by Philip Cox
‘Then tried the trunk?’ Leroy asked.
Jordan nodded. ‘Saw what was in the trunk, and called 911.’
‘So,’ Leroy said, ‘let me get this right. This tenant owns this space, right? I can see the do not park here sign tied to the fence. Whoever brought the car here, parked it in a spot he knew would cause a reaction, and left it there, unlocked.’
‘It’s like saying, “please open me”,’ said Quinn.
Leroy nodded. ‘You got it. The body was meant to be found.’ Stepping over to the car, he asked, ‘Hey guys, who’s the ME?’
Both blue jump suited figures turned around. ‘Hey, Sam,’ the first said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Russ?’ Leroy asked in surprise.
‘The same,’ replied Hobson. ‘This is Steve McGee. He’s in training. So, I asked what the hell you guys were doing over here.’
‘We might be taking this case. It bears a remarkable similarity to the work of a serial killer years back. Before you moved out here. When Perez and I were still partners.’
‘No shit. Didn’t you get the guy?’
‘I shot him. Killed him. He pulled a gun on me.’
‘What are you saying? You have some kind of copycat on your hands?’
‘I would be,’ said Leroy. ‘If it wasn’t for that.’ He pointed down at the woman’s right leg. Although she was lying on her side, enough of her inner right leg was showing for them to see the small pentagram carved into the skin at the top of her leg. He looked at Quinn. ‘Look, Ray: she’s even been placed in here, in that position, so that’s immediately visible.’
‘Is that what your guy did?’ Hobson asked.
Leroy said nothing.
Hobson said, ‘I’ll let you have my report within forty-eight hours, but I can tell you a few things now.’ As Leroy listened to Hobson, he slowly nodded, taking it all in. It was depressingly familiar to him. ‘She’s been dead between twenty-four and thirty-six hours. The cause of death was multiple stab wounds to the chest. I can make out at least fifteen here. She wasn’t killed here; there’s hardly any blood in the car. And I found tiny pieces of fabric in some of the wounds, suggesting she was fully clothed when she was killed, but stripped post mortem. And there’s this strange carving on her back.’
‘It’s a pentagram,’ Leroy said.
‘A what?’
‘A pentagram. A five-pointed shape. Carved post mortem, probably after he took her clothes off.’
‘Jesus, Sam; what’s all that about?’
‘We did some investigation into its significance at the time,’ Leroy said. ‘I’ll need to pull the file. But because the suspect was killed, that was the end of the investigation. Obviously, it never went to trial. It was all over; no further investigation.’
‘Did you and the lieutenant have any theories about it?’ asked Quinn.
Leroy shook his head. ‘I don’t remember. Apart from the fact that we were dealing with one sick motherfucker.’
He looked more closely at the victim’s body. Female, Caucasian. Auburn hair, cut short, almost cropped. A strip of duct tape covered her mouth. Her hands were behind her back, tied at the wrists with grey electrical wire. Even though she was not particularly tall, it would have needed some effort to get her into the trunk, especially to be positioned the way she was. She was lying on her right side, so her back and the markings on it were visible. Around a foot square, now outlined in black, congealed blood, was a pentagram.
Leroy shivered as he had a sudden flashback: a flashback to when he discovered one of the other victims, seven years back.
‘There’s another one here, Detective.’ McGee, still wearing rubber gloves, moved the victim’s left leg slightly so Leroy could see the smaller carving on the top of her right inner thigh.
‘Exactly the same as the one on her back,’ Hobson said. ‘Only much smaller.’
‘The one on her back will have a diameter of twelve inches,’ Leroy said. ‘This will be two inches across.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Quinn and Hobson, virtually in unison.
Leroy stood up. ‘She’s been raped.’
Hobson said, ‘Sam, it’s too early to say. Her position in the car makes it difficult to carry out a preliminary examination, and I can’t make out any superficial signs of assault.’
Leroy looked over at Hobson.
