by Paul Bishop
“Yesterday we confirmed the victim's identity as Bianca Flynn, a prominent local lawyer specializing in children's rights. Her body was found three days ago in an abandoned warehouse near Gower and Sunset.” The speaker was Thad Jacobs, the taciturn D-III from the Hollywood Area homicide unit.
Fey knew him and didn't like him. He had a holier-than-thou attitude and thought working Hollywood added inches to his male appendage.
“The body was naked and tied to a chair next to a work bench,” Jacobs continued. “The victim's right hand was clamped in a vice and there was clear evidence of a serrated blade being used to slice open the flesh.”
“Torture,” Monk said, He sat in a chair next to Fey. The rest of their crew were scattered around the briefing room.
Jacobs ignored him. “Aside from the damage to the right hand, the victim was shot numerous times with an industrial stapler. Half-inch staples were fired into her thighs, elbows, and breasts. Her mouth was smashed, her teeth a mess.”
“A fist?” Hammersmith asked. He was looking at a series of close-up post-mortem photos of the victim's face.
“Coroner says the injuries to the mouth were probably caused by being hit with the butt of the staple gun.”
“Before or after the injuries to the hand?” Fey asked.
“What difference does it make?” Jacobs asked.
“If the blows to the mouth occurred before the hand injuries, the suspect may have been trying to soften the victim up for the torture to come. If the blows to the mouth occurred after the other damage, it could mean the suspect was growing frustrated with the victim's refusal to give up whatever information the suspect was after.”
Jacobs grunted. “And how would the answer get you further along in the investigation? The cause of death was still heart failure.”
Fey stood up. “Let's get this straight. You had this body for three days before you identified the victim. You've done squat to figure out who-dun-it. When the victim is identified, it turns out she isn't some black, street whore whose murder the public would ignore. She’s a prominent lawyer. The sister of a police commissioner and the daughter of the judge. You now get to dump this whole screwed up mess in our laps, and you're giving us attitude?”
Jacobs leaned forward. “You've been in Robbery-Homicide five minutes, Croaker, and you've already acting elitist. We didn't screw up anything. This started out as a run-of-the-mill murder. Another body to add to the forty other run-of-the-mill murders my unit is working. We don't get to pick and choose our cases. Hollywood isn't West LA, where your team handled ten homicides a year. Every Hollywood detective alone handles ten homicides a year, minimum. Your people in West LA can't even spell homicide.”
“This is ridiculous.” said a stocky black woman sitting next to Whip Whitman. “You are squabbling among yourselves while whoever did this to my sister is still walking around free.” Cecily Flynn-Rogers had recently been appointed to the LA police commission. It was unusual to have a family member of a victim present during a homicide briefing, but Flynn-Rodgers had exercised her powers as a police commission member and insisted.
“I told you Bianca's husband did this. If he didn't do it himself, he had it done. Why aren't you out investigating instead of playing silly games? If this is the best you can do, it's no wonder women, especially black women, are not safe in this city.” Everything with Flynn-Rogers came back to race and gender.
The current political mystery was what leverage her father, appellate court judge Luther Flynn, had over the mayor damaging or profitable enough to get Cecily appointed to the police commission.
Unlike New York or San Francisco, which had only one police commissioner, Los Angeles had a board of appointed commissioners, each with their own varied political agenda.
“Calm down, Cecily,” the chief said. “Let the detectives do their job. Everybody needs to blow off a little steam. We'll find out who did this to your sister. I guarantee it. If your brother-in-law is involved, we'll get him.”
“Don't give me your everything will be okay patter, Drummond. I know what the murder clearance rate is, so don't give me guarantees.” Flynn-Rogers was standing. She turned toward Fey. “When you're done fighting over turf, I want to see you in my office this afternoon. Two o'clock sharp. Be there.” She turned and stalked toward the lunchroom door.
