Another Way to Die

by Philip Cox

  ‘Bear with me, Russ. I’ll explain later. We are of the opinion the killer stalks his victims; Cordell certainly did. Takes pictures of them, sticks the pictures on his wall. He sees his next victim. On the face of it, an attractive woman. Bound to be solitary. He slash she, ticks all the boxes. Russ: on these chest wounds, were there any traces of fibre? You know, like there were with the Jane Does?’

  Hobson checked the file again and took another, unnecessary, look at some of the wounds. ‘No, none at all.’

  ‘Therefore, he must have been naked when he was stabbed. Naked or shirt off. Yes?’

  Hobson concurred.

  ‘When would you be naked?’ Leroy addressed the question at Hobson and Quinn. Lester was silent.

  ‘Well,’ began Hobson, ‘having sex for a start.’

  ‘Sunbathing,’ suggested Quinn. ‘Or taking a shower.’

  Leroy wagged an index finger at Quinn. ‘Or taking a shower,’ he repeated. ‘Sunbathing, we can dismiss: look at the colour of his skin. Sex… I think that’s unlikely, although having a male victim could have changed our killer’s MO. Not impossible. We never found out how Cordell actually snared his victims: one theory was that he broke into their homes while they were out at work, and overpowered them once they had gotten home. I think that’s so with this guy now. I think that in this instance, he spots this victim, all dressed up as a woman. Stalks her, him; finally breaks into where ever he or she lives and waits until whenever they get back. Then, when they get under the shower, our killer gets the surprise of his life.’

  ‘As this guy did,’ added Quinn.

  ‘A shock for them both. So, our killer stabs this kid to death, not in a controlled, planned way, but in a mad, angry frenzy. So pissed that he’s been fooled all that time. That’s what Johnson told us about a typical serial killer: they have to be in control. This time, he got the sex of the victim wrong. Think of the rage, the anger. The wild, mad, stabbing, thirty-seven times; not the controlled nineteen or twenty.

  ‘Then there’s the pentagram. There had to be a pentagram on the victim’s back, but not the intricate, artistically carved drawings, but a crude, hacking. Russ: was any DNA found on the back? Inside the carvings?’

  ‘We sent some tissue off for analysis; just waiting to hear.’

  ‘I’m just thinking if it was being done in a frenzy, some saliva might have dropped onto the wounds.’

  ‘I’ll chase that up.’

  ‘There’s no miniature pentagram carved on the top of his leg,’ Quinn observed.

  Leroy found himself staring at the man’s middle; pulling his eyes away, he replied, ‘No, there isn’t. You know that old urban legend about how when a guy’s being patted down, if he’s gay, the person doing the patting won’t go near the groin? That’s bullshit of course, but what if something similar went on here? Our man is so fazed by the fact that the girl he’s been stalking isn’t a girl, he just steers away from that part of the anatomy. Otherwise, what might have happened? Our John Doe would be lying here castrated for daring not to be a girl. And that would explain the lesions to the mouth. By coincidence, the poor guy’s allergic to latex, otherwise we might never have found out. There was no way our killer was going to ride the Hershey Highway, so what was left? All done in a hurry. Even where the car was found.’ He looked up at Hobson. ‘The car! Who is the car registered to?’

  Hobson checked the file again. ‘Doesn’t say.’

  Leroy turned to Quinn. ‘We’ll need to talk to… who were they, Russ?’

  ‘Estevez and Glover.’

  ‘Estevez and Glover. I think I’d better put a call into Perez first. He can talk to whoever he needs to talk to. I don’t know who they are, but I can’t see Estevez and Glover just handing over a case voluntarily.’ He turned back to Hobson. ‘Anything more for me, Russ?’

  ‘All that not enough for you?’ Hobson asked.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  As he and Quinn stood outside the Science Center, Leroy put a call in to Lieutenant Perez. After he had listened to Leroy’s update, Perez exhaled sharply.

  ‘Shit. That’s all we need. Another division.’

  ‘Lieutenant, you’ll need to talk to the Chief of Detectives and he can get Hollywood to hand over the case to us.’

  ‘I’m aware of that; but it’s easier said than done. You know how the politics work. I’ll need to talk to the captain, and he’ll need to talk to the commander, and he’ll need to talk to, et cetera et cetera.’

