Something To Die For (Sam Leroy Book 1) Page 4

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Tyler.

  *****

  In terms of priority, the murder of a homeless person has very little in Homicide Division. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the killer will never be found, and the Department does not have the resources to work such cases. So they stay on the books as an unsolved case, unless someone confesses later.

  In most homicides, unless there is a reliable witness who is prepared to testify, one of the first areas the investigators look at is motive. Robbery was clearly discounted: he had no ID on him, and only a folded $5 bill in a back pocket. Leroy and Quinn canvassed the people using the park, and those living in a two block radius, but without success. The body was found early on a Sunday morning: the place would have been in use all day Saturday, so it must have occurred sometime Saturday night. The medical examiner confirmed this. But there was still the mystery of how this street person came to be there.

  One theory that Leroy and Quinn had was that he originated from Santa Monica, and had migrated eastwards. The night in question was unseasonably chilly - around 37 degrees – and he had sought shelter in the building. In any case, Clover Park is quite open, and he would have been hard pressed to find natural shelter for the night. He was sitting in a stall, but fully dressed, so was not using the toilet. Quinn suggested he might have been witness to some kind of encounter, maybe two gay men, and shot by one of them. Leroy felt the idea was not without merit, but he felt it unlikely he would be killed just because he saw two guys humping. In any case, whether it was that, or something like a drug transaction, even if he did report it, who would believe the word of a homeless old guy?

  It was all academic, however; after two days, Leroy and Quinn were ordered by Patterson to leave the case as pending, and move on to the next case, where there was a better chance of finding the culprit.

  ‘Street guy shot in the middle of a park middle of the night,’ he had said. ‘Chances of finding who did it – zero. Unless someone calls in and makes a confession, you’re wasting the department’s time and resources.’

  So the Clover Park murder remained unsolved, and untouched.

  Until this morning.

  Leroy thought he would take the Captain at his word and focus on his twelve unsolveds. Clover Park began with a C, and was on the top of his list. He had decided he would spend one day on the case, to see if he could dig up anything more. Fresh pair of eyes syndrome. In any case, he was still uneasy about the guy being shot almost execution style just for witnessing something going on in a bathroom. Unless the killer did it because he felt like it.

  Leroy parked on 25th, and wandered through the park, over to the bathrooms. He wandered around the buildings, then walked around the partition. The women’s bathroom was to the left; the men’s to the right. First of all he stepped over to the women’s door, took out his badge, and then knocked on the wooden doorway.

  ‘Hello? Anyone in there? Police,’ he called out. There was no answer. He stepped in, and just as he got over the threshold, he heard a flush. He stepped back outside and momentarily a plump middle aged woman stepped out. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Leroy, but relaxed when she noticed the badge he was holding out.

  ‘Police. Sorry. Didn’t mean to alarm you,’ he said.

  She muttered something, went over to the washbasin, washed and dried her hands and bustled past him. Once she had gone, Leroy looked around inside, pushed open the three stall doors with his foot. Looked around each stall. There was nothing of any interest here.

  Then he went into the men’s room. It was exactly as he had remembered it from before. A touch shabby, but generally clean, although with a slight odour of urine. Again, he pushed open the doors to the two stalls and looked around. Looking around the right hand stall, he remembered the day when the body was found. He recalled that the bullet passed right through the victim’s head. He had been shot at almost point blank range, and the bullet also passed through the wooden stall wall to become embedded in the concrete wall some twenty feet away. It was a .38, he recalled. The hole in the wooden wall was still there; walking over to the far wall, he could still make out the spot from where it had been recovered.

  He wandered around the bathroom, taking in the two stalls, the two urinals, the small hand basin under a mirror, which was surprisingly clean. The interior walls were still the same dark green he recalled from his first visit, slightly shabbier. He looked around, as if seeking inspiration.

  He got none.

  Normally, a homicide scene would have CSIs around it like fleas on a dog until they found something: this being a street person, he had doubts as to whether this scene received the same attention as the next unsolved on his list: a stabbing on a Blue Line tram on its way to Long Beach.

  He wandered outside and looked around. This being a Monday morning, the park was fairly quiet. Weekends it would be filled with families, with kids playing ball games. Today, he could see two women pushing strollers, a man walking his dog along the park perimeter by 25th Street; another man the other side of the park, walking back to the parking lot. He heard an engine noise and looked up: he could just make out a single engine aircraft coming in to land at the municipal airport half a mile away.

  He thought about the enquiries he and Quinn originally made: he himself knocked on the doors of three of the streets west of the park with a photograph of the dead man, but they all drew a blank. They made similar enquiries in Santa Monica itself, showing his image to the other street people congregating around Ocean Front Walk. But still the guy was a mystery. Then it all came down to resources: the likelihood of identification and conviction was so low, the case was left. An old story: not the first time that had happened, and Leroy was sure it would not be the last.

  ‘Looks like you’re going to stay unsolved, my friend,’ he said quietly, looking back at the men’s room. He turned and headed back to his car.

