HUNTING SHADOW

Chapter Four

THE LATE-MORNING sun bounced between sycamores and hundred-foot

eucalyptuses as I drove up Laurel Canyon to the top of Lookout

Mountain. Even with the heat, young women pushed tricycle strollers up

the steep slope, middle-aged men walked listless dogs, and kids

practiced half-pipe tricks outside an elementary school. I wondered if

any of them knew what had been found up the hill, and how they would

react when they heard. The family-friendly, laid-back vibe of Laurel

Canyon masked a darker history, spanning Robert Mitchum’s lurid

“reefer ranch” bust to Charlie Manson creeping through the sixties rock

scene to the infamous “Four on the Floor” Wonderland Murders starring

John “Johnny Wadd” Holmes. Driving up through the trees and

shadows, the scent of wild fennel couldn’t hide the smell of the recent

fire.

The address Lou gave me led to a narrow street called Anson Lane

cut into a break on the ridge. A radio car was parked midway up the

street with a blue Crown Victoria behind it. Poitras, a deandtive I knew

named Carol Starkey, and two uniforms were talking in the street.

Starkey had only been on the bureau for a few weeks, so I was surprised

to see her.

I parked behind the Crown Vic, then walked over to join them.

“Lou. Starkey, you driving now?”

“I shot Griggs for the job.”

Poitras shifted with impatience.

“Catch up on your own time. Starkey rolled out with Bobby when

the uniforms phoned in the body. They were on it until the task force

took over.”

“All of a day and a half. F**kers.”

Poitras frowned.

“Can we watch the mouth?”

“Sorry, Top.”

Poitras turned toward the house.

“You wanted to see what we have, this is it.”

The house was a small Mediterranean with a Spanish tile roof heavy

with a mat of dead leaves and pine needles. The lot was narrow, so the

living quarters were stacked on top of a single-car garage. The garage

door was splintered as if a latch had been pried, probably so the police

could gain access. A rickety stair climbed the entry side of the garage

to a tiny covered porch. On the far side of the garage, a broken walk

disappeared between overgrown cedar branches where it ran alongside

the garage. A single knot of crime scene tape was still tied to the

garage, left by whoever pulled down the tape.

Poitras squinted up at the house like it was the last place on earth

he wanted to go.

“Starkey can lay out the scene for you, but we don’t have any of

the forensics or case files. Downtown has everything.”

“Okay. Whatever you have.”

“It’s going to be hotter than hell up there. The AC’s off.”

“I appreciate this, Lou. Thanks. You, too, Starkey.”

Poitras stripped off his jacket, and we followed him up.

Stepping into the house was like walking into a furnace. A ratty

overstuffed chair had been pushed against a threadbare couch and a

coffee table. Swatches of cloth had been cut from the arms and the

back of the chair, leaving straw-colored batting bright against stained

fabric. The stains were probably blood. Light switches, door jambs and the inside front doorknob were spotted with black smudges from

fingerprint kits. More black was smudged on the telephone and coffee

table. Starkey immediately took off her jacket, and Poitras rolled up his

sleeves.

Starkey said, “Bleh. This smell.”

“Tell him what you found.”

Starkey glanced at me as if she wasn’t sure how to start.

“You knew this guy, huh?”

“I didn’t know him. I worked for his lawyer.”

Just being asked if I knew him seemed to imply we were friends,

and left me feeling resentful.

Poitras said, “Describe the scene, for Christ’s sake. I want to get

out of here.”

Starkey moved to the center of the room, indicating an empty spot

on the floor.

“The chair was here, not over by the couch. Once the body was out,

the SID guys moved things around. He was here in the chair, slumped

back, gun in his right hand—”

She held out her right hand with the palm up, showing me.

“—a Taurus .32 revolver.”

“The chair was in the middle of the floor?”

“Yeah. Facing the television. A bottle of Seagram’s was on the floor

by the chair, so he had probably been hitting it. As soon as Bobby saw

the guy he said that stiff’s been here a week. It was a mess, man.”

“How many shots fired?”

Poitras laughed, and moved closer to the door.

“You think he had to reload?”

Starkey said, “One spent, up through the bottom of his chin. Wasn’t

much blood. A little on the floor here and up on the ceiling—”

She indicated an irregular stain on the floor, then a spot the size of

a quarter on the ceiling. It looked like a roach.

