She said, “I mean fun from an intellectual puzzle perspective. Your Mr. Scoppio had twenty- eight bullets in him from five different firearms, with at least four wounds theoretically fatal. I don’t need to pinpoint which one did him in, because frankly, who gives a damn, he’s a sieve. But if I was writing this up for
“Three five-seven?”
Nod. “Yours?”
“Mine’s nine-millimeter.”
“Like two other shooters. No rifle fire. How come? Fugitive guys always bring assault rifles.”
“The officer didn’t have a clear shot.”
“Shootout at the O.K. Mall… well, if your nine-millimeter impacted anywhere above the rib cage, you can award yourself honorable mention. If you got him in the legs?” Shrug.
Milo didn’t fill in the blank.
Jernigan said, “In terms of why he faced off against such heavy firepower, that’s Dr. Delaware ’s bailiwick.” To me: “I’m comfortable with suicide by cop. How about you?”
I said, “Works for me.”
“I’m going to write that his inherent psychiatric issues were helped along by amphetamine intoxication, ’cause we want to lay everything at this bastard’s feet, make sure no ACLU types start bitching and moaning.”
Milo said, “He was tweaking big-time?”
“I’m surprised he didn’t jump out of his skin, Lieutenant. Anyway, I don’t see a problem, hopefully the pencil-pushers won’t, either.”
“I’ll find out soon enough. Meeting with the chief in an hour.”
“That should be fun.” She walked us to the door. Milo said, “Thanks, Doc.”
“Thank you. For what you did on Bobby. Bobby was a great kid. I know I’m supposed to be objective but when I found out the bastard ambushed him, I allowed myself a little pleasure when I peeled his damn face off his damn skull. And by the way, I remember my pledge about autopsies. Long as you don’t push it.”
CHAPTER 45
Milo drove to the chief’s office and I returned home.
Detouring, I drove past the lot on Borodi. All the embers gone, bulldozed clean and level, surrounded by a new, substantial fence. Doyle Bryczinski sat in his car by the curb. He seemed to be snoozing, but as I drove by, he waved.
I backed up. “Back on the job, huh?”
“Company finally got their act together,” he said. “Realized they better have me every day, all day. Sometimes they give me a double. When Mom doesn’t need me, I’m here.”
“Keep up the good work.”
He saluted. “Only way I know how.”
Milo didn’t phone after the meeting with the chief and I wondered if it had gone badly.
Probably on his way to Southwest Division. Maybe that rib joint was still operative and he’d dive into seven courses of trans-fat bliss.
He dropped in the following morning, wearing a puce aloha shirt, baggy brown pants, desert boots. I’d been working on custody reports, Blanche curled on my lap.
She bounced off, smiled up at him.
He said, “I gotta bend? Next time get a Great Dane,” but patted her head far longer than mere courtesy called for.
I said, “Vacation or wishful thinking?”
“Two weeks of sun and fun, Rick managed to finagle some time, we’re headed for the Big Island tomorrow morning.”
“Think of me at the luau.”
“What I think of at a luau is more luau.”
He walked to the kitchen, took a half pint of orange juice out of the fridge, put on glasses and read the expiration date. “A week past, I’m doing you a favor.” He upended the carton, guzzled.
Blanche watched, fascinated. His eating habits have never stopped puzzling her.
I said, “Two weeks. No Southwest gig?”
Crushing and tossing the empty carton, he took out a plate of cold roast beef, brought it to the table. “Change of plans.”
“Gunrunners off the radar?”
“Still on the radar but I won’t be watching the screen.”
“Chief’s happy.”
“Not a relevent concept for him. What I did was bring up the fact that I’d closed Backer and Doreen well before his deadline, in addition to preventing a potential arson disaster by nabbing Helga. But that
“I know what you’re going through?”
“‘Don’t bitch, Sturgis, we’re both victims of the politicians and the diplomats, they’re all Ivy League faggots compensating for short dicks-and don’t get touchy about “faggot,” I’m talking generically.’ Then he ushers me out of his office, informs me I need to concentrate on West L.A., not stick my nose in any other sectors’ cases. I say, ‘Can I take that to mean Southwest as well as Van Nuys, sir?’ He says, ‘Don’t make me explicate, Sturgis. It saps my prostate.’”
CHAPTER 46
During his interview of Lara Rieffen, Milo had used John Nguyen’s relentless approach to prosecution as a scare tactic.
A bit of performance art, but part documentary, as well.
Rieffen’s defense lawyers filed motions to dismiss; Nguyen countered each with growing ferocity, won every time.
Their next step was to attack the admissibility of various pieces of evidence. As part of that, I was deposed to testify about Rieffen’s mental state during “Detective Sturgis’s clearly intimidating and abusive interrogation.”
Nguyen said, “Don’t respond, I’ll handle it,” and when the defense team tried plea-bargaining down to a series of lesser charges, Nguyen threatened to go for the death penalty, pointing out that Rieffen’s prints on the murder weapon made it a no-brainer, special circumstances due to multiple victims, lying in wait, extreme cruelty and depravity, murder for profit.
Rieffen pled guilty to one count of second-degree murder in exchange for the theoretical possibility of parole.
Nguyen said, “I’m happy with it, anyone else isn’t, that’s their