‘She’s been raped. The others were, although it wasn’t established if it was ante or post mortem. There were no signs of internal tissue damage, but the ME found traces of lubricant.’
‘You saying the killer wore a condom?’ asked Hobson.
‘That would be one explanation. It would certainly explain why there were no traces of the bastard. I’ve come across it before: you know, the guys wear condoms because they feel the women are somehow dirty, especially if she’s a hooker; it would also reduce the risk of leaving any DNA on the woman’s body. All guesswork, of course. After Cordell -’
‘Cordell?’ Hobson asked.
‘His name. Harlan Cordell. After he was killed, it became academic. They found boxes of condoms, same brand, in his house, together with lubricant, also same brand.’
‘You done with her, Sam?’ Hobson asked. Leroy nodded. ‘I’ll have her taken down to the morgue. I’ll let you have the report by Monday morning.’
‘Thanks, Russ. I would say I already know what’ll be in it so no rush, but you know…’
‘Sure.’
Leroy and Quinn stepped back as Hobson directed the two men from the Coroner’s van to remove the body.
‘There’ll be no ID on her,’ Leroy said, ‘so we’ll have to check her to Missing Persons. Once Russ sends us his report, we could run her DNA, see if we can get a match.’
Hands in his pockets, he walked around the tiny parking lot, looking up at the surrounding buildings. The sun was beginning to set: over on the other side of the busy freeway was situated the Dodger Stadium. There must have been a match on that evening as the floodlights had come on.
‘Of course,’ he called out to Quinn, ‘there are no security cameras here. We need to speak to the guy who owns the space, see when he left today. At least then we’ll get an handle on what window the killer had to dump the car here.’
‘Could have been just chance,’ suggested Quinn. ‘He was looking for somewhere to leave it, drove past and the space just happened to be empty.’
‘Maybe. But Cordell was precise, pedantic. I’m guessing this sick bastard deliberately chose this spot, here in plain sight, to make sure it got discovered. And discovered today.’
‘There are no cameras here, but there will be out there on the streets,’ said Quinn. ‘If we know what time frame he had, we can look at the neighbourhood traffic cameras. We might get the car, and we might get whoever was driving.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s worth a shot. Probably come to nothing, but we’ll do it anyway.’
Leroy and Quinn stood to one side to let the two men from the Coroner’s Office wheel the filled body bag to their van.
‘I’m sorry about this Ray, but I think we need to get started on this asap. You didn’t have anything planned for the weekend, did you?’
Quinn shook his head. ‘Holly will understand.’
‘Tell her you’ll take her away somewhere on your comp time. Down to Catalina or somewhere.’
‘Not there. Remember the last time I went to Catalina?’
Leroy grimaced. He recalled an old case which had taken them to the island of Catalina, where they had found the graves of a number of children, murdered in an abusive children’s home. One of the abusers had burned to death in his car at the hand of one of the by then grown-up children who had survived the abuse. ‘Maybe not.’
‘Where do you want the vehicle taken, Detective?’ Officer Jordan asked.
Leroy saw the pick-up truck idling out on College. ‘I’ll need it taken down to my station, West LA. Not here.’
‘You got it.’
‘So, what now for us, Sam?�
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‘We need get on this as soon as we can, Ray; before there’s another. If he’s following the same MO as Cordell, there’s probably another potential victim or two already staked out.’ He paused, looking back at the Beetle. ‘But I don’t think we can do much tonight. I’ll call Perez, give him an update and get him to agree the overtime or comp time, whichever way he wants to play it. It could be personal for him also, remember. And I’ll get the file pulled on Cordell. You need to be familiar with the details of that case and I need a refresher. Before we leave here, let’s go talk to the guy who made the 911 call.’
They got the address from one of the uniformed officers. The man lived on the second floor of the building next to the lot. He must have been expecting a call from the police as his door was flung open almost as soon as Quinn put his finger on the buzzer.
His name was Cuba Nkomo. African American, fifties, no more than five feet tall, and fussy. He had a high pitched, squeaky voice. ‘You want to ask me some questions?’