“Ms. Flynn-Rogers,” Fey said, stopping the commissioner. “I don't answer to you. I answer to Captain Whitman, who answers to the chief, who has to deal with you. I'll be in your office at two o'clock, but it will be my interview, not yours. I expect you to cooperate to help us find who killed your sister.”
Flynn-Rogers glanced at the chief, but found only a stone-faced expression. She opened her mouth to speak, then clamped her lips closed. She turned and left the room.
“Don't push her too far,” Drummond said to Fey. “She has friends in high places.”
“If you're talking about her father the judge, he's your problem not mine,” Fey said. “My problem is catching a murderer who already has a three-day lead.”
SEVEN
“This sucks,” Alphabet Cohen said, voicing the agitation felt by the entire unit. Everyone knew he wasn't talking about the case. All the detectives were feeling unsettled and out of their element. The change from their area unit to RHD had been too abrupt. There had been no time to accept the reorganization, to settled into their new quarters, or to deal with being looked upon as intruders into a closed world. They might be assigned to RHD, but they were a long way from being part of RHD.
Alone in the commandeered lunch room, they felt without clear direction. The murder book — a blue, four inch, three ringed binder, containing all of the information gathered on the investigation to date — had been left behind by the Hollywood homicide detectives. It sat in the middle of a long table as if it were a witch's book of spells.
Both Chief Drummond and Captain Whitman had departed after giving out assurances of trust and backing. Nobody believed the platitudes. Trust and backing were not concepts understood or applied by management in any organization. Results were the only thing that counted, and one oops, sorry outweighed a career's worth of attaboys.
Fey was experiencing same depression as her team, but it was up to her to lead them through it. “This is nothing new to us,” she said. “We've handled high profile cases before. We've got some catching up to do, but procedure doesn't change.”
Monk Lawson scooted his chair closer to the table and reached for the murder book. Hammersmith and Lawless exchanged their ritual glance of non-verbal communication and nodded slightly at each other. Alphabet pushed away from the wall he was leaning against and moved closer to Brindle. For her part, Brindle stood up, running a hand through her hair, and began looking over Monk's shoulder as he turned pages.
“Nails,” Fey spoke to Rhonda Lawless, “you and Hammer take the crime scene. I don't care what Hollywood did when they were there. I want it done again. Fingerprints, criminalists, the whole shebang. Door knock the neighborhood. Track down who owns the building where the body was discovered, as well as who found the body. Go over the interviews in the murder book, and then redo them.”
“On it,” Rhonda said. Hammer nodded.
“Alphabet, I want you and Brindle to start doing background on the victim,” Fey continued. “Find out how she was identified. Had she been reported missing and by whom. She was prominent in her field, so do a workup on her history. Look for any grudges or motives for murder. You know the drill.”
The oddly matched pair nodded in assent.
“Monk and I will start with the body at the coroner's office,” Fey said. “Then we'll be back here to deal with the delightful Ms. Flynn-Rogers.”
“What about Judge Flynn, the victim's father?” Brindle asked.
“Good question,” Fey said. “I wonder why he hasn't already been on the phone to the chief. While you're doing your work up on the victim, get us a rundown on the judge and the sister. We'll put off dealing with the judge u
ntil we have the basics covered. Anything else?”
“When's lunch?” Alphabet asked.
EIGHT
The chilled air circulating through the coroner’s office had its usual macabre effect on Fey, piercing its way deep into her.. It always took her forever to get warm again after a visit. She and Monk sat in a small office waiting for deputy coroner Rex Powers.
“I can't believe they have a gift shop in this place.” Fey said. They had passed the Skeleton in the Closet gift shop on the way to Powers' office. “Anything to make a buck.”
“All the proceeds go to a charity program.” Monk pointed out.
“It's a weird, only in L.A. things. You come here to identify a corpse, then stop by the gift store to pick up a souvenir.”
Monk chuckled. “They have a lot of tours come through here, interns, writers, civic groups, dignitaries. You know the drill.”
