the Pallbearers (2010)

by Stephen - Scully 09 Cannell

  The room contained a fold-up conference table and ten metal chairs. Jack Straw was lounging in one, tipped back insolently. Seriana Cotton was sitting with rigid military posture in another. Diamond Peterson hadn't made it yet.

  "I didn't see the Harley out front," I said.

  "We both parked around back in Sabas's driveway," Straw replied. "You'd have to be brain dead to leave your ride out front."

  I had a sudden mental image of my MDX jacked up, missing all four tires, radio, and airbags.

  "This is quite a setup," I said, indicating the reception area out front. "I could probably make my arrest quotas for the week by just running this guys office staff."

  "Sabas told us he takes a lot of pro bono cases," Seriana explained. "His clients and their families work in the office to settle out their legal expenses."

  Before I could respond, Sabas Vargas came into the den and closed the door behind him. "Let's get started," he said, taking control of the meeting. "I just talked to Diamond and she said she had some inventory lists to take care of at Huntington House and will be a little late."

  He pulled up his chair and sat at the edge of the table. "Okay, lets talk about how we go about proving Pop didn't kill himself so Huntington House can get this life-insurance check." He looked directly at me. "Shane, why don't you start by giving me a police take on that."

  Chapter 16

  "I'm not sure I have a take," I said, trying to cluck him. What I really wanted to do was to get the hell out. I already knew that coming here was a huge mistake.

  Sabas Vargas had a deep bass voice that he used to control the room. "I know we re not all on the exact same page, but the idea of this meeting is to discuss whether or not its feasible that Pop would go into his backyard and blow his head off. A lot of you feel he wasn't that kind of guy."

  "We don't know that," I said. "Diamond was the closest to him recently. She says he was stressed, worried about missing funds."

  "Seriana tells me that you got the ME's report," Sabas went on, not reacting to that. "Anything in there that looks off?"

  "No." I looked around at the room of Huntington House grads. None of them seemed too happy with me.

  "Usually when I'm trying a death case, there's something in the ME report worth quarreling with," Sabas said suspiciously.

  "Nothing," I repeated. "It was pretty standard. Pretty cut-and-dry." How the hell did I allow myself to get dragged into this?

  "If you don't want to help, why did you bother coming?" Vicki Lavicki said, anger reddening her freckled, schoolgirl complexion.

  "I came because Seriana asked me to," I defended. "It doesn't mean I think we're going to find anything."

  "You also told Corporal Cotton you were looking into Pop's death on your own," Vicki pressed. "So it's okay for you to check it out, but it's not okay for the rest of us."

  I glanced over at Seriana who held my gaze silently, never blinking.

  "I was checking a few things because I agree it wasn't Pop's style or in his general demeanor to pull something like this. Also, I agree that the bungalow fire seems a bit much on top of the suicide, so I spent twenty minutes to check out the coroner's autopsy. Not much there. You can read it for yourselves."

  I took the report out of my briefcase, again leaving the grisly autopsy photos behind, and slid the file across the table. Seriana had already read it, so she passed it on to Vicki, who passed it to Sabas, who passed it to Jack. Once they had all finished, they returned it to me.

  "So you find nothing was done inappropriately at the coroner's inquest? Nothing wrong with the police investigation?" Sabas asked. "You're absolutely sure?"

  "I'm sure. I talked to the cops who got the original rollout. Nothing in their investigation suggested anything but suicide. They gave me a copy of Walt's suicide note. It was written on his computer, only his prints on the keyboard. I have it here."

  I also put that on the table, and it followed the same path as the ME report, going hand to hand around the room. When they finished reading those seven lines, each of the pallbearers looked up. I could see frustration on Vicki's face, anger in Seriana s intense black eyes. Jack was tipping back, arms folded, flashing forearm art. Sabas Vargas seemed to be losing energy for this as the pieces I'd gathered started to paint a depressing picture of suicide.

  "Pop didn't write that," Vicki suddenly blurted. "It's not in his handwriting, just a computer printout. He wouldn't say he got pulled down by leash drag or did a yard sale. What kind of BS is that?"

