were covered with bands of swirling tattoos.
When I identified myself and said I wanted to talk about Avery Mitchell Senior, I was surprised at the son’s gracious manner. “Come on inside,” he said. “I’m going to make some coffee. I’ll bring you a cup.”
I looked around the small living room. The overstuffed gingham sofa was flanked by bone-colored end tables with pale pink lamps atop doilies. Opposite the sofa were a crochet throw rug with a floral pattern and a powder blue leatherette easy chair. An amateurish oil painting of an ocean sunset hung on a wall. The decor, I thought, seemed more appropriate for one of my elderly aunts than a tattooed, pierced Hollywood hipster.
When Mitchell returned with two cups of coffee, he noticed me checking out the room. “I rented it furnished.”
“I didn’t think it was your style.”
Mitchell handed me a cup and we sat on the sofa.
“Sorry for waking you,” I said.
“I usually don’t sleep this late. I’m a prop boy on That Thing of Ours. It’s a new cable show. We’re filming on the street at night now. Got to be back out there later this afternoon. Ever see the show?”
“I don’t have much time for TV.”
“It’s a crime family dramedy. Kind of a cross between The Sopranos and The Brady Bunch. I got my dad to watch it once.”
“What did he think of it?”
Mitchell nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll quote him for you: ‘Biggest pile of horseshit I’ve ever seen. Never in all my years on the street have I seen anything resembling the crap you’re showing.’ Right then I knew the show would be a monster hit.”
We both laughed.
“You have a card?” Mitchell asked.
I handed the card to him and Mitchell studied it for a moment. “So why’s the LAPD interested in my father? Especially the downtown boys from Felony Special. My dad left the department a long time ago.”
“Just some old cases I’m checking out that your dad might have investigated.”
He lightly touched his lip ring and eyebrow rod, and stuck out his tongue, revealing a silver stud. “Even though I walk the walk and look the look, I got nothing against cops. Believe it or not, I was even an Explorer Scout at the Hollywood station when I was in high school.”
“You’ve taken a different career path.”
“Yeah. My dad walked out on my mom, my sister, and me when I was in high school. Moved in with his girlfriend. So I guess I did a one-eighty on him.”
“Where’s your mom live?”
He sipped his coffee. “She died two years ago. Breast cancer.”
“How’d your dad die?”
“Suicide.”
I jerked my head back. I had been trained to stay poker faced during interviews, but I was so surprised I reacted without thinking. Embarrassed, I took a quick sip of coffee. “The guy who rents his house in Idaho said he thought it was a heart attack.”
“He was probably pulling your chain. They don’t like cops up there snooping around.”
“How’d he do it?”
Mitchell swallowed hard. “The tried and true cop way. He ate his gun.”
“Had he been depressed?”
“It was impossible to tell with him. He was always kind of sour and cynical. Typical retired cop, right?”
I shrugged. “Were you close?”
“Not really.”
“How often did you talk?”
“He called me every month or so. And whenever he was forced to come down to L.A. to take care of some business, he’d take me to breakfast.” He smiled sadly at the memory. “He always threatened to yank out my studs and rings with a pair of pliers.”
“How often did he visit?”
“As rarely as possible-a couple times a year.”
“Why’d he retire?”
“‘Cause he hated L.A. He called it the cesspool of California. He loved the mountains. Fished every day.”
“Any close friends or girlfriends up there?”
“Not really. That cunt he dumped my mom for eventually dumped him. Had some drinking partners at the local tavern. But I don’t think they knew him too well. Nobody knew him too well.”
“When he was still a cop, do you remember him, at any time, coming into a lot of money?”
Mitchell canted his head and studied me with a dubious expression. “Hey, what’s this all about?”
“Your dad’s gone, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s like I said: I’m tracking down some old cases and I thought you might be able to help out.”
“If we’d been closer, maybe I could.”
“Do you have his personal items, things from the house?”
He walked across the room and opened a closet. Inside were two fishing poles, a shotgun, a Finnish deer hunting rifle with a satin-walnut stock, and a Plexiglas shadow box with his father’s first service revolver-a. 38- caliber, six-shot, Smith amp; Wesson-his badge, and a few unit patches. “This is what I kept. My sister’s got the rest.”
“Your sister nearby?”
“Yeah. Mid-Wilshire.”
“What does she do?”
“She teaches third grade.”
At the door, we shook hands. “You can be proud of your dad; people always told me he was a good cop,” I said, although I had never heard of Avery Mitchell until a few hours ago.
“Thanks for saying it, but let’s get real. He wasn’t a good father. He wasn’t a good husband. And I doubt if he was a good cop. But I know one thing he was good at.”
“What’s that?”
“He was an awesome fisherman.”
I returned to the squad room and immediately called the sheriff from the rural, sparsely populated county where Mitchell had lived. He agreed to fax the autopsy report.
“I’d also like to talk to the coroner,” I said.
The sheriff laughed. “Don’t have no coroner up here. This isn’t Los Angle-ese,” he said, a hint of derision in his voice.
“So who conducted the autopsy?”
“Our local surgeon. If he thinks the death is suspicious, he sends the body over to the medical center in the next county where they got a full-time pathologist.”
“Did he think this was suspicious?”
“This was a straight suicide. It was as clear as day.”
“When was your last murder?” I asked.
“Three years ago.”
“I’d like to talk to the surgeon.”
“He’s on a pig hunting trip. You can catch him next week when he gets back.”
“Did Mitchell leave a note?”
“No note. But the gun was right next to him.”
“Did you print the gun?”
“Of course we printed the gun,” the sheriff said. “We may be in the mountains, but this is the mountains of Idaho, not Afghanistan. Mitchell’s prints-and no one else’s-were all over the gun, you suspicious son of a gun.”
“Did you test his hands for gunshot residue?”
“No need to,” the sheriff said defensively. “The suicide was obvious. And just out of curiosity, why you so interested in this guy?”