‘Yes, sir. May we come inside?’
They held their badges out for Nkomo to see, but he insisted on taking Leroy’s, holding it four inches away from his nose, and reading every word on the document. He returned the badge to Leroy and repeated the action with Quinn’s. Finally satisfied, he returned them, and indicated for them to come in. He started talking before Leroy could open his mouth.
‘I have to say, I was so shocked. I mean, this is a respectable neighbourhood.’
‘Sir,’ said Leroy patiently, ‘we share your shock and concern. We just need to check some facts with you.’
Nkomo nodded. ‘Anything I can do to help.’
Leroy began, ‘The space down there where the Beetle was parked: is that your own, personal space?’
‘Yes, sir. All of us here, in this building, each own one space outside. Nobody else can park there. Not even visitors.’
‘And that space is definitely yours? Is that your sign on the fence?’
‘It is. I had the sign made. Put it on the fence.’
‘And when did you notice the Beetle in your space?’
‘When I came home from work.’
‘Where do you work, Mr Nkomo? What do you do?’
‘I work at Trader Joe’s, in Hollywood. On Vine Street. I fill shelves there.’
‘And do you work shifts, or the same hours each day?’
‘I work shifts, but all this week I have been on the six am to three pm shift.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since Monday.’
‘Let me get this right: if your shift begins at six, you’d leave here at, what – about five?’
‘About then, yes.’
‘So, you are saying that each morning, you leave here at five am, go to work, and get back at around four?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘Nobody uses your space while you’re out?’
Nkomo shook his head emphatically. ‘Nobody.’
‘Today, then, you got home about four. Saw the Beetle parked in your space, and…?’
‘Well, I was very angry, as you can imagine.’
‘Sure, but what did you do?’
‘Well, I sounded my horn a couple of times, in case the driver was around. Nobody came, so I thought I’d see if there was any ID in the car.’
‘You knew the car was unlocked?’
‘No, I didn’t at first. I looked in through the windshield, the tried the handle just in case.’
Leroy nodded. ‘And once you’d gotten into the car, what did you do?’
‘I just looked around, front seats, back seats, glovebox.’
‘And found nothing?’
Nkomo shook his head emphatically. ‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Did you touch anything?’ Quinn asked.
Nkomo looked puzzled. ‘Did I touch…?’
‘Fingerprints,’ Leroy explained. ‘We’ll need to take your fingerprints for elimination purposes. Go on, you found nothing inside the car?’
‘Absolutely nothing. So I tried the trunk. But when I opened the trunk, I found the engine! What kind of car has the engine where the trunk should be?’
Each suppressing a grin, Leroy and Quinn glanced at each other.
‘Volkswagen Beetles do,’ Leroy said. ‘So when you found the engine in the back, you opened the front?’
‘Yes, that was when I found that woman’s body crammed into the space.’
‘Then you called 911?’
‘I did. Immediately. Well, almost immediately.’
‘Almost immediately?’
‘I took a couple of pictures on my phone first. In case you people needed to see it, and I was going to send a picture to my sister up in Oakland.’
Oh boy.
Leroy rubbed his face. ‘Have you sent her the picture yet?’
‘No, not yet. I was going to call her first, let her know it was on its way.’
‘Do me a favour, sir. Don’t send it, or post it anywhere. Please delete it. All of them.’
‘Oh,’ said Nkomo, looking down at his phone. He looked disappointed. ‘If you insist, Officer.’ He pressed a few keys and handed Leroy the phone. Leroy quickly checked and returned the phone.
‘Appreciate that,’ Leroy said.
‘Did I break some law?’
‘Not exactly, but I’m thinking of the victim’s privacy, and her family’s.’
Nkomo looked at the floor. He seemed embarrassed.
‘Anything else you can tell us, sir?’ Quinn asked.
Nkomo shook his head. ‘No, I think we’ve covered everything.’