“Maybe, but the black crew necks with My Dad Was Autopsied, And All I Got Was This Dumb T-Shirt printed on them are going too far.”
“They’re hot sellers,” Rex Powers said, coming into the office. His tall, thin build was emphasized by the drape of an extra-long, white lab coat. “What’s wrong with beach towels imprinted with chalk outlines of dead bodies?”
“Yuck,” Fey said. “Don't people realize how sordid murder is? Chalk outlines are whispers left behind by the dead.”
“Listen to you being fanciful.” Powers shook his head, bouncing the long hair curling over his collar. “Aren’t cops the first to start making jokes at a murder scene?”
“Cops are entitled. John Q. Public isn't.”
Powers gave Fey a look. “I didn’t figured you’d be so sensitive after all the cases you've handled.”
“Making light of homicide is depraved.”
Powers shrugged. “Are were here to debate the state of the world, or the state of your case?”
“Definitely the case,” Monk told him.
Powers removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose before settling the glasses again. “Congratulations on the promotions,” he said. “Well deserved.”
“Thanks,” Fey said. “It means our private parts can now be twisted harder in the wringer.”
“You do seem to get the tough cases.”
“And this time is no exception?” Fey asked, knowing the answer.
“I've seen worse,” Powers said. “But I hear the victim is now high profile-sister of a police commissioner, daughter of a judge. Makes things tricky.”
“A mine field without a map,” Fey agreed. “What didn't tell Hollywood?”
“I wish there was something,” Powers said, unbuttoning his lab coat to reveal a sweatshirt and jeans. He moved to where a coffee pot rested in a small brewing machine. Gathering up three semi-clean, glass beakers, he poured coffee into each and handed them around.
“The cause of death was heart failure,” he said, plopping down in the executive chair behind his desk.
The two detectives nodded.
“The victim was a heavy smoker. Her heart was in pretty bad shape, but I don't think she knew it. or at least not the extent.”
“Why?” Monk asked.
“Because if she'd seen a doctor for any related problem, she would have been in an operating room in a heartbeat, no pun intended.”
“That bad?”
“The heart was diseased and enlarged. Probably an inherited trait. The left anterior descending artery was almost completely blocked. The condition was unusual for a woman. She was young enough not to have been experiencing physical symptoms, but she could have had the big one any time.”
“And the stress of being tortured caused the heart attack?” Fey asked.
“Hell of an added factor,” Powers agreed.
“What about the torture itself?” Monk asked.
Powers bounced up. “Come on. I'll show you.” He moved quickly out of his office to lead the detectives down a maze of echoing corridors.
Fey had worked with Powers for a long time. He was by inclination a teacher and never passed up an opportunity to dispense knowledge.
After insisting the detectives don hospital greens, gloves, booties, and masks, Powers guided them to the solid, meat freezer-type door that opened into the mortuary. The change in temperature as they entered the large, stark room was more than a change from cold to colder. Bodies were everywhere. Wrapped in clear plastic, they were stacked on metal shelves or stainless steel gurneys like cord wood. While not fully frozen, the bodies looked like long icicles.
Powers moved to a gurney and with Monk's help, he lifted one of the bodies off and stacked it on top of another body on a shelf. He then checked the tag on the remaining body.
“This is your girl,” he said, unwrapping the clear plastic sheeting.
Fey had seen enough corpses to view them as nothing more than lumps of cold clay, an empty shell, but deserving vindication. Homicide cops view themselves as superior to other detectives as they brought justice for the dead. It never mattered how many murders a homicide detective solved; it was the ones they didn't solve that haunted them. Unsolved murders drove homicide detectives to drink, to haphazard copulations, and to consider eating their guns in the cold hours of the morning.
Powers pointed to punctures in the victim's armpits, legs, and breasts.
“Industrial size staples,” he said.
“How many?” Fey asked.
