Someone had fixed a crime-scene card to the door, which meant that Joe had probably established a “double crime scene.” It made sense in a case like this, which was probably going to attract a few dignitaries and high-ranking police officers, not to mention high-fliers from the DA’s office.
What you did was you set up two crime-scene areas, one starting at the driveway and the second at the door to the house itself. The second, inside the house, of course, was the primary crime scene, the most important area to seal off, and Joe would now be responsible for who did and who didn’t get in there.
When the brass arrived, they would get the opportunity to breach at least one police line; they would be allowed through the driveway as far as the back of the house. That served two purposes: first, it would gratify their sense of importance; second, it would keep them out of the way of the real crime scene and avoid further contamination. So the brass saved face and the crime scene remained as intact as possible. Everyone gained.
Over by the trees, a young man wearing gray shorts and a red T-shirt sat on a tree stump beside a gas barbecue with his legs planted wide apart and his head in his hands, crying. A lock of straight blond hair had slid down and hung almost to his knees. A female patrol officer stood beside him.
Joe Westinghouse stood talking to another detective outside the back door. Joe was smoking, tapping his ash carefully into the yellow Sucrets tin he always carried with him to crime scenes. Jim Sung, from the coroner’s office, stood beside them with his scuffed black bag, waiting to go in. Jim nodded as Arvo approached. He looked as calm and bored as he always did, slowly chewing away at a piece of gum.
The three of them wore blue LAPD jumpsuits and disposable gloves to avoid contaminating the crime scene, or, in some cases, to avoid being contaminated by it. AIDS was a constant threat if there was a stranger’s blood splashed around the scene.
Arvo took his jumpsuit out of the trunk, slipped it on over his Tigers sweatshirt and jeans and walked over. He could feel the tension between Joe and the other man as he approached them.
“This is Detective Heffer, Hollywood Division,” said Joe. “He caught the squeal.”
Arvo nodded at Heffer, who had a pale, almost albino, complexion and an unusual combination of thin face and lips and a pug nose, revealing almost circular nostrils. His cold gray eyes were flecked with yellow, and his sparse hair was the color of bleached straw. Like Jim Sung, he was also chewing gum, and occasionally he paused to blow a bubble. He gave no acknowledgment of Arvo’s greeting, nor did his eyes betray any emotion.
Arvo knew Heffer, or at least knew of him. Word was he had applied for the TMU and been turned down. As a result, he had a hard-on for the department and didn’t hesitate to let it show.
Joe pointed toward the blond man in the shorts. “His name’s Jaimie Kincaid. Victim’s boyfriend. He phoned in at seven thirty-nine this morning and Officer Laski over there with him was first officer on the scene. You can get the details later. I suggest we go inside and have a look first.”
“Okay,” said Arvo.
“You ever been at a homicide scene before, Hughes?” asked Heffer. He had a squeaky voice that grated on Arvo’s nerves.
“Once or twice.”
“Uh-huh, it’s just that I figured you real élite star-fuckers down at—”
“Heffer. Shut the fuck up,” Joe cut in.
“Yes, sir,” Heffer said, and turned sullen.
The four of them went inside.
The back door led directly into a modern kitchen with fitted blond wood cupboards and shelves. Rustic copperware hung from hooks on the wall, and a large laminated chart showed the varieties of herbs and spices. The kitchen smelled of tomatoes, garlic and basil, and Arvo got the impression that the person who had lived there was quite the gourmet cook. A wooden rack held a set of kitchen knives; the biggest one was missing.
Even though he was wearing gloves, Arvo kept his hands in his pockets to avoid the temptation of touching something. He was also careful to step around the blood and mud smears on the ceramic tile floor.
Like Sarah Broughton’