  That was sort of my take too, but I didn't say anything. I wasn't going to stop working on this, I just didn't want to do it with them.

  "You're sure nothing in the ME's report seemed out of the ordinary?" Sabas said skeptically. "Not even one little detail?"

  "Well ..." I stopped. They all leaned forward. I knew in that second that I'd just made a major blunder. They knew I had something, and I didn't want to go down that road. What was I doing? I felt myself being pulled in by a sense of belonging. We'd all been there. All residents of the home. I owed Pop, but did I owe these people?

  "Well what?" Vicki said. "What is it? You found something?"

  "I didn't find anything. It's just that..." I looked again at their expectant faces. What the hell. Since I'd already stumbled, I might as well finish the fall. "The coroner told me they give the obvious suicide autopsies to the new medical examiners. According to the shift supervisor, this Barbara Wilkes person who did Pop's ME report has only been on the job for six months."

  "So she could have missed something?" Jack said, smiling, looking triumphantly at Seriana, who, as usual, had no expression.

  "I didn't say that. I just said she was new. Not a lot of experience."

  "And that means she could have missed something," Jack repeated. He leaned forward, bringing the two chair legs down abruptly.

  "It's possible but not probable," I said.

  They all looked at me, waiting. For some damn reason, it made me edgy. Or maybe I was just feeling guilty. The moment simmered

  "Whatta ya want!?" I snapped angrily. "Stop looking at me. It doesn't mean anything. Besides, I can't work on this. It's not even a case. I spent a couple a hours and got my hands on a few things, but that's all I can do. No case, no crime. No crime, no investigation!"

  "Shane, if you were going to do something ... if you could take one more step, what would it be?" It was a good question, asked in a quiet voice by Seriana Cotton. Her voice might have been soft, but her black irises were stuck on mine like laser-gun sights.

  "I'd try to get an exhumation order and reautopsy the body," I finally admitted. "Sometimes, if an examiner is certain of what the outcome will be before he or she does the autopsy, they could jump to an inaccurate conclusion, especially somebody with little experience. If they already think they know what the finding will be, or if they're rushed and doing it in a hurry, it's possible they might do a quick slapdash job. I'd redo it and look for something that would get Walt's death classification changed from suicide to homicide. Then the department will assign a homicide number to it and a proper police investigation would take place."

  "Let's do that then," Vicki said.

  "How you gonna do that?" I replied. "I said I'd try for an exhumation, but it's not gonna happen. We have no new facts to submit to force one. The coroner doesn't have time to redo this stuff on a whim. They're way too busy over there as it is."

  "There are private firms we could hire that perform independent autopsies," Sabas Vargas said. "I've used them to gather my own medical evidence for trials."

  "And who's gonna pay for that?" I asked.

  "I will," Vicki said. "I'll put up my piece."

  "Me too," Seriana said. Jack nodded, so did Sabas Vargas. They were circling the wagons.

  "I know who we could get to do it for us," Vicki Lavicki said, smiling. "One of our clients at Kinney and Glass is Oakcrest Pathology and Medical Group. They do that kind of thing. It's my account and I'm friends with the executive director
. I'm sure I could get us a quick job at a good price." She glared at me. "I assume you'll also step up for your end of the exhumation and autopsy costs, Shane?" she challenged.

  "Yeah, sure," I flustered. "I'm good for my piece."

  I couldn't believe how completely I'd been sucked in. Somehow I'd just joined this silly Pallbearers' Murder Club.

  "I'll use the phone in the other room. Maybe the director of Oakcrest hasn't gone home yet," Vicki said, getting up and leaving the den.

  Jack asked, "How do we get Walt's body exhumed? Isn't that going to be kinda tough to accomplish?"

  "Walt didn't have any living relatives," Sabas said. "Nobody but us. I guess whoever signed the final agreement with the mortuary to have him picked up would be the one to authorize it."

  "That was me," Diamond said. We all turned and saw her standing in the doorway. She'd finally made it.

