stepped inside and closed it quietly behind us.
The house was dark and creepy. We stood in the back pantry and listened to the mansion creak and groan in the growing wind.
I saw a documentary once about a bunch of little birds in the Amazon who have this unique relationship with the river crocodiles who live and hunt along the banks of that mammoth river. Part of the film told how sometimes, when a croc had meat stuck in the back of his mouth, he would open it for one of the little birds to hop inside. The bird would then stand on the huge reptile s tongue and feed himself by cleaning the croc s sharp, deadly teeth. The narrator called it an extraordinary act of synergy and trust. I remember thinking there had to be a better way for those little birds to feed themselves. To me, it just seemed stupid.
As I stood in the back pantry of that creaking, windblown mansion, I felt just like one of those little birds.
One snap and a crunch from oblivion.
Chapter 32
We left the large canister of Luminol inside the back door because it was too heavy to lug around, and took a slow walk through the downstairs, leaving our telltale footprints in the dust. I entered the solarium, and walked over to the curved windows to look out at the pool house, where the triple murder had occurred just days earlier. But tonight I was here to look at a completely different crime, one that had happened nearly thirty years ago.
I turned and saw a series of framed photographs on the far wall that looked like an exhibit of some kind. Hitch and I walked over and examined them. A wide framed placard above the shots said the mansion had been designated as a California landmark house in 1980. Since certification, no renovations other than standard maintenance had occurred to the historical structure. Prior to that freeze, previous owners had photographed the different stages of the home's development and those shots were displayed on the wall.
It had always been a magnificent house, but when first built, it was considerably smaller. There was a pool, but no pool house. In a photo dated 1928, a big ugly-looking concrete building with a metal door and a pitched roof was shown at the side of the house near where the trash area now was.
'What the hell is that?' Hitch said, studying the shot.
'Some kind of poured-concrete one-car garage,' I said. 'Kinda ugly. Musta been torn down during one of the renovations before this became a landmark house.'
There were other pre-1980 renovations displayed in the photographs. The solarium was a '60s addition, as was the pool house. A second floor had been added on the east wing in '76.
Something heavy fell over and crashed upstairs.
We both froze.
'What's that?' Hitch whispered.
My heart was pounding. I could hear nothing but the Santa Anas rattling the windows and blowing the branches of a large elm into the roof on the east side of the house.
'It's nothing but the wind,' I said, not exactly believing it.
Then we heard scratching.
'Rats,' I said softly, under my breath.
'Rat must be on steroids,' Hitch whispered. 'Whatever's doing that is big.'
We now heard something moving upstairs, followed by some kind of clawing, dragging sound.
'Thomas Vulcuna s ghost coining to get us?' I said, half in jest.
'Don't joke about shit like that,' he hissed.
Hitch definitely seemed to be worried about a poltergeist factor. Then I remembered him saying, 'I don't get along with dead people, they don't get along with me.' Was it possible my new homicide partner believed in ghosts?
We listened in silence for almost a minute. When it didn't recur, I figured it was rodents. 'See? Nothing,' I said.
We moved cautiously into the living room, where I looked at the old, dusty Christmas tree and the twenty or so unopened presents.
'Let's see where the two Vulcuna women got killed,' I said. 'According to Norris and McKnight s murder book, the bodies were found over by the fireplace.'
I went into the back porch area, grabbed the metal spray canister, returned to the living room, and pumped up the pressure. Then I aimed the nozzle at the fireplace area, wetting down the floor in front of the hearth.
It immediately lit up like a truck stop diner.
'Look at that,' Hitch said softly.
Even though it had been a quarter century since the murders had occurred, we could see the outlines of both bodies in the Luminol's fluorescent glow. One had died over by the hearth, the other was farther out in the room, perpendicular to the fireplace. The women had bled profusely. Blood had collected around them, but not under them, leaving form impressions outlining where they fell.
'They were definitely killed in here,' Hitch whispered softly, then added, 'by the way, if we get Jamie to do this movie I think he should spray the Luminol.'
'Yeah, you're right. Scully would be huddled over in the corner, shitting his pants.'
Another clawing sound came from upstairs.
'There it is again!' Hitch whispered in fright, looking up at the ceiling.
I had to admit, it didn't quite sound like a rat. It sounded much bigger.
'I'm gonna unpack,' Hitch said, pulling out his sidearm.
'This house is empty,' I assured him. But because fear is even more contagious than a yawn, I pulled the Springfield from my belt holster.
'You wanta go up and check it out?' Hitch asked. 'I'll cover you from down here.'
'Don't you think Jamie would want the Hitchens character to man up and do the ghost check?' I whispered back.
'No,' he said adamantly.
'Come on, numbnuts. Let's clear this fucking house.'
We climbed the staircase. I took the lead with Hitch close behind me like a Marx brother in a forties comedy. Each stair seemed to creak louder than the last. Halfway to the landing we heard a frenzy of motion.
A lamp broke.
Glass shattered.
My heart leapt up into my throat. When I turned, Hitch was already back downstairs, standing by the front door, gun up in a shooting stance.
'If it's a ghost, that gun won't help you.' I motioned for him to follow me up. 'Come on, or you're not my partner anymore.'
Reluctantly he rejoined me.
We finally got to the landing on the second floor. The walls were covered in some kind of old red flocked wallpaper. The floors were wood and creaked as we moved slowly and deliberately toward the master suite, where in 1981 Tom Vulcuna was supposed to have taken his life after killing his family.
As we approached the room, I had both my gun and my Mini Maglite out, pointing them at the threshold.
Then I saw a pair of yellow eyes shining brightly over by the window.
I swung the light and caught a huge raccoon in its beam.
It was the size of a fat beagle.
It screamed at us, then turned, raced along next to the floorboards, and jumped up on an old dresser, knocking a porcelain bowl over in the process before disappearing into the open heating duct.
The bowl, which was still teetering, suddenly fell and broke on the floor.
My heart was pounding even harder. Hitchs breath hissed out through his mouth.
It took us both almost a full two minutes to calm down.
