“No. When I tried to introduce myself, he played deaf and ignored me. So I said to myself, ‘Well, nuts to you, buddy.’ Most people here are really nice and friendly. Not him. He was a jerk. You act like that, one day you’re in trouble, nobody’s going to help you out. Even a saint will flip you the bird, and I’m no saint.”
“Sorry he was rude to you.”
“Now see, you-you’re a polite young man.”
Bear snickered.
She turned to him with a frown. “You, on the other hand-”
Frank intervened with another question. “Mrs. Erkstrom, do you happen to know whether Mr. O’Keefe was left-handed or right-handed?”
“He was right-handed. At least, that’s the hand he wrote with.”
“Thanks.”
Bear raised his brows. Mrs. Erkstrom watched Frank in anticipation. Fortunately, they heard the approach of a car, so he was spared explaining his question. It was an unmarked black sedan. As they emerged from the car, Frank recognized two friends of his dad, Detective Mattson and Detective Tucker.
They wore suits-although each had taken his suit coat off and left it in the car-and carried less equipment than Frank or Bear, but they looked nearly as overheated.
Some detectives snubbed uniformed officers once they were promoted. Mattson and Tucker didn’t have that attitude. They had known Bear Bradshaw and Brian Harriman for many years, and they had each been to the Harriman house for parties and barbeques. Of the two, Frank knew John Mattson the best.
Ike Tucker was the one who initially spent time talking to Frank, while Mattson conferred with Bear. Other neighbors were now coming out of their homes, walking toward whatever excitement this promised.
“You’re getting a baptism of fire,” Ike said, when Frank had given him the first few bits of information. “I thought the SOC was supposed to be out this way today.”
Frank tried unsuccessfully to hide his surprise.
“Oh yes, we all call the little son of a bitch that. As a matter of fact-”
Whatever else Ike was going to say was cut off when Mattson called to Frank from the far end of the Vagabond. Frank walked toward him, wondering if he should just let the detectives notice things on their own or point out what he had noticed. Would they resent it? Would they be mad about the TV being off? That he had been walking through the trailer, coming up with theories? Tucker knew he had been inside, but didn’t seem upset about it. Frank decided that getting his ass chewed out wouldn’t be as bad as not doing right by Mr. O’Keefe. If you wore a uniform and you entered a man’s home and saw him in that condition, you ought to do what you could on his behalf.
Still, he knew that rookies were infamous for overstepping boundaries. He didn’t want to act like a horse’s ass before he had a month on the job. They might all come up with some awful nickname for him, the way they had for Darryl, the SOC.
“So,” Mattson said, “Bear tells me you’ve wanted to work homicide since you were twelve.”
“I know I can’t do that right away,” Frank said.
“Of course not. But you’re Brian Harriman’s son, which leads me to believe you are no dummy, and besides, Bear seems to think you’ve noticed something.”
“How could he-”
“Bear notices things, too. Like your dad, he should have been promoted to detective a long time ago. While he and Tucker talk to the neighbors, you talk to me.”
So Frank told Mattson what he had learned from Mrs. Erkstrom about Donnie O’Keefe’s background and habits, about his own look through the trailer, and about the troublesome former neighbor.
“Probably should have left the television alone,” Mattson said mildly. “Your job in this situation is to observe and secure the scene, not to touch. The coroner and the Kern County crime lab folks get unhappy when we do anything that might change the temperature in the room, or if we drag in whatever little fibers or hairs or-ahem!-flour that was previously clinging to our asses. All of that disturbs the scene. To some extent, that can’t be helped, of course. But the television-well, you’ll know for next time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So-what bothered you other than the stink and the flies and the heat?”
“I saw a couple of things that don’t make sense.”
“Name them.”
“The position of O’Keefe’s right arm didn’t seem likely for suicide. He was positioned as if he had been relaxed and slightly propped up, watching TV on a hot night in the nude-not attractive, but would someone committing suicide want to be found in the nude?”
“Naked suicide isn’t all that common, but it isn’t unheard of, especially not in indoor suicide cases.” Mattson paused. “Don’t see it much in suicide-by-firearm cases.”
“Why was the television on? The volume wasn’t up high enough to cover the sound of a shot.”
“Another unknown. Televisions provide the illusion of companionship. Maybe he wanted company, of a kind. What else bothered you?”
“Why would he put his dominant hand behind his head and shoot with his left?”
“That’s a little harder to figure out.”
“Also, his fingers were wrapped around the grip of the gun-”
“That can happen-it’s called cadaveric spasm.”
“But he didn’t have a finger on the trigger.”
Mattson raised his brows. “No shit. That’s the trouble for killers-can’t make it look like cadaveric spasm after the fact.” He made a few notes, then asked, “You didn’t touch anything other than the TV, right?”
“Right, except a couple of doors, when I was making sure no one was in a closet or the bathroom. I wore gloves.”
“Good. Well-”
“There’s more.”
Mattson smiled. “Okay, I’m listening.”
Frank explained about the holes in the two trailers.
“Show me.”
After looking at them, Mattson stared at the other trailer. “What do we know about the owner?”
“Not much. We didn’t get to see the manager, so we don’t have a name. I’m not even sure he’s the owner of the trailer, but the person who was living there until recently is a young man O’Keefe and Mrs. Erkstrom nicknamed ‘Tomcat.’”
“Did you get a description of him from her?”
“No, not really,” Frank said, feeling foolish for not asking her for more details. “She did say he was clean-cut and, um…”
“Sexually active with numerous partners?”
“Yes.”
“Could have guessed that from the nickname. Females?”
“She only mentioned women.”
He made more notes, then looked up at the sound of an approaching vehicle. “Here comes the meat wagon. Go help Bear to keep the neighbors back. Also try to keep them from talking to one another about anything they may have seen or heard, so we can get witness statements-although based on how long they waited to call about this smell, I’ll be surprised if we get anything from them.”
Eventually, Frank and Bear went back to patrolling the part of town originally assigned to them. Bear was cracking jokes. Frank was trying to decide if he could really still smell decomp or if it was his imagination when Bear asked him if he thought he could shower and change and still have time to eat something on their dinner break.
“You know,” Bear said suddenly, “too much of this job is just sad shit, but today I’m going to get to do the amount of ass-kicking I need to do to cheer myself up.”
He pulled over, jumped out of the car, and started running. By then Frank had seen why he’d stopped-Mouse was getting beat up by her pimp, Alvin.
Mouse was April Strange, Leticia Anderson, Bonnie Boone, or Callie Comet, depending on which ID she had on her at the time. She was an addict who supported her habit through prostitution. She was petite, improbably blonde, and thin to the point of fragility. She wore a red crop top, hot pants, fishnet stockings, and platform heels, which likely had made it impossible for her to keep her balance after Alvin struck the first blow. Alvin, five times her size, straddled her now, pinning her to the sidewalk and raining blows on her face. A crowd was gathering, but no one intervened.