  "We're thinking we should pass the hat among us and exhume and reautopsy Walt's body," Jack told her. "Shane thinks that the L. A. coroner missed something."

  Of course, I didn't say that. But this had already developed a life of its own.

  "We can't do that," Diamond said softly. "I thought you guys knew. That's why we didn't have a graveside ceremony. Walt stated in his will that he wanted to be cremated. The body's been destroyed."

  Chapter 17

  We all sat there in that small den overlooking Vargas's empty pool in East L. A. trying to come to grips with that.

  "Maybe it hasn't happened yet," Seriana suggested. She had risen to her feet and was now standing at the head of the table, her bodv a coiled spring.

  "It's been over twenty-four hours since the funeral when we released the body to Forest Lawn," Diamond answered. "I think they always do cremations pretty much immediately after the service."

  "Not always," Sabas said. "They usually wait a day for legal reasons, to make sure there are no problems or disputes over the last-wish provisions. I've also seen situations where, because of backlogs, it's taken almost as long as a week. Somebody should call Forest Lawn and see what the deal is."

  "I'll do it," Seriana said. She quickly left the room. Jack was again leaning back in his chair, an insolent, judgmental little smirk on his lips. I wanted to kick the chair out from under him. I wanted to knock that smirk off his face. Obviously the guy didn't have to do much to piss me off.

  "You should not get your hopes up," Sabas said. "Since it's been more than a clay, the odds are the cremation already happened." After he said that, he immediately shifted gears. "On the other hand, maybe Walt's body is still sitting in back in some embalming room or something. You never know. I don't think they'd burn the body until full payment's been made. Maybe there were payment problems."

  "Walt had his mortuary services prepaid," Diamond said. "He knew he didn't have anyone to handle that for him, so he took care of it in advance."

  We all sat there and fidgeted while Vicki and Seriana made their calls. Seriana was back first.

  "Mortuary office is closed. Nobody to ask. Can't find out anything until eight or nine tomorrow."

  Vicki came back a few minutes later and told us she couldn't get through to Oakcrest either. They'd also closed. She'd left the room before Diamond arrived and didn't know about the cremation. When we told her, her shoulders slumped. "When are we gonna catch a fucking break?" Vicki scowled.

  It wasn't going to happen tonight, so we all agreed to meet back at Sabas's office first thing in the morning.

  "If the body is still there, I'm gonna have to file papers with the court so Forest Lawn will release Walt's remains to us," Sabas said. "Diamond, didn't you say that Walt left the benefits of his life-insurance policy to the home?"

  "Yes, but we can't collect it because of the suicide."

  "Doesn't matter," Vargas said. "That's our legal hook. If the body's still there, I'll file papers with the court claiming that a bad city autopsy has potentially denied Huntington House its insurance benefit. As the party at loss, Huntington House can demand a new autopsy.

  With no family to object, I don't see how the court could deny it as long as we foot all the expense. Diamond, you're the new executive director. I'll need you to be the one to file the papers on behalf of the home."

  "Okay," she agreed. "I can do that."

  Til write up the documents tonight, so we'll be ready to pounce on the off chance that we can still do this. In the morning, we'll know one way or the other."

  We left Sabas's office, none of us thinking we had much of a chance. What were the odds that the body was still lying around someplace waiting to be cremated? Pretty slim was my guess.

  I walked Vicki back to her car, a Toyota Camry that was parked a short distance away. It had somehow escaped theft or vandalism, which was strange because our auto-theft division lists Toyotas as one of the three most frequently stolen vehicles in L. A. When I opened the door, she turned to me.

  "Walt's remains are toast, excuse the pun," she said somewhat harshly. "You and I already know that, even if the others don't. We're majorly fucked."

  "Even if Walt's body is gone, there are still other ways to work on this."

  She seemed skeptical as she got into her car. I leaned down and looked in at her.

  "Listen, Vicki. I think Diamond is in way over her head. She's the new executive director of the home, but she told me she has to give up the secretary-treasurer job because the state says she can't hold both positions at once. She doesn't seem to be able to get anybody to take over that job. You're a CPA, I was thinking you should volunteer to take the position."