  ‘I get the picture. Please, do what you can.’

  ‘What else do you have on today? Is this the only angle you’re following up?’

  ‘No.’ Leroy explained how they were planning on reviewing the Cordell case. ‘I want to see if it opens up any light on these murders.’

  ‘But Sam: it was Cordell back then. There was no other explanation; never anybody else in the frame.’

  ‘I know that, but this guy now appears to be using Cordell’s MO as some kind of textbook, almost rebooting what Cordell did.’

  Perez sighed, clearly unhappy about this direction, but nevertheless unable to dispute the logic. ‘Okay. The evidence boxes will be down at West First.’

  ‘Ray and I are planning on heading down there now.’

  ‘Okay. You guys get down there. I’ll call the captain now. It’ll take you a while to get the boxes, so if we’re lucky, I can get word to you that it’s been agreed, and you can get over to Hollywood direct from Downtown.’

  ‘Fine. Thanks, Lieutenant.’ Leroy ended the call and triumphantly tossed the phone in his hand. ‘Come on, Ray; we’re headed Downtown first. I’ll fill you in on the way. You can drive.’

  *****

  100 West First Street is the location of the Police Administration Building. Immediately south of City Hall, it has been the de facto Head Office of the Los Angeles Police Department since 2009. The huge lower basement level, underneath the parking garage, is the location of hundreds if not thousands of twenty-four by twelve by ten-inch cardboard boxes containing the physical evidence of cases which have long since been to trial. They showed their identification at the garage entrance, parked, and took the elevator directly down to the lower level.

  ‘I don’t want to meet anybody while we’re here,’ Leroy explained as they waited at the elevator doors. ‘I want to keep this low profile. You can bet that somewhere up there there’s shit flying about once the lieutenant makes his call.’

  ‘I don’t understand why. Surely Hollywood would welcome a case being taken off their books.’

  Leroy looked over at his partner as the elevator doors opened. ‘Jesus, Ray: you’re so naïve sometimes. Think about it: a murder on their turf, and then a call from above saying hand it over to another Division. It’s like saying we don’t think you’re capable of handling it. It’s kind of like the Feds coming in and taking over an investigation. In any case, who says the Chief will agree to it? He might say we have to hand over to... what were their names? Estevez and Glover. Or even worse, work with them.’

  The doors pinged open. They opened directly onto the floor lobby. A lone uniformed officer sat at a desk. On the desk was a screen and keyboard, and two blue wire trays. Presumably one was an in-tray and the other an out-tray. Neither was labelled, and each had one sheet of paper lying in it. A freestanding plate with Huck Stanton printed on it rested on the desk. The desk stood in front of a huge wire cage, at least twelve feet high and running the length of the basement. Behind the wire were rows and rows of freestanding shelves, each five or six shelves high. On each shelf were rows of identical boxes.

  The officer looked up. He looked at least sixty, and could well have been. There is no mandatory retirement age for police officers, service beyond sixty-five being at the discretion of the department and reviewed year to year.

  ‘Can I help you, guys?’

  They showed their badges and Leroy explained what they were looking for.

  Stanton frowned as he looked up at Leroy. ‘Cordell? What year was
that?’

  Leroy told him the date Cordell was shot. ‘Approximately,’ he added.

  Stanton swung his chair over to the keyboard. He pressed a key to wake the screen, then said, ‘Shit, it’s locked me out. Hold on, guys. I just need to put in my goddamned password again.’

  Leroy glanced over at Quinn with amusement. ‘Not too busy here today then, Huck?’

  ‘It varies. You get some busy days, some quiet days.’ As he spoke, he keyed in his login details and password, slowly and with one index finger. ‘Here we are. In again. What was the name again, Detective?’

  ‘Cordell. Harlan Cordell.’ Leroy spelt the names out.

  ‘And the date?’

  Leroy gave him the approximate date. Stanton keyed in the date and waited. He tabbed down few entries.

  ‘Here we are. Cordell, Harlan. I see – never went to trial.’

  ‘No, it didn’t.’

  Stanton scribbled down a reference number. ‘Hold on here, guys, I’ll go get the box for you.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Leroy. ‘Just point us in the right direction. We can go get them.’