“Thirteen.”
“Then the questioning went on for an extended period.”
“Probably,” Powers agreed. “The killer took his time over mutilating the hand.” He held up the right wrist to facilitate inspection. “I'd guess a small jigsaw. The cuts are precise, done a little at a time.”
“Any sexual mutilation?”
“Nothing other than several staples in the breasts. However, I think the location was simply a conveniently painful place to shoot them, nothing to do with sexual arousal.”
“Then the torture wasn’t related to sado-masochistic fantasies?”
“There was no indication of rape or sodomy. No foreign objects inserted into the vagina or rectum. No semen in the mouth, or anywhere else on the body. This was strictly torture for information. The victim was stripped naked more for intimidation than sexual purposes.”
The conclusion put an interesting spin on the situation.
“What about the trauma to the mouth?” Fey asked.
“Ah, there's a possible clue.”
“How so?”
“The damage was post mortem. There was a lack of bleeding, indicating the heart had stopped pumping.”
“The conclusion being the victim died before giving up the information,” Fey said.
“The suspect strikes the victim in the mouth out of frustration or anger causing the post mortem trauma. Ugly, but it fits.”
“Anything else like this come through recently?” Monk asked.
Powers shook his head. “This M.O. is a first for us, but I've sent requests to other jurisdictions for similars. We'll have to wait and see what turns up. If you want Sherlock Holmes — the killer is a five-foot-four-inch tall, left handed mason who is blind in one ear — you'll have to ring Scotland Yard.”
“So, your big clue,” Fey said, “is we should be checking anger management courses for local handymen?”
“I thought you didn't joke about murder?”
NINE
“Fey said the mouth trauma was post mortem, indicating the victim didn't talk before dying,” Rhonda Lawless told Hammer as she turned off her mobile phone. Despite being married, Rhonda had retained her maiden name for professional purposes.
Hammersmith scratched his head and looked around. “The victim must have been a tough lady. I'd be shooting my mouth off the second someone started shooting staples into my armpits and whittling on my fingers.”
“Somehow, I don't think so.”
Hammer shrugged. “I'd certainly be making a hell of a lot of noise.”
“Which explains the suspect'
s choice of location,” Rhonda said.
They were standing in the soundproofed back room of an abandoned warehouse. It was the property of a B-movie production company specializing in direct-to-video horrorfests, all gore, screams, and bare breasts.
The inside of the warehouse was split into several different sound stages,. All were neglected, with leaning walls and odd cables hanging everywhere. Hammer and Nails were in the smallest room at the back of the warehouse.
There was a heavy wooden table along the back wall of the sound stage. It had a new vice bolted to one end. The metal jaws of the vice were painted blue under the dried blood. Next to the table, on the end near the vice, was the metal folding chair to which Bianca Flynn had been tied. The chair was battered and bent. Like the table, it appeared to have been in the warehouse long before the crime went down.
Rhonda ran her fingertips along the front edge of the scarred table. She touched half-a-dozen slightly protruding staples shot into the wood. “Warm-up threats,” she said.
Hammersmith grunted agreement. He watched Rhonda as she wandered around the torture room, unaware of his scrutiny. The sight of her never failed to stir him.
They had known each other a long time. Been partners a long time. Lovers a long time. Ever since their initial meeting in the middle of an ambush shooting, there had been a voltage between them. Since the baby, however, Hammer had sensed a misfiring somewhere. On the surface everything appeared normal, but deeper down there was a short in the relationship. Hammer hadn't figured it out yet, but he would eventually. Whatever it was, they would handle it together. Always had, always would.
Thinking to amuse, Hammer slipped into a bad impersonation of a game show host. “Today's Jeopardy categories are scene of the crime, motive, method of operation, clues & leads, case breakers, and hodge-podge. We'll start with you, Rhonda.”
Rhonda turned around with a smile. “I'll take motive for fifty dollars.”