on the life of Walter Ketchum was a hoax, something that might be validated only by the writing of a screenplay that would never go anywhere.
Homeless scrip
ts outnumbered people without shelter in Hollywood.
Any L.A. copper knew that. Even an old timer like Walt.
Maybe the real reason Clay had brought Walt to Goldstrike was to help him find a hitman. Sure, if Walt had killed Tibbot, he would have done it with a gun, but maybe the old man knew someone who worked in a kinkier style.
Or maybe his father only knew a guy who knew a guy. Could be neither Walt nor Clay knew the name of the killer or cared how Tibbot met his end. The result, not the means, was what mattered. If Walt had set the machinery in motion, he’d have held up his end of the bargain.
Ron’s old man had told him how much money Clay had given him, allegedly for participating in the development of a movie. The figure was a real jaw-dropper. Chances were if a contract killer was involved, he’d have hit the jackpot, too.
As far as hiding the blood money went, Hollywood accountants were the most creative people in town. They could make the national debt disappear in an afternoon, if they wanted. Nobody would ever connect Clay Steadman with a murder for hire.
Nobody would prove Walt Ketchum hadn’t found the hitman for Clay.
But if for some reason suspicions were ever raised, Ron thought, investigators would probably think he had a hand in Tibbot’s demise, too. Being close to his dad and the mayor. He might even have been scripted as the fall guy.
He didn’t want to think about that.
He turned his thoughts to pondering what the hell Tibbot’s killer had done with all the blood he’d taken from his victim, without spilling a drop of it. Six pints were a hell of a lot of blood. California and FDA regulations did not allow for compensation to blood donors; hadn’t permitted that for years. So it wasn’t like the killer could sell the stuff.
What did that leave?
Cooking with it?
Ron had heard of European recipes that used blood from farm animals. In the army, while stationed in Hawaii, he’d even heard that some Asian dishes used snake blood. He’d thought that was stomach turning. But human blood? That would be —
Damn. With the prevalence of vampires in popular culture and the suggestibility of cretins with minuscule IQs, would somebody actually mix human blood into their food or drink? The thought was revolting but …