  ‘I’m obliged, Detective, but I have to go with you. This way.’ Stanton led them over to a metal framed mesh gate. Using a key from the key chain clipped to his belt, he unlocked the gate, and ushered them in. ‘Row G, this way.’

  They followed him down Row G for about fifty feet. He stopped and looked up at one of the shelves, the fourth from the ground.

  ‘Looks like the Department has a contract with Staples,’ Quinn quipped. Leroy nodded.

  Stanton ignored Quinn’s remark. ‘Two boxes, fourth shelf up. I’ll go get the ladder.’ He left them and reappeared a minute later with a large wheeled stepladder. He kicked the brake to lock the ladder in place, and put one foot on the bottom step.

  ‘No, Huck, I’ll get them.’ Quinn put his hand on Stanton’s arm.

  ‘I’m much obliged, Detective.’ Stanton stepped back.

  Quinn climbed the ladder and took down the first box, passed it to Leroy, then the second. The boxes were bulky, but not too heavy. Stanton led them back, out through the mesh gate, to his desk.

  ‘You’ll need to sign for these,’ he said, retrieving a clipboard from a desk drawer.

  ‘No problem.’ Leroy signed the two sheets on the clipboard. ‘Thanks for your help, Hank.’

  ‘Huck,’ Stanton corrected him. ‘Just out of interest, Detectives, how long do you think you’ll need to keep them?’

  ‘Sorry, Huck,’ said Leroy. ‘Just a few days, I guess.’

  Then he and Quinn left, carrying the evidence boxes into the elevator and up to their car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Quinn was driving.

  In the elevator back to the parking garage, he had suggested that they head directly over to Hollywood Station in anticipation of getting the go-ahead to take over what they had termed the Orchid Avenue victim. They might have to wait around a while, but at least when word came through, they would be already there. Leroy agreed.

  ‘And who knows? Estevez and Glover might even update us before they get the call,’ he had added.

  ‘And you might even see pigs flying down Wilcox Avenue,’ Leroy replied drily.

  Quinn exited the parking garage onto West Second Street, then onto Glendale Boulevard. It was on Glendale that Leroy’s phone rang. It was Lieutenant Perez.

  ‘Where are you, Sam?’ he had asked. Leroy explained where they had been, and their plan on driving to Hollywood in anticipation.

  ‘You on your way there now?’

  ‘Just turned onto Sunset.’

  ‘Look, I’ve just gotten off the horn with Lieutenant Holden, down at Hollywood. I spoke to the captain already, he was in agreement with me, and escalated it. The Chief agreed with us, and Lieutenant Holden just called me.’

  ‘So we can pick up the case notes and stuff from Estevez and Glover?’

  ‘You can, but you need to be aware that so much shit has hit the fan on this down there that the sky over Wilcox Avenue’s just turned a shade of brown.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just politics, Sam, just politics. You know how it is. Holden called on the record to say that his captain had had a call from West First and his detectives would be pleased to pass the case over to you; off the record, he called to say what the fuck do we all think we’re playing at, poaching their investigation.’

  ‘But that’s bullshit.’

  ‘That may be so, and Holden and Estevez and Glover have been given a direct order et cetera, et cetera, but I just thought you and Quinn should be aware, that you don’t get down there expecting the case file to be all ready for you with a big red ribbon and bow round it.’

  ‘Sure. I appreciate the heads-up.’

  Perez wished them good luck, ending the call without answering Leroy when asked whether that meant with the case or at Hollywood Station.

  Quinn turned left off West Sunset Boulevard at the Staples store; the squarish, red brick building, 1358 Wilcox Avenue, was two short blocks farther down. As they walked from the car to the entrance lobby, Leroy looked up at the sky.

  ‘Looks pretty blue to me. Let’s see what colour the décor is inside.’

  At the front desk, after being made to wait behind a woman complaining about loud music emanating from her neighbour’s house the night before, they introduced themselves.

  ‘We’re here for Detectives Estevez and Glover,’ Leroy explained as they put away their badges.

