check the grounds. Looking just for obvious stuff, we didn’t want to mess anything up. They found nothing, sir, and there’s no exit out of here other than the way you come in. So I’m pretty confident we didn’t miss any suspect hiding out.”
“Good work.”
“So what do you think, sir, was this a sex thing? Those pants down, maybe some gay thing that got crazy?”
“Could be.”
“With a sex thing, though,” said Gates, “wouldn’t you see direct involvement of the genitals, not just… that?”
“There are no rules, Officer.”
Gates tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Of course, sir. I’d best be leaving you to go about your business. If there’s nothing else.”
“We’re fine, Officer. Hope tomorrow morning’s more pleasant.”
Gates stood taller. “Actually, sir, and this is probably an inopportune time to say so but I’ve been thinking about applying to be a D. Would you recommend that?”
“You’re observant, Officer Gates. Go for it and good luck.”
“Same to you, sir. On the case, I mean.”
Sean Binchy and Moe Reed and three other uniforms remained stationed at the entrance, guarding the road between Sunset and the broken gate. The coroner’s investigator hadn’t arrived so all we could do was stand at the mouth of the clearing and peer in.
The man was middle-aged-closer to fifty-five than forty-five-with thick curly hair, pewter on top, silver at the sides. So tightly coiled it showed no sign of disarray.
Not so for the head and neck below the hair.
Incompatible with life.
Not a particularly memorable-looking man. Average height, average build, average everything. The pants were cotton, medium beige, pressed, pleated, cuffed. Clean where blood hadn’t intruded. The shirt was nut-brown, a polo, folded in a way that obscured any logo. His shoes were white Nikes with well-worn soles. A runner or a serious walker? No car parked near the entrance fit with that.
Blue socks clashed. He hadn’t figured on being inspected.
I’d approached the scene expecting to react more strongly than I had to Vita Berlin’s corpse. The opposite occurred: Taking in the butchery released an odd, detergent wash of calm that settled my nervous system.
Getting used to it?
Maybe that was the worst part of it.
Milo said, “No pizza box, guess that’s not part of the signature. So maybe it’s just something the bastard came upon and used for Vita, not tracing it won’t be any big deal… poor devil, I hope he was a total sonofabitch, Vita’s spiritual brother.”
A female voice said, “Hi, again. Unfortunately.”
The C.I. named Gloria walked between us and gazed into the opening. “Good God.” She gloved up and covered her feet with paper booties, stepped in, got to work.
A wallet emerged from the right rear pocket of the man’s khakis. A driver’s license I.D.’d him as Marlon Quigg, fifty-six, with an address on Sunset, a mile or two east of the campground. A unit number said condo or apartment. We’d passed some nice buildings on the way over, neatly kept places on the south side of the boulevard, some affording ocean views.
Five eight, one sixty-eight, gray hair, brown eyes, needs corrective lenses.
Gloria checked his eyes. “Contacts are still in there. Kind of surprising considering the force it took to snap the neck.”
I said, “They could’ve fallen out and the killer put them back. He’s all about order.”
She thought about that. Tweezed out the tiny clear disks, bagged and tagged.
Armed with a name, Milo got busy learning about his victim. Quigg’s ride was a three-year-old Kia. No wants or warrants or brushes with the criminal justice system.
The wallet held seventy-three dollars in cash and three credit cards. Two snapshots remained in plastic sleeves. One featured Quigg and a smallish, dark-haired woman around his age, the other showed the couple with a pair of brunettes in their early twenties. One girl resembled Quigg, down to the tight, curly hair. The other could’ve been anyone’s progeny but her arm rested on the shoulder of the older woman, so the reasonable guess was Daughter Number Two.
Both shots were studio poses, backdropped by green faux-marble. Everyone dressed up, a little stiff and uncertain, but smiling.
Gloria said, “He’s not wearing a watch… no pale stripe on his arm, either, so maybe he wasn’t a time-bound Type A.”
“Or he took off his watch when he walked,” said Milo.
I said, “The soles of his shoes say he liked to cover ground.”
“They do,” said Gloria, “but why come in here? It’d be kind of spooky in the dark, no?”
Milo said, “The locals consider it their private park. He lives close, maybe felt it was safe.”
“Okay… but maybe he was meeting someone.” She shifted uncomfortably. “The way the pants are… you know.”
“Anything’s possible, kid.”
“Though I guess with something sexual you’d expect the genitals to be attacked.” She looked at me.
I said, “Same answer.”
She checked the pants, using a magnifier. “Well, look at this, I’ve got foreign hairs… whole bunch of them… long ones… blond.”
Milo kneeled down beside her, plucked several filaments with latex-sheathed fingers that looked too big and thick for the task. Holding the hairs up to the light, he squinted. Sniffed. “Maybe Marilyn Monroe came back from the grave to do him but they look kinda coarse and I’m picking up doggy odor.”
Gloria said, “My nose is stuffed.” She tried anyway. “Sorry, I’m not picking up anything but you could be right about the texture.” Smiling. “Unless someone’s using a real bad conditioner.”
She produced an evidence bag. “I know the techies generally do hair unless we’re running drug screens on the shaft, but we happen to have an intern from the U. doing DNA analysis on all kinds of critters. Want me to take it, maybe I can get you something on species and breed?”
“Appreciate it.”
Gloria took another look at Quigg. “Poor guy goes out for his nightly dog-walk and this happens?” Frowning. “So where’s the canine in question? Maybe Fido got left at home.”
Milo said, “Or maybe our bad guy took a live trophy.”
“Rover stands by and watches his master get murdered and then goes off willingly with the perpetrator? Not a protective breed, that’s for sure.” Catching her breath. “Or the poor thing’s lying somewhere looking like Mr. Quigg.”
“Uniforms checked the immediate area but we’ll go over it again after the techies arrive.”
Gloria scanned the dirt. “Don’t see any prints in here, dog or human.”
“Our bad guy cleaned up carefully.”
“Just like the first time,” she said. “To me that makes it even more repulsive.”
I said, “I don’t see him cleaning every inch of ground all the way to Sunset.”
Milo cell-phoned Reed. “Moses, keep the entire area tight, no one in or out until whoever’s on duty helps you examine every inch of dirt between Sunset and the gate for prints. I’m talking tire, foot, paw, anything.”
Clicked off without waiting for an answer.
Gloria bent back down and turned out Marlon Quigg’s remaining pants pockets. “Empty.” Back on her feet, she photographed the scene at multiple angles, ending with close-ups of the folded brown shirt.
She inspected the label. “Macy’s generic, size M.”
No blood; the garment had been removed prior to the cutting.
She got back down near the body, started rolling it. Stopped and reached under and drew something out.
