frozen into a stern glare—some pseudo-artist’s idea of house guardians.
Interesting mix of architectural elements .
I walked around my Dodge, opened the trunk, and took in the familiarity of my own chaos: cardboard boxes filled with tools, flashlights, spare batteries, a blanket, paper towels, evidence bags, a box of extra magazines. And a bag of beef jerky, because you never know.
“Aspiring Detective Nelson.” I tossed her a bundle of latex gloves and protective booties. “Let’s start from the basics.”
Badges clipped on, we walked past the usual streams of yellow tape and made our way to the entrance. A gaunt figure was pacing up and down the pergola, his head lost in a cloud of tobacco mist.
“Hey, Track!” He waved an oversized hand at me, curly billows of smoke jetting out of his nose. Dr. Thomas Ellis, L.A. county medical examiner: ashen face, aquiline nose, and long cheekbones jutting below gray, hollow eyes. He was skinny everywhere but on his stomach, which was as round as a cantaloupe and sat on his lanky frame like an Afro wig sat on Asian face. His wardrobe consisted exclusively of gray suits, which nicely matched the grayish tint of his complexion, and his body odor was a unique blend of nicotine, formaldehyde, hypochlorite and dead flesh.
I introduced Nelson and scrunched my nose in disgust. “What the hell is that, Doc? You’ve changed brand of smoke?”
“You noticed, huh? My wife talked me into this lighter stuff.” He looked at the half-smoked cigarette between his index and middle finger, the heel of his fingernails rimmed in nicotine yellow. “Man, it sucks.”
From a second-hand smoker’s point of view, I couldn’t have agreed more. “Of all people, I thought you’d be the first one to stay away from tobacco.”
He shrugged. “What can you do? Human nature is weak. I’ll see you up there in a sec,” he added, taking another drag. “I’ll let you settle yourself, first.”
I caught on the comment and snorted. A little too often crimes in the Hollywood area turn into high-profile cases. The divisional detectives arrive on the scene and get their asses moving locating witnesses, calling the paramedics, identifying the victims. When some high-ranking boss calls and tells them to get out of the way because the case got transferred downtown, the news is not always welcomed with enthusiasm. Facts turn into innuendos, and findings are shared only under highly privileged conditions, in a more or less implicit battle for territory.
The main entrance to the house had been left ajar. As I pushed it open, I noticed an injured camera perched atop the door and miserably gaping at me. Gunfire, I realized, counting two bullet holes. The device had been tagged and numbered, which meant the SID guys had already logged the piece of evidence. Nelson and I donned our protective gear—the latex adhering to my hands like a suffocating sheath—and got to work.
Inside, the villa was a continuation of mismatched styles: the cotto floors, partly covered by Persian rugs in the living room, gave way to cream-colored carpet in the office. The kitchen had Spanish tiles, pueblo-style niches in the walls, and Italian appliances. A German grand piano dominated the ballroom, surrounded by walls decorated with African masks and Japanese watercolors. Bits of interrupted life recurred everywhere—a half glass of water on the kitchen counter, an open musical score on the piano, a bunch of keys casually tossed on a console, a magazine flopped upside down on the couch. They clashed with the different hues of fingerprint dust dutifully brushed on all light switches and doorknobs, and the loose crime tape rattling against the windows.
I inhaled old and new scents, smells that belonged, and ones that didn’t: I smelled blood, sifting down from the open loft, together with the first hints of decay and methane coming from the dead bodies. It mingled with a trace of male sweat and nicotine, and the metal of
Interesting mix of architectural elements .
I walked around my Dodge, opened the trunk, and took in the familiarity of my own chaos: cardboard boxes filled with tools, flashlights, spare batteries, a blanket, paper towels, evidence bags, a box of extra magazines. And a bag of beef jerky, because you never know.
“Aspiring Detective Nelson.” I tossed her a bundle of latex gloves and protective booties. “Let’s start from the basics.”
Badges clipped on, we walked past the usual streams of yellow tape and made our way to the entrance. A gaunt figure was pacing up and down the pergola, his head lost in a cloud of tobacco mist.
“Hey, Track!” He waved an oversized hand at me, curly billows of smoke jetting out of his nose. Dr. Thomas Ellis, L.A. county medical examiner: ashen face, aquiline nose, and long cheekbones jutting below gray, hollow eyes. He was skinny everywhere but on his stomach, which was as round as a cantaloupe and sat on his lanky frame like an Afro wig sat on Asian face. His wardrobe consisted exclusively of gray suits, which nicely matched the grayish tint of his complexion, and his body odor was a unique blend of nicotine, formaldehyde, hypochlorite and dead flesh.
I introduced Nelson and scrunched my nose in disgust. “What the hell is that, Doc? You’ve changed brand of smoke?”
“You noticed, huh? My wife talked me into this lighter stuff.” He looked at the half-smoked cigarette between his index and middle finger, the heel of his fingernails rimmed in nicotine yellow. “Man, it sucks.”
From a second-hand smoker’s point of view, I couldn’t have agreed more. “Of all people, I thought you’d be the first one to stay away from tobacco.”
He shrugged. “What can you do? Human nature is weak. I’ll see you up there in a sec,” he added, taking another drag. “I’ll let you settle yourself, first.”
I caught on the comment and snorted. A little too often crimes in the Hollywood area turn into high-profile cases. The divisional detectives arrive on the scene and get their asses moving locating witnesses, calling the paramedics, identifying the victims. When some high-ranking boss calls and tells them to get out of the way because the case got transferred downtown, the news is not always welcomed with enthusiasm. Facts turn into innuendos, and findings are shared only under highly privileged conditions, in a more or less implicit battle for territory.
The main entrance to the house had been left ajar. As I pushed it open, I noticed an injured camera perched atop the door and miserably gaping at me. Gunfire, I realized, counting two bullet holes. The device had been tagged and numbered, which meant the SID guys had already logged the piece of evidence. Nelson and I donned our protective gear—the latex adhering to my hands like a suffocating sheath—and got to work.
Inside, the villa was a continuation of mismatched styles: the cotto floors, partly covered by Persian rugs in the living room, gave way to cream-colored carpet in the office. The kitchen had Spanish tiles, pueblo-style niches in the walls, and Italian appliances. A German grand piano dominated the ballroom, surrounded by walls decorated with African masks and Japanese watercolors. Bits of interrupted life recurred everywhere—a half glass of water on the kitchen counter, an open musical score on the piano, a bunch of keys casually tossed on a console, a magazine flopped upside down on the couch. They clashed with the different hues of fingerprint dust dutifully brushed on all light switches and doorknobs, and the loose crime tape rattling against the windows.
I inhaled old and new scents, smells that belonged, and ones that didn’t: I smelled blood, sifting down from the open loft, together with the first hints of decay and methane coming from the dead bodies. It mingled with a trace of male sweat and nicotine, and the metal of
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