  As he reached the edge of the grass and stepped onto the 25th Street sidewalk, his cell phone rang. Still walking down 25th to where he had parked his car, he answered. It was Russell Hobson, from the Medical Examiner’s office.

  As well as being colleagues, Leroy and Hobson were friends, and had been so for many years. By coincidence, they grew up in the same neighbourhood in Queens, New York City. They were born the same year, Hobson two months later than Leroy, and attended the same school. After they graduated from High School, their paths drifted: Hobson began medical training and Leroy joined the NYPD. Then, eighteen months ago, to the surprise of them both, they met up again. Hobson, who had been working for the Chicago ME, applied for and got a position in LA; Leroy had transferred to the LAPD some years ago.

  Leroy had been expecting this call. ‘Talk to me Russ.’

  ‘Sam, you need to get your ass down here right away.’

  ‘Why? What’s up?’

  ‘That John Doe you brought in Friday. The one in Century City.’

  ‘I know the one. Cardiac arrest, is it?’

  ‘Well, yes and no.’

  Leroy climbed into his black Ford Taurus. ‘What do you mean, yes and no?’

  ‘It’s quite complicated. That’s why I need you to come in. Can you do that?’

  ‘Sure I can. Give me thirty minutes,’ Leroy replied, starting the engine.

  ‘Okay. See you soon, buddy.’

  With that, Hobson hung up.

  Letting out a deep breath, Leroy swung the car round and up to Ocean Park Boulevard. Although Hobson always did have a sense of drama, even they were kids together, there was something different in his voice today.

  As he drove back to Police HQ, Leroy wondered what could be so urgent and dramatic about a cardiac arrest case.

  NINE

  The average annual rainfall for Southern California is twelve inches. As the silver Lotus made its way south-west along Mulholland Drive, it seemed to the driver that it was all falling that night. Just drizzle as he left the freeway; now it was raining hard. He had the wipers on full, but even then
visibility was poor. The number of sharp turns on this stretch of road made it difficult to get above thirty-five in good driving conditions; now he could only manage ten miles per hour slower. He cursed frequently as vehicles approached from the other direction, headlights on full, dazzling him.

  He checked the time. Almost nine o’clock. There was no way now he was going to get there on time. He cursed himself for not leaving home earlier, but it was becoming more and more difficult to get out, more difficult to find an excuse that sounded reasonable.

  He considered taking a detour along Woodrow Wilson or one of the other side roads to make the journey shorter to cut out the bends, but tonight, in the dark and the rain, he was afraid he might miss the turning and a more minor road could be more treacherous in these conditions.

  The traffic slowed almost to a stop at one really sharp bend, almost a one-eighty. He hoped that there had not been an accident; not from any concern about anyone involved, but that would delay him even more. So much so, that he would run out of time; that it would not be worth the remainder of the journey. He was expected home between eleven and eleven-thirty, and tonight time was not on his side.

  The line of vehicles moved slowly up to and around the bend; as he turned the one-eighty, he could see a car had broken down, and traffic passing had to brake and wait for passing vehicles before they could overtake. After ten minutes he was able to pass the breakdown himself. Glancing out of the side window as he passed he could see a figure in a yellow hooded raincoat standing by the side of the car.

  Once he passed the breakdown, he was able to pick up some speed, but still the rain and the twisting nature of the road made it impossible to get above twenty-five. As he carried on further, he wished he had had GPS fitted in the car. After all, he knew the ZIP code of where he was going. It was one of those things he hadn’t gotten round to doing. He knew he was headed for the 8400 block, then next left. His stare went from the road ahead to the side of the road and back again, looking for his turning.

  ‘Shit!’ he yelled as he saw Edwin Way flash past. He knew his turning was just before Edwin. There was no way he could perform a U turn on this road: he slowed down to about fifteen and looked for a side road, either this side or the other.

  Through the rain streamed windshield he made out a turning on his left. He slowed some more to let two vehicles pass, then carefully made a left. The street he turned into was unlit, and there were high bushes either side. He drove slowly forward, looking for a place to turn. After fifty yards or so, he could make out this was a dead end, but the road opened up at the spot where the driveways for two gated residences met.

  He made a nine point turn in the tiny space, being careful not to damage his paintwork on the stone columns each side of the gateways. Then back down to Mulholland, waited for a passing car, and turning right.

  A hundred yards later, he caught sight of his intended turn off. Another pause for passing traffic, another left turn, another darkened street. However, further up, he could make out lights from a building. As he got closer he could see that it was a large house, lights blazing from all its windows, and from a wide open front door. He breathed a sigh of relief. This must be his destination.

  He took the car through an opened gate and as he got closer to the house he realised there was a figure standing outside the house, in the open doorway. As he parked the car, the figure walked out towards him. It was a man, clean shaven, tall and around 175 pounds. He was wearing an open necked shirt, and a pair of shorts. He leaned over to address the driver.

  ‘I wondered if you had a problem finding the house,’ he called out.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Especially on a night like this. Not easy to find at the best of times. Come with me. You’re getting wet.’

