'Look at this. His daughter was wearing it. Beat the poor girl's face flat. No dad did that, 'specially one who loved his daughter like Vulcuna did. Whoever did this didn't know that little girl. The killer was a cold-ass impersonal monster.'
'So if you and Norris were right, and Vulcuna didn't kill his wife and daughter and then shoot himself, that makes this a triple murder with the killer still at large,' Hitch said.
McKnight dropped the bloody blouse back into the box and then picked up the bag holding the Luger. 'You're right. And you're also right about that razor thing. Guy who's about to kill himself doesn't reload after a test shot. That's fucking ridiculous.'
We all sat in silence thinking about it.
'But you got almost no chance of proving what really happened,' McKnight finally continued. 'It was more than twenty-five years ago. Lieutenant White has gone to the angels, the old mayor and police chief are retired. Nobody will talk to you about Vulcuna. Case has frostbite.'
'There's still a few things we can do now, that you and Norris didn't have available back then,' I said. 'Like, we could go into that house and spray the bedroom with Luminol. Doesn't matter if somebody came in later and cleaned the headboard and wall. As you know, these new forensic methods will pick up blood traces and cerebral spinal fluid in the walls and floors even after twenty-five-plus years. If Vulcuna got shot in the backyard like we think, then the bedroom won't fluoresce when we Luminol it, making his death a murder.'
We all looked at one another. Finally McKnight broke the silence.
'This case has pissed me off for over a quarter century,' he said. 'It wasn't that me and Eddie were afraid to work it but once it was closed we had no way to proceed. If I can do anything to help you now, I'm in.'
'We may need you to say some of this to our captain,' I told him. 'He's a straight shooter.'
'You tell me when and I'll be there.'
We shook hands all around and Hitch and I gathered up the evidence boxes. McKnight told us we didn't need a key to open the gate from the inside so we left him with his beer and carried the boxes up the ramp.
As we were loading them into the Acura, Hitch turned to face me. 'Luminol. That's a good idea, homes.'
'Then let's do it.'
'How?' he said. 'Stender Sheedy Sr. will fight a search warrant. If we make an illegal entry and find something that could reopen Vulcuna, we'll lose it all in court on the bad search.'
'Stender Sheedy may not want us in there, but he's not the owner of the Skyline property,' I said. 'Neither is Thayer Dunbar. The owner of record is the Dorothy White Foundation, and if I recall, the legal proprietor and sole beneficiary is Brooks Dunbar. Let's get little Brooksie to agree to the warrant. I don't think he much cares what his father or mother think at least not since they cut him off.'
'He's a punk. I doubt he's gonna help us,' Hitch said.
'I think he will. He just needs the right kind of motivation.'
Chapter 30
'I can almost promise you Brooks won't be at home after ten P. M.,' Hitch said, looking at his watch. 'From what I hear the kid clubs every night.'
We were still standing beside our cars in the marina parking lot.
'So how do we find this little turd?' I said as I pulled the day-old arrest warrant for Brooks Dunbar out of my briefcase.
'I think I can track him down. Let's drop our cars downtown and take a slick-back. If I can find him, that black-and-white might be useful.'
We left the marina and dropped our cars at the Police Administration Building. Light Santa Ana winds had started blowing, bending the tops of the palm trees with a warm desert breeze. We checked out a slick-back from the motor pool.
'Slick-back' is police slang for a black-and-white that is assigned to detectives and doesn't have a light bar on the roof, hence the name.
I drove the D-ride up the ramp and onto the city streets with Hitch in the passenger seat beside me.
'Let's start with the Ivy,' Hitch said.
'He's at the Ivy?' I asked.
'Not as far as I know.'
'Then why are we going there?'
'Watch and be amazed,' he replied.
We headed toward Sunset and then to the Ivy on Robertson. It was after eleven P. M., but the restaurant was packed. About forty paparazzi were camped out across the street, their Nikon digital cameras at the ready.
We pulled up and got out of the car. As soon as Hitch was visible, a lot of the photographers started snapping his picture and calling his name.
'If we end up in People magazine over this, I'll kill you,' I growled.
'Don't worry. I'm in the wrong age demo for People. They only want eighteen to twenty-four unless your name's Obama or you're a middle-aged actor who's beating the shit out of his girlfriend. These guys like me. They only take my picture so I won't feel left out.'
Hitch told the valet we'd just be a minute and to leave our ride at the curb. The red coat reluctantly pulled the black-and-white up and parked it next to the valet stand where, immediately, it began to draw nervous looks from the patio tables, soiling the trendy ambience of the posh Westside restaurant.
Hitch walked across the street to the crowd of scruffy-looking photographers. I had no idea what he was up to, but followed.
Paparazzi are the tree squirrels of celebrity journalism. The guys were mostly wide bodies with plumber butts. The girls had stringy hair and bad complexions. They were nocturnal animals who surged around West L. A. like schooling fish, always hunting for the action with Vitaminwater and protein bars stuffed in their pockets.
'Hey guys, anybody see Brooks Dunbar lately?' Hitch called out.
'He was trying to get into Club Nine about an hour ago,' one of the scruffy guys said. 'But he owes that place a fortune, so they probably didn't let him past the rope.'
'If you can scare him up for me, then the next time I'm with Jamie, I'll slow my man down so you can get some shots.'
'Solid,' several of them said as they flipped open cell phones and started calling other paparazzi around Hollywood.
'Got him,' a tall, hefty girl wearing low-rider jeans said. 'The Cottonwood on Melrose. He just got there but he's never in one place long, so you better hurry.'
'Thanks, Julie. I owe ya.' Catcalls and 'See ya's' followed us back to our car.
'Not bad,' I said. 'Definitely a fresh way to do it.'
I slid behind the wheel of the slick-back and we headed toward the Cottonwood Club on Melrose.
We got there just in time because as I pulled in, the Heir Abhorrent and his posse of hangers-on were already being escorted out of the club by a bouncer who was roughly the size of an old Wurlitzer jukebox. Brooks was screaming insults at this monster.
'You assholes overcharged my AmEx! I'm not paying you a fucking dollar until you make it right!'
He was trailed by his drugged entourage; two guys and four girls, all bone-thin losers. The bouncer shoved him to the curb and went back inside. Brooks then turned his ire on the circling pack of flashbulb-popping paparazzi.
'Eat my crotch, you shitsticks!' He flipped them off. He climbed to his feet as his friends all giggled. The photographers scuttled along behind this band of unruly brats who loved the fact that they were being chased by a pack of Hollywood photographers, while all the time pretending to be very pissed off about it.
'You fucking assholes need to get a real job!' Brooks, who had never had one, yelled.
Hitch and I cut them off. I grabbed Dunbar by the arm and shoved the arrest warrant in his face. Cameras flashed.