Quinn took out their mobile fingerprint scanner. ‘I’ll just need to scan your prints, sir. Just for elimination.’ Nkomo grunted and let Quinn take his prints.
Leroy passed over a business card. ‘Here’s my cell number if you recall anything else. Anytime, day or night.’
Nkomo took the card, read it briefly while holding it three inches from his face, and showed them to the door. Back out in the street, Leroy turned to Quinn.
‘Seems clear to me that our guy had been watching here and knew when Nkomo would be out and knew when he would be back.’
‘And how he’d react.’
‘I guess we’ve done for the night. Let’s go. I’ll call Perez on the way back, and we’ll pick up in the morning.’
Getting back to the Taurus, Quinn automatically went to the offside, as he drove to the scene.
‘It’s okay, Ray; I’ll drive back.’ Quinn had no problem with this; clearly, Leroy was getting his mojo back.
As he backed the Taurus out onto College Street, Leroy said, ‘Make sure you get plenty of beauty sleep tonight, Raymond. I think we’re in for a busy weekend.’
CHAPTER FIVE
In all the years they had been married, and during their time together before, Holly Quinn had never quite gotten used to the unpredictable and erratic hours Ray had to work. Finding him at home unexpectedly when she got back from work, or being woken in the middle of the night when he got in, or the call to say he would be home late; or maybe worse, having something planned and having to cancel or go on her own. Ray had had to remind her several times, and so had Sam on occasions, that the worst would be for him not to come home at all, no telephone call, just a knock on the door hours later from Lieutenant Perez.
‘I know all that,’ she would say, ‘but it’s so goddamned difficult. I thought I’d married Ray, not the LAPD.’
‘Same thing,’ Leroy would say, at which she would bite her tongue to stop herself saying that was why he was single, and why he and girlfriend Joanna Moore had just drifted apart.
Holly’s conversation with Ray last night followed the normal pattern. The next day, being Saturday, Holly had planned on them both spending the day with her parents. Her mother had planned a barbeque for some friends, or rather, some of her father’s business contacts. She did not take the news that her husband would have to work over the weekend very well; the offer of Ray taking her away somewhere on his
comp time made no difference.
They say that the great thing about couples having a fight is the making up afterwards. In the Quinn house, this would mean around three am, one of them would begin to snuggle closer to the other, putting their hands and arms around the other’s body. Thirty minutes later, they would both fall back asleep, maybe spooning, the argument forgotten.
Not so this time. Quinn woke at just after four. Holly was sleeping on her side, her back next to his. He slowly turned to face her and put his arm around her waist. She moved slightly, mumbled something and kept on sleeping. He moved closer still. Now he was aroused; he knew she could feel him, and this normally prompted her to respond: she would turn to face him and move her leg over his.
This time, she mumbled, ‘I’m tired, Ray.’
Quinn manoeuvred himself slightly and began to nuzzle her neck, his left hand kneading one of her breasts.
‘Leave me alone, Ray. Go make out with Sam. You’d rather be spending the weekend with him.’
Exasperated, Quinn withdrew and flopped back down on the bed. The bedside clock read 4:15, and his alarm was set for six. He turned over, his back to Holly, pulled the covers up to his neck, and went back to sleep.
Or tried to. He was still awake at five.
‘Fuck this,’ he muttered and got up. A quick shower and cup of coffee later and he said to Holly, ‘I’m off now. I’ll get something to eat on the way. Have a nice day.’
He left the apartment, just thinking in time not to slam the door. Such was his haste he hadn’t heard Holly sit up and call, ‘Ray?’ Not getting any response, she lay back down again, asleep in seconds.
*****
Going back to the tamale wagons of the late nineteenth century, Los Angeles has had a rich street food culture. Stands and trucks with men and women who get up early and stay up late to make sure Angelenos are well fed.
There was such a truck on Quinn’s route to the station. It sold his favourite: bacon-wrapped hot dogs. The concept is simple: get a hot dog sausage, wrap pieces of bacon around it, and grill until it’s cooked completely through.