  The man with the umbrella leading, they both walked into the house. Once inside, they went into what seemed to be a sitting room, but one from a different age. With the exception of a large flat screen television in one corner, the room was decorated and furnished as if it was the 1930s.

  ‘Take a seat.’ He shook the umbrella, folded it, and placed it in a rack. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Er – just water, please.’

  ‘Nothing stronger?’

  ‘Driving. And bad night out.’

  ‘Of course. Still or sparkling?’

  ‘Still, please.’

  The host left the room and momentarily brought in a glass of water. Handed it over, and sat down on a couch opposite the man. He looked at his watch. ‘I understand why you were late,’ he said, ‘but it does mean we don’t have as much time. You don’t anyway.’

  ‘No problem. I understand.’

  The host looked around. ‘You could save time by seeing her in here. Rather than in one of the bedrooms. If that’s okay with you.’

  ‘That’s okay by me.’

  ‘Would you like her blonde, or brunette?’

  ‘Er – blonde I think.’

  ‘Black or red?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Wearing black or red?’

  ‘Black.’

  The host stood up. ‘Can I ask you to wait in the other room through there?’ He indicated to a door. ‘She will call you when she is ready for you.’

  ‘Okay.’ The other man got off the couch and went into the other room, closing the door behind him. This room was sparsely furnished, although in contemporary style. He sat on a black leather desk chair. Checked his watch: it was almost ten.

  He must have been waiting five minutes when there was a faint knock on the door.

  ‘Are you ready?’ said a quiet voice. The door was opened slightly.

  He slowly stepped back into the sitting room. The main light had been switched off; now the only illumination was from a small desk lamp. He closed the door behind him and looked over at the woman.

  In the low light he could make out she was blonde, or at least not brunette. Her hair was shoulder length. She was wearing a shiny black dress, low cut and finishing just below her crotch, black lacy stockings. She was standing with one arm on her hip, the other on one of the couches.

  ‘He told you we don’t have much time, didn’t he?’ she asked, in a low, whispery voice.

  ‘Er – yes. He did.’

  ‘Better get started then. Come over here.’ Running an index finger over the top of the couch, she took two steps round and sat down. She looked up at him and indicated for him to join her, but as he was about to sit down, she stopped him so he was now standing in front of her.

  She took a deep sigh and reached over to him. He was already aroused and she began to massage the bump in his pants.

  ‘We do have some time,’ she laughed softly.

  She massaged him some more, then unzipped his pants. He let out a cry, and put both hands on her shoulders for support. He closed his eyes tightly, enjoying the feeling. Opened them and looked down at her, working on him.

  Then his eyes opened wide.

  ‘No,’ he panted. ‘No way.’

  TEN

  It took Leroy twenty minutes to make the nineteen miles from Clover Park to meet up with Russell Hobson.

  The medical examiner was based in one of the criminal laboratories in the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center on Paseo Rancho Castilla, just west of Monterey Park, and adjacent to California State University. Since 2007, and after two years’ construction and costing slightly over $80 million, the imposing concrete and red brick building had been the home to the Los Angeles Crime Laboratories.

  Leroy headed off the freeway and shortly pulled up at the barrier. Showed his identification to the guard who raised the barrier, and directed him over to a space. He walked quickly up the concrete steps to the main entrance. A uniformed officer was exiting the building and nodded to Leroy as they passed. Leroy returned the nod: the officer’s face seemed familiar, but he was unable to put a name to it. Their paths had obviously crossed in the past.

  Once inside, he strode over to the four ele
vators: the doors for two of them were already opened. He stepped inside and jabbed at the 5 button. With a faint ping, the doors slid shut. He was momentarily on the fifth floor and walked down a corridor until he came to a white door with a plaque stating:

  Laboratory 2

  Dr Russell Hobson ME

  Medical Examiner

  Leroy pushed open the door and walked in. He had visited this laboratory many times before, and each time was taken back by the contrast between here and his own workplace. His offices were untidy, with desks and chairs everywhere, paperwork and box files piled on top of filing cabinets, notice boards covered with sheets of paper of varying sizes and colours. Here everything seemed so sterile - which is how it should be, he always reflected – and calm: no frantic hustle and bustle, no phones ringing constantly.

  The laboratory was decorated in white, and the tables, cabinets and cupboards were all a shiny stainless steel. On one side of the laboratory were two tables, each covered by a green rubber sheet. Leroy could tell that each of the two sheets was covering a body.

  Over on the far side of the laboratory, taking up the whole length of the wall, were three wide windows, providing, as he knew from experience, a vista of the San Bernadino Freeway. By one of the windows, at a sink busy washing his hands, was a figure in a white lab coat. The noise of the door closing caused him to turn round. He grinned as he saw Leroy.

  ‘Well, you took your time,’ he laughed, drying his hands.

  ‘Very funny. There are such things as speed limits, you know,’ Leroy retorted as they shook hands.

  ‘Unlike you to observe them. How are you, Sam?’ Hobson asked. ‘How are you this fine Monday morning? Good weekend?’