It was set up for deep-water game fishing with large twenty-foot outrigger poles hinged up into the air on each side of the deck house, and a deluxe fish-fighting chair with two chrome pole holders located in the center of the teak back deck. There was a big circulating saltwater bait tank aft. Painted on the stern was CODE 4 the police radio designation for an event that was over.
McKnight led us into the spacious main salon, which had deep blue carpet and rich wood cabinets. There was a fancy entertainment center with a built-in flat-screen TV and stereo across from a large sofa and two club chairs. A step-down galley was forward, adjacent to the living area. In keeping with the fishing theme, McKnight had an expensive-looking glass-topped coffee table with two Wyland-like sculptures of jumping dolphins as its base. Their arched backs held up the inch-thick glass.
We set the evidence boxes on the counter separating the salon from the galley.
'So what're you two geniuses doing with Vulcuna?' McKnight asked. 'You said you wanted to talk about an old case but that fucker has a long, gray beard.'
'Yeah, we know,' Hitch said. 'Nonetheless, we wanted to ask you about it.'
'I get it now. You guys must be the dicks who caught the Skyline Drive thing. The Czech shooter who took off the two Internet whores and that movie producer.'
'Thats us,' I said.
'According to the news that case is already with the DA.'
'Right, but we have a few little details to run down,' Hitch said. 'Some might involve the Thomas Vulcuna case you and Norris investigated at that same house. By the way, I couldn't find an address on Ed Norris.'
'Ed currently resides in a pine box underground at 1656 Forest Lawn Drive. We all get there sooner or later. He took a shortcut called too much JD on the rocks. You guys want some coffee?'
'Good,' I said, and Hitch nodded in agreement.
Jack McKnight poured from a pot sitting on the warmer. As he handed us our cups he asked, 'So, how can I help?'
We told him about finding the 7.65 slug in the backyard of the house and how his report stated the Luger Vulcuna used to commit the suicide also fired 7.65 ammo but had jammed after one shot, leaving the one bullet in the master bedroom but only one round missing from the gun.
'So you're wondering how that second slug ended up in the backyard when there was only one missing from the clip,' McKnight said.
'That's the question.' Hitch nodded.
'Maybe he test-fired it in the backyard to make sure the gun worked and then reloaded before he pulled the trigger in the bedroom,' McKnight suggested.
'Maybe, but it fights Occam's razor,' Hitch said.
McKnight scowled. 'And just what the hell is Occam's razor?'
I was wondering the same thing when Hitch explained. 'It's a basic rule of logic that states in any complex situation where nothing makes sense, if you shave the problem down to its core issues the simplest solution tends to be the correct one.'
'How does that apply to this?' McKnight asked, frowning.
'I don't think a guy who's planning to off himself test-fires his gun in the backyard and then reloads it because he likes a nice, neat suicide gun with only one round missing when they find him. Makes no sense. The simpler explanation is he was shot in the backyard by an assailant and the killer reloaded the gun because the missing bullet fucks up the suicide idea.'
Not bad, I thought.
McKnight frowned. He was troubled. 'So you're saying he was shot in the backyard and then moved?'
Something about the way he said this told me it wasn't a new thought for him. Then he added, 'You think he got moved upstairs to the master bedroom by his assailant and then the gun was reloaded and fired again, so the suicide bullet could be found in the headboard. Sounds like an episode of Columbo.' His expression had gone flat and was now hard for me to read.
'There were no crime-scene or autopsy photos in your murder book,' I said. 'How come?'
'I don't know what happened to the photos. When the case got filed, they were already missing.'
'That seem strange to you?' I asked.
'Yep. I think somebody went into our desks and took the pictures. Never figured out who.' He hadn't poured himself any coffee and now he stood, walked to the refrigerator, and pulled out a beer. He levered off the cap and took a swallow.
While he had his back to us, I asked, 'You remember whether Thomas Vulcuna had his shoes off or on when he died?'
'They were on,' he replied, as he turned. 'That matter?'
'Might,' I said. 'Most suicides take 'em off.'
'Okay,' he said as he returned to the salon and faced us. 'I'm gonna give you guys some very friendly advice. Your Sladky red ball is down. You did it quick so you'll get good write-ups. Do yourselves a big career solid and take a deep bow, accept your praise, but let this old Vulcuna case go. There was big energy coming down from on high to have it listed the way it was. My guess is, there are some dangerous people still around who won't appreciate your meddling. You guys could get hit by lightning.'
''Zat what you and Norris did?' Hitch asked. 'You two just cut and run?'
McKnight sat down again in the empty club chair. An angry frown creased his forehead.
Then he took a swallow of his beer and told us what had really happened twenty-eight years ago.
Chapter 29
'Me and Eddie also thought the murder-suicide angle was bogus,' McKnight began. 'There were a lot of little things that were pointing in the other direction. Like Vulcuna killing his daughter with a fucking hammer. I don't see the guy beating her bloody like that. Everything we found out said he doted on that kid. He was devoted to her. His wife too.
'And the bullshit suicide note the Divine Comedy thing. Who leaves that kind of suicide note? In my opinion, that passage was picked by somebody to make it look like he killed himself.'
We were all thinking the same way.
'Then there was the bedroom where he died. Vulcuna bled all over the bed but other than that it was a very clean crime scene. Me and Norris also suspected he mighta got shot elsewhere then was moved upstairs, where he bled out. If not that, then somebody came in and cleaned up the bedroom cause there was no blood spatter on the headboard or wall near where he died.'
'So why did you write it up as a murder-suicide?' I asked.
'We didn't. We were working it as a triple 187, and we told our supervisor, Lieutenant White in Hollywood station, that's how we saw it. Nine hours into the investigation, while we were still doing our initial evidence pull, we get called back in to see the Loo and he takes us to Parker Center. We go into the Chief of Detectives' office where we're told that the case was over and that the coroner has just ruled it a murder-suicide. We're also told that the super chief himself has taken an interest in the case and also wanted it booked as self-inflicted.'
This memory troubled him. He took another pull off the bottle of beer before going on.
'There was some guy in an expensive suit standing there a big, lean, black-haired duck with a pale complexion looked to us like some kinda power player. He was never introduced, but me and Ed thought he was maybe from Eagle's Nest Studios or maybe even the mayor's office.'
'Stender Sheedy?'
'Don't know his name. Never found out. Never saw him again. But it was real clear to us that a lot of people high up didn't want this case worked and the mayor and super chief were definitely among them. It was closed that same night and we got reassigned. There was nothing me and Ed could do about it. We weren't happy, but we moved on.'
He reached into the open box containing the bloody clothing and pulled out a frilly, bloodstained blouse in a cellophane bag.