Poitras spoke from the doorway. Sweat had beaded on his forehead

and was running down his cheeks.

“The coroner investigator said everything about the body, the gun,

and the splatter patterns was consistent with a self-inflicted wound.

We haven’t seen the final report, but that’s what he told them here at

the scene.”

Starkey nodded along with him, but said nothing. I tried to imagine

Lionel Byrd slumped in the chair, but his image was formless and grey. I

couldn’t remember what Byrd looked like. The only time I had seen him

was on a videotape of his confession to the police.

I considered the neighboring houses. From the front door, I saw the

roof of the black-and-white and the houses across the way. A woman

was standing in a window across the street, looking down at the police

car. Safe in her air-conditioning.

“Anyone hear the shot?”

Starkey said, “Remember, the guy had been dead for a week before

we found him. No calls were made to 911, and none of these people

remembered hearing anything on or around the day of death. Everyone

was probably buttoned up from the heat.”

Poitras said, “Tell him about the pictures.”

Starkey had been watching me, but now she glanced at the floor.

She seemed uncomfortable.

“He had an album with Polaroid pictures of his victims. There were

seven pages with a different vic on each page. We thought they were

fake. You see something like that, you think it’s gotta be phony, like that porno stuff with girls pretending to be dead? We didn’t know the

shit was real until Bobby recognized one of the girls. It was f**king

disgusting.”

“The mouth.”

I said, “Where did you find the album?”

“On the floor by his feet.”

Starkey positioned herself as if she was sitting in the chair and

touched the top of her left foot.

“Here. We figured it slid off his lap when he went for the gold—”

She suddenly glanced up.

“He only had one foot. The other was screwed up.”

Lionel Byrd had lost half of his right foot in a garage accident when

he was twenty-four years old. I hadn’t remembered it before, but now I

recalled Levy telling me about it. The settlement had left Byrd with a

modest disability payment that supported him the rest of his life.

Poitras said, “It was Bobby put it together. One of the vics was a

prostitute named Chelsea Ann Morrow. Bobby knew her, and after we

had Morrow, we faxed the pictures through the other divisions. That’s

when the IDs started coming. Downtown rolled in that afternoon.”

I stared at the floor as if I would suddenly see the album. Maybe

that was why Starkey kept looking at the floor. Maybe she could still

see it.

“Did he leave a note?”

“Uh-uh.”

I glanced at Starkey.

“So all you found were the pictures?” “We pulled a camera and a couple of film packs. There was a box of

ammo for the gun. If the task force guys found anything else, I don’t

know.”

“Pictures don’t mean he killed them. Maybe he bought them on

eBay. Maybe they were taken by one of the coroner investigators.”

Poitras stared for a moment, then shrugged.

“I don’t know what to tell you. Whoever took them, the geniuses

downtown decided he’s good for it.”

The scores of black fingerprint smudges seemed to be moving. They

were worse than roaches. They looked like swarming spiders.

“Can I see it?”

“What?”

“The album.”

“Downtown has it.”

“What about crime scene snaps?”

Starkey said, “The task force. They cleaned us out, man. The CI’s

work and everything from SID went to them. Witness statements from

the neighbors. All of it. They hit this place like an invasion.”

A car door slammed, drawing the three of us to the porch. A senior

command officer and a younger officer had just gotten out of a black-

and-white. The senior officer stared up at us. He had a tight grey butch

cut, razor-burned skin, and a nasty scowl.

Poitras said, “s**t. He’s early.”

“Who’s that?”

“Marx. The deputy chief in charge of the task force.”

Starkey nudged me.

“You were supposed to be gone before he got here.”

Great.

Poitras moved to greet him, but Marx didn’t want to be greeted. He

came up the steps at a quick march, locked onto Poitras like a

Sidewinder missile.

“I ordered this scene to be sealed, Lieutenant. I specifically told

you that all inquiries would be handled through my office.”

“Chief, this is Elvis Cole. Cole is a personal friend of mine, and he’s

also involved.”

Marx didn’t offer to shake my hand or acknowledge me in any way.

“I know who he is and how he’s involved. He conned the DA into

letting this murderer go.”