  The desk officer made a brief phone call. ‘Detective Glover asks for you to very kindly take a seat, and he will be with you without any unnecessary delay,’ he said. Leroy and Quinn flashed each other a glance and sat on the blue plastic bench across from the desk.

  ‘Assholes,’ Leroy muttered as they sat waiting. He checked his watch. ‘They have three minutes more.’

  They did not have to wait even that long, as momentarily a door opened and a short, plump man emerged.

  ‘Detectives Leroy and Quinn? You want to come in?’

  Leroy and Quinn looked over at each other, stood, and followed the man through the door. He showed them to an interview room. When they had sat down, he introduced himself.

  ‘I’m Estevez. This here is Detective Glover.’ As he spoke, another man walked in. This second man was very thin and well over six feet. He was black, and wore a smart blue suit, with matching tie and a crisp white shirt. He contrasted with Estevez, who was short and paunchy, was in shirtsleeves, tie loosened, and top button undone. Glover’s hair was close cropped curly and grey, in contrast again with Estevez, whose hair was jet black, a little oily, and could have used an inch or so cut off the collar. Because they had been referred to as Estevez and Glover, Leroy had assumed the Hispanic was the senior: this was not the case, as it was clear that Glover was in charge.

  ‘I don’t know you detectives,’ Glover said. ‘I need to see your badges again.’

  Estevez added, ‘We need to do things properly, and by the book. Can’t have some lieutenant somewhere calling up the Chief of Detectives saying we can’t do our jobs properly.’

  ‘Nobody’d saying that, Estevez,’ replied Leroy. ‘It’s quite clear that this murder follows the same pattern as the two we are investigating.’

  ‘Ah, I understand now,’ said Estevez. He had a slight accent. ‘So you have two murders to our one, so you get to win, is that it?’

  ‘Well,’ Leroy said. ‘There is a logic in that, can’t you see?’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Glover said. ‘We’ve received a direct order, so we’re following it. You want the Keffer file?’

  ‘Keffer?’ Leroy asked. ‘That’s the victim’s name?’

  ‘Jesus H.’ Estevez leaned back in his chair, one hand on the table, one resting on his belly. ‘You don’t know the name of the guy you’re investigating?’

  Glover looked over at his partner. ‘You want to get some coffee, Jimmy? You two want some coffee?’

  ‘No, we’re good
,’ Leroy replied. ‘His name was Keffer?’

  As Estevez reluctantly left the room, Glover replied, ‘Troy Keffer.’ He opened the brown folder and looked over the top sheet. ‘It was his car, a Fiesta, where he was found. Up on Orchid Avenue, seven am Thursday morning.’

  ‘Bound and gagged? Duct tape and grey electrical wire?’

  Glover nodded. ‘Bare-assed naked covered in stab wounds.’

  Leroy said, ‘Exactly the same MO as the two case we have.’

  ‘With two differences,’ Quinn added. ‘Our victims weren’t found in their own vehicles.’

  ‘And they were both women,’ Leroy added.

  ‘I can’t comment about the vehicle,’ Glover replied. ‘But I might be able to throw some light on the victim’s gender. He was a man, as you say. But he had an apartment a stone’s throw from where he was found, a small building off Franklin Avenue. When we searched his apartment, we found a collection of wigs, dresses, and women’s shoes, and so on.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘His fingernails and toenails were painted. The women’s clothes would explain that.’

  ‘They would, yes. Crossdresser, transvestite, transgender, we don’t know exactly which he was. Detective Estevez has a theory that he was a male hooker who was murdered by one of his clients.’ As Glover spoke, Estevez returned with two plastic cups of coffee.

  ‘Ladyboy,’ Estevez said as he sat back down. ‘A fucking ladyboy. Wouldn’t turn some trick for one of his clients, that’s what happened. You should see the mess the motherfucker made of the body.’ He grimaced.

  ‘We did,’ Leroy said.’

  ‘You what?’ Estevez asked.

  ‘We’ve seen the body already. Again, the wounds are consistent with those found on our two Jane Does.’

  Estevez gave a theatrical sigh and looked over at his partner. Glover closed the folder and slid it over to Leroy. ‘Here you go then, Leroy. Your case now.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me?’ Leroy asked, taking the folder.

  Glover nodded down to the folder. ‘It’s all in there.’