  She was digging in her purse for her keys but suddenly stopped and was now holding my gaze with hard hazel eyes. I wondered if the hand in her purse had that Bulldog pointing at my crotch.

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. It would really help Diamond and it would be good to have somebody on the inside, going through the books, trying to figure out what the hell was really going on in that place."

  She gave me a slow devious smile. "You re a tricky bastard, aren't you?"

  I didn't answer that one.

  "I could certainly do that," she said thoughtfully. "Matter of fact, it's something I'd really enjoy. They got anything left to look at? The building was completely torched."

  "Diamond said they're rebuilding the files somehow. I don't know how they're doing it."

  "Probably calling around to everyone they wrote checks to, getting all their accounts receivable to send them copies of old invoices and billing records, reconciling those against the bank statements. There'd be some holes, but it would be generally accurate."

  "See you in the morning. Don't shoot anybody on your way out of here."

  She smiled at me, then pulled her keys out of the purse, started the Camry, and left.

  As I was driving out of the hood, my cell phone rang. When I picked up, Sally Quinn was on the line. "Just got your message, Hoss. What's up?"

  "Sally, I need a little favor . . ."

  "I've learned there're no little favors when it comes to you, buddy." She had a smile in her voice, so I knew she was just playing with me.

  "I need a records run on a guy named Rick O'Shea. He drives a new maroon Escalade, license number one-Victor-May-Ida-three-six-six. I also need his sheet if he has one, along with his DM V and any current wants or warrants."

  "Hang on a minute, gotta turn my computer back on."

  While she worked on the information, I drove out of East L. A., heading west toward Venice.

  "Got him," she said. "Twenty-nine years old. Lives at 3859 Lupine Lane in Calabasas. I think thats a pretty good neighborhood. I've got an aunt who lives out there, off Pine. He had some write-ups for violent assaults. Mostly ticky-tack--bar fights, stuff like that. Nothing that ever went to trial." She hesitated then added, "He could have a record from somewhere else. Want me to start a federal run, see what I get?"

  "Yeah, that might help. And listen, can you check with the prosecutors office and give me some info on an attorney n
amed Sabas Vargas? His office is in Boyle Heights."

  "Done! Talk to you tomorrow," she said quickly. "I gotta run, Jeb's calling." She hung up before I could ask her to run Vicki Lavicki and Jack Straw.

  When I got home, Alexa was waiting. She had on a cocktail dress and heels.

  "We going somewhere?" I asked.

  "Not unless you get rid of that long face," she teased. "Then I thought we'd go to the Tiki Hut restaurant for dinner. Closest thing to Hawaii I can come up with."

  "Let's have a drink here first. It's been a long day."

  We poured two scotches, then went outside and sat on the porch chairs. Alexa told me about a conversation she'd had that afternoon with our son, Chooch, who was in spring training for USC football and had just suffered a mild hamstring pull. He was on the bench carrying a clipboard, stressing that it could get him knocked down the list in the Trojan quarterback derby.

  So Chooch was bummed about that, I was bummed about Walt, and Alexa and I were both bummed about not going to Hawaii. Scully family karma was low.

  I told Alexa about the cremation and what we were planning to do if the body hadn't been destroyed, adding that I was pretty sure it already had been.

  We went to dinner, then we came home and made love. Alexa held me close. I fought to keep my thoughts out of a negative spin. I had failed Walt and, in failing him, had failed myself. Alexa wouldn't let me go there. She whispered in my ear. She rubbed my back and brought me erect again. I hovered there between ecstasy and pain, strength and weakness, longing and despair.

  In the end, I knew I had to get past my sense of failure if I wanted to finally be there for Walt. I had to deal with the fact that, like it or not, I'd run from him. I couldn't change what had already happened.

  I can't rewrite history, I told myself. So get going and start writing the future instead.

  Chapter 18

  I arrived at the twelve hundred block of Whittier Boulevard in Bovle Heights at eight forty the next morning. At that early hour, the neighborhood was quiet.