Marx was a tall rectangular man built like a sailing ship, with tight

skin stretched over a yardarm skeleton. He peered down at me from

the crow’s nest like a parrot eyeing a beetle.

I said, “Nice to meet you, too.”

Marx turned back to Poitras as if I hadn’t spoken.

“I’m not just being an asshole here, Lieutenant. I clamped the lid so

nobody could run to the press before the families were notified. Two of

those families have still not been reached. Don’t you think they’ve

suffered enough?”

Poitras’s jaw knotted.

“Everyone here is on the same side, Chief.”

Marx eyed me again, then shook his head.

“No, we’re not. Now get him out of here, and take me through this

goddamned house.”

Marx went into the house, leaving Poitras to stare after him.

I said, “Jesus, Lou, I’m sorry.”

Poitras lowered his voice.

“The real chief’s out of town. Marx figures if he can close this thing

before the chief gets back, he’ll get the face time. I’m sorry, man.”

Starkey touched my arm.

“C’mon.”

Poitras followed Marx back into the house while Starkey walked me

down. The two uniforms and Marx’s driver were talking together, but

we kept going until we were alone. Starkey fished a cigarette from her

jacket as soon as we stopped.

“That guy’s an asshole. It’s been like this all week.”

“Is Marx really going on TV tonight?”

“That’s what I hear. They wrapped up their work last night.”

“A week to cover seven murders?”

“This thing was huge, man. They had people on it around the

clock.”

She lit the cigarette and blew a geyser of smoke straight overhead. I

liked Starkey. She was funny and smart, and had helped me out of two

very bad jams.

“When are you going to quit those things?”

“When they kill me. When are you going to start?”

You see? Funny. We smiled at each other, but her smile grew

awkward, and faded.

“Poitras told me about the Bennett thing. That must be weird,

considering.”

“Was her picture in the book?”

Starkey blew more of the smoke.

“Yeah.”

I looked up at the house. Someone moved in the shadows, but I

couldn’t tell if it was Poitras or Marx.

Starkey said, “Are you okay?”

When I glanced back, her eyes were concerned.

“I’m fine.”

“It was me, I’d be, I dunno, upset.”

“He couldn’t have killed her. I proved it.”

Starkey blew another cloud of smoke, then waved her cigarette at

the surrounding houses.

“Well, he didn’t have any friends here in the neighborhood, I can

tell you that. Most of these people didn’t know him except to see him,

and the ones who knew him stayed clear. He was a total asshat.”

“I thought the task force cut you out.”

“They used us here with the door-to-door. Lady at that house, he

told her she had a muscular ass. Just like that. Woman at that house,

she runs into him getting his mail and he tells her she could pick up

some extra cash if she dropped around one afternoon.”

That was Lionel Byrd.

“Starkey, you’re right. Byrd was a professional asshat, but he didn’t

kill Yvonne Bennett. I don’t believe it.”

Starkey frowned, but the smile flickered again.

“Man, you are stubborn.”

“And cute. Don’t forget cute.”

I could have told her I was also sick to my stomach, but I let it go

with cute.

She drew another serious hit on the cigarette, then flicked it into a

withered century plant. Here we were in fire season with red-flag

alerts, but Starkey did things like that. She pulled me farther away

from the uniforms and lowered her voice.

“Okay, listen, I know some things about this Poitras doesn’t know.

I’m going to tell you, but you can’t tell anyone.”

“You think I’m going to run home and put it on my blog?”

“Guy I worked with at CCS is on with the task force. He spent all

week analyzing the stuff we pulled out of the house. You won’t like

this, but he told me Byrd’s good for the killings. He says it’s solid.”

“How does he know that?”

“I don’t know, moron. We’re friends. I took his word for it.”

Starkey nudged me farther from the uniforms again and lowered her

voice even more.

“What I’m saying, Cole, is I can have him explain it to you. You

want me to set it up?”

It was like being thrown a life preserver in a raging storm, but I

glanced up at the house. Poitras was standing in the door. They were

about to come out.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Hey, f**k Marx. The real chief gets back, he’ll probably ream the

guy a new asshole. You want in with my guy or not?”

“That would be great, Carol. Really.”

The woman across the street was still in her window, watching us as

I left.