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“Yes? Who is this?”
“Me. Howard, I want in on that grand jury turkey shoot. That job still open?”
Chapter Thirteen
Da
2307 was a half mile north of the Boulevard, in the middle of a long block of wood-framed Tudors. Da
Ten seconds, no answer. Da
The smell hit him first: metallic, acidic. Da
Blood on the walls. Huge, unmistakable streaks, exemplary textbook spit marks: the killer expelling big mouthfuls, spritzing the red out through his teeth, drawing little patterns on cheap floral wallpaper. Four whole walls of it—dips and curlicues and one design that looked like an elaborate letter W. Blood matting a threadbare throw rug, blood in large caked pools on the linoleum floor, blood saturating a light-colored sofa oozing stuffing, blood splashed across a stack of newspapers next to a table holding a hot plate, saucepan and single can of soup. Much too much blood to come from one ravaged human being.
Da
The bathroom.
White walls covered with vertical and horizontal blood lines, perfectly straight, intersecting at right angles, the killer getting the knack. A bathtub, the sides and bottom caked with a pinkish-brown matter that looked like blood mixed with soapsuds. A stack of men’s clothing—shirts, trousers, a herringbone sports coat—folded atop the toilet seat.
Da
Three pairs of pants. Three skivvy shirts. Three rolled-up pairs of socks. One sweater, one windbreaker, one sports jacket.
Three victims.
One other doorway.
Da
No blood, no horror artwork. Da
Da
Karen Hiltscher answered. “West Hollywood Sheriff’s. May I help you?”
Da
“Da
“Just listen. I’m someplace where I shouldn’t be and I need something, and I need you to call me back here when you’ve got it. And nobody can know. Nobody. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Da
“Just listen. I want your verbal on every dead body report filed city and countywide over the past forty-eight hours, and I want you to call me back here with it, quick. Ring twice, hang up and call again. Got it?”
“Yes. Sweetie, are you all—”
“Damnit, just listen. I’m at Hollywood-4619, it’s wrong and I could get in big trouble for being here, so don’t tell anybody. Do you fucking understand?”
Karen whispered, “Yes, sweetie,” and let her end of the line go dead. Da
Two eyeballs coated with clear jelly in an ashtray. A severed human finger on top of a package of green beans.
Da
Another ring, silence, a third ring. Da
The girl had on her singsong pout. “Three DOAs. Two female Caucasians, one male Negro. The females were a pill suicide and a car wreck and the Negro was a wino who died of exposure, and you owe me the Coconut Grove for being so nasty.”
Eight walls of blood spritz and a would-be lady cop who wanted to go dancing. Da
“Da
“Karen, listen real close. I’m staying here to see who shows up. Are you working a double shift tonight?”
“Until eight tomorrow.”
“Then do this. I want the City and County air monitored for male Caucasian DBs. Stay at your switchboard, keep the City and County boxes on low and listen for homicide squeals with male Caucasian victims. Call me here the same way you just did if you get any. Have you got that?”
“Yes, Da
“And sweetie, nobody can know. Not Dietrich, not anyone on the squad, not anyone.”
A long sigh, Karen’s version of Katharine Hepburn exhausted. “Yes, Deputy Upshaw,” then a soft click.
Da
He scraped dirt and dust samples off the floor in all three rooms, placing them in individually marked glassine envelopes; he got out his Rolleiflex evidence camera and shot wide angles and close-ups of the blood patterns. He scraped, tagged and tubed bathtub blood, couch and chair blood, wall blood, rug blood and floor blood; he took fiber samples from the three sets of clothes and wrote down the brand names on the labels.