Preston put a hand on his shoulder. 'You look frightened, Edmund. You do not look like a ranking policeman and you did not come here to enjoy my completion celebration.'
The hand felt warm. 'Father, outside of the Department, who's seen the old Atherton photographs?'
'Now I'll say 'what?' You're referring to the photographs in the case file? The ones I showed you and Thomas years ago?'
'Yes.'
'Son, what are you talking about? Those photographs are sealed LAPD evidence, never released to the press or the public. Now tell me--'
'Father, the Nite Owl is collateral to several other major crimes, and Negro gangs have nothing to do with it. One of them is--'
'Then explain the evidence the way I taught you. I've had cases like--'
'Nobody has ever had a case like this, I'm a better detective than you _ever_ were and _I've_ never had a case like this.'
Preston clamped both hands down--Ed felt his shoulders go numb. 'I'm sorry for that, but it's true and I've got a five-year-old mutilation homicide connected to the Nite Owl case that says so. The victim was cut _identically_ to Loren Atherton's victims and _identical_ to some ink-embossed pornographic photographs tangential to the Nite Owl. Which means that either somebody saw the Atherton pictures and took it from there or you got the wrong suspect in '34.'
The man didn't even blink. 'Loren Atherton was incontrovertibly guilty, with a confession and eyewitness vertification. You and Thomas saw his photographs, and I doubt seriously that those photographs have ever left the Homicide pen downtown. Unless you hypothesize a policeman killer, which I find absurd, then the only explanation is that Atherton showed the photographs to some person or persons prior to his arrest. _You_ got the wrong men in your glory case--I did not make that error. _Think_ before you raise your voice to your father.'
Ed stepped back--his legs brushed the model, broke off a piece of freeway. 'I apologize, and I should be asking your advice, not competing with you. Father, is there anything about the Atherton case you haven't told me?'
'Apology accepted, and no, there isn't. You, Art and I went over the case constantly during our seminar period, and I expect that you know it as well as I do.'
'Did Atherton have _any_ known associates?'
Preston shook his head. 'Emphatically no. He was the very model of a psychotic loner.'
A deep breath. 'I want to interview Ray Dieterling.'
'Why? Because one of his child stars was killed by Atherton?'
'No, because a witness identified Dieterling as a K.A. of a criminal tangential to the Nite Owl.'
'How long ago?'
'Thirty years or so.'
'This person's name?'
'Pierce Patchett.'
Preston shrugged. 'I've never heard of him and I don't want you bothering Raymond. Emphatically no, a thirty-year-old acquaintanceship does not warrant bothering a man of Ray Dieterling's stature. _I'll_ ask Ray about him and report back to you. Will that suffice?'
Ed looked at the model. Hypnotic: L.A. grown huge, Exley Construction containing it. His father's hands, gentle now. 'Son, you've come very far and you've earned my respect absolutely. You've taken a beating for Inez and those men you killed, and I think you're bearing up strongly. For now, though, I want you to consider this. The Nite Owl case got you where you are today and a quick resolution on the reopening will keep you there. Collateral homicide investigations, however compelling, might seriously distract you from your main objective and thus destroy your career. Please remember that.'
Ed squeezed his father's hands. 'Absolute justice. Remember that?'
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Both crime scenes sealed--the printshop, the pad next door. One Mann sheriff--a fat guy named Hatcher. A lab man talking nonstop.
Crime Scene 1: the back room at Rapid Bob's Printing. Bud scoped Dudley nonstop, flashing back to _his_ pitch: 'We thought you were going to kill him, so we stopped you. I'm sorry if we were untoward, but you were a handful. Hinton is associated with some very bad people, and I'll elaborate in all due time.'
He didn't press it--Dud might have stuff on him.
Lynn in custody.
Exley's slap in the face.
The lab man pointed to a rack of dumped shelves.'. . . okay, so the front of the shop looked hunky-dory, so our perpetrator didn't bother with it. We found cigarette butts in an ashtray here, two brands, so let's assume the Engleklings were working late. Let's assume the perpetrator picked the front door lock, tiptoed up and got the drop on them. Glove prints on the jamb of the connecting door, so that backs it up. He comes in, he makes our boys open those cabinets I showed you, he doesn't find what he wants. He gets pissed and yanks those shelves to the floor, glove prints on the fourth shelf up indicate a right-handed man of average height. The brothers open the boxes that spilled off--we got a whole load of smudged latents that indicate Pete and Bax were a bit panicked by this time. So, the perpetrator obviously didn't find what he wanted and marched our boys across the driveway to their apartment. Gentlemen, follow me.'
Out the door, across an alley. The lab guy carried a flashlight; Bud stuck to the back.
Lynn cocky--convinced she could beat truth juice with her brains.
Dud probably had his own insider leads--but he still kept talking up niggers.
The lab man said, 'Note the dirt on the driveway. On the morning the bodies were found our tech crew discovered and photographed three sets of footmarks too shallowly placed to make exemplers from. Two sets walking ahead of a single set, which indicates a march at gunpoint.'
Over to a bungalow court. Dudley stone quiet--on the plane he hardly talked.
Would _Whisper_ hit?
Play the stiff under the house against Exley--HO W?
Tape on the door--Hatcher peeled it off. The lab man opened up with a pass key. Lights inside--Bud squeezed in first.
A shambles--all forensicked up.
Blood spills on a wall-to-wall carpet--tape-marked. Glass tubes on the floor--circled, held in see-through evidence bags. Scattered around: photo negatives--dozens---cracked, scalded surfaces. Overturned chairs, a dumped dresser, a sofa with the stuffing ripped out. Tucked in the largest rip: a glassine bag tagged 'Heroin.'
The lab guy spieled. 'Those tubes contain chemicals that we've ID'd as antipsychotic drugs. The negatives were mostly too blurred to identify, but we were able to figure out that most of them were pornographic photographs. The images were mostly burned off with chemicals taken from the refrigerator in the kitchen: our boys owned a whole cornucopia of corrosive solutions. I'll hypothesize here: Peter and Baxter Englekling were tortured before they were shot to death--that we know. I think the killer showed them each negative individually, asked them questions, then burned them--and the pictures. What was he looking for? I don't know, maybe he wanted the picture participants identified. We found a magnifying glass under the couch, so I'm leaning toward that theory now. Also, note the plastic bag marked 'Heroin' extruding from the couch, the contents of which, of course, we locked up. Four bags total in a safe little hidey-hole. The killer left a small fortune in salable dope behind.'
Into the kitchen, more chaos, the icebox open--spilling tubes, bottles marked with chemical symbols. Stacked by the sink: something like printing press plates.
The tech man pointed to the mess. 'Another hypothesis, gentlemen. In my crime scene report you'll note that I've listed no less than twenty-six separate chemical substances found on the premises. The killer tortured Pete and Bax Englekling with chemicals, and he knew which chemicals would scald flesh. I'd call his torture method a means of opportunity, so I'm betting the man had an engineering, a medical or a chemistry background. Now the bedroom.'
Bud thought: PATCHETT.
Back to the bedroom, blood drops in the hall along the way. A small room, a twelve-by-twelve slaughterhouse.
