GOWER GULCH
At the police station he was directed to a basement room that resembled a post office will-call window, with rows of files behind.
“Accident report? Kohler?”
“You’re with the insurance?”
“His brother.”
“Companies usually get it direct. Not through the family.”
“But I could see it?”
“You could ask,” the clerk said, then got tired of himself and went to get the folder.
In fact, there was little Ben didn’t already know. A more precise time. No eyewitnesses to the fall itself. Neighbors alerted by the sounds of garbage cans knocked over when the body hit, an unexpected detail. No scream. At least none reported. Police response time. Alcohol in the room (dizzy spells not even necessary here-already unsteady). Taken to Hollywood Presbyterian with head injuries and multiple lacerations. Several boxes with numbers and acronyms for internal use. Everything consistent.
“I was told there were pictures.”
“Told how?”
“They took pictures.”
The clerk stared at him, annoyed, then checked the report again, glancing at one of the numbered boxes.
“Give me a minute,” he said, going back to the file room, a martyr’s walk.
He returned opening a manila envelope. “We don’t usually show these to family.”
“What do I need? A court order?”
The clerk passed them over. “Just a good stomach.”
Danny in the hospital had been hard to look at, but still a patient, sanitized, wrapped in bandages, the lacerations stitched closed. Here his face was torn open and the gashes poured blood, his head lying in a pool of it. Ben flipped through the pictures-the body from several angles, limp, legs twisted, a shot of the balcony (for a trajectory?), the alley crowded with onlookers and ambulance workers. Crime scene photographs.
“Why weren’t these in the file?”
“You’re lucky they’re here at all. Should’ve been tossed. No reason to keep them in an accident file.”
“Can I have them?”
“Police property.”
“Which you were going to toss.”
“Still police property. What do you want them for?” Genuinely puzzled, looking at Ben more carefully now. A morbid souvenir.
“How about some paper then? I need to take some notes. For the insurance.”
The clerk reached below and brought up some paper.
“Next time bring your own. That’s taxpayer money.”
“I’m a taxpayer.”
“Don’t start.” He went over to his desk and lit a cigarette.
Ben held up one photo, then jotted down a note, waiting for the clerk to get bored and turn away. The one thing you learned in the Army: The answer was always no, unless you could get away with it. All bureaucracies were alike. The clerk, still smoking, looked up at the clock. Ben drew out the rest of the photos, negatives clipped to the last. He copied another note, then began feeding paper into the envelope. When the clerk answered the phone, he slid the pictures under his newspaper, added some more paper to the envelope and closed it, pushing it back along the counter.
“Thanks for your help,” he said, turning away with the newspaper.
The cop waved back.
The day clerk at the Cherokee could have been the policeman’s cousin, the same wary indifference.
“You here with the key?”
“I thought it was paid through the month.”
“You’re going to use it?” the man said, oddly squeamish.
“I might. I mean, it’s paid for.”
The clerk gave a your-choice shrug.
“Anybody else have keys?”
“They’re not supposed to. Just the tenant. Otherwise we have to change the locks. Why?”
“Just wondering if you ever saw anybody else. Use the apartment.”
“Anybody else who?”
“A lady, maybe.”
“I’m on days. It’s quiet days.”
“You were on that night. I saw you in the police pictures.”
The clerk looked up, a new scent in the air. Just the word police.
“That’s right. I was filling in. What’s this all about?”
“I’m his brother. I just want to know what happened.”
“He fell-I guess. Whatever it was, it was a mess.”
“And you didn’t see anyone go up that night?”
“The police asked me this. I told them, I’ll tell you-no one. I didn’t even see him.”
“He used the back door.”
“I guess. All I know is, I didn’t see anybody.”
“So she could have done that, too. Without being seen.”
“If she had a key. Which she’s not supposed to have.”
“She’s not supposed to do a lot of things.”
“That I don’t know. I just run the board and collect the rent. We’ve never had any trouble here, you know. Never. I got a lot of people upset about this. Maybe moving out.”
“Many stay long?”
“More and more. Used to be, people didn’t want the extra service expense. But the war’s been great for us. Hard to find anything, and we already had the phone lines. You couldn’t get a phone during the war, so we did all right.”
“He make any calls that night?”
“I’d remember that.”
“You might.”
“No.”
“Sure?” Ben raised his eyes, the cliche promise of a tip.
The clerk frowned. “I’m not looking for anything here. I don’t remember. I don’t keep tabs. Half the people I don’t even know. I’m on days, right? The only reason I knew him is I rented him the room.”
“So you wouldn’t necessarily have recognized everybody.”
“Not unless they’re here during the day. You’re asking more questions than the police did. What’s this about?”
“I’m trying to find out who else came here. He didn’t take the room to be alone. The family need to know. There might be money in it for her.”
Bait that bobbed back, not even a nibble.
“Then I hope you find her. Now how about I get back to work? Are you going to keep the room, or what? Hey, Al.” This to the mailman coming in with his bag.
“Joel. How’s life?”
“Overrated.”
“Hah,” the mailman said, opening the front panel of the boxes with the post office key and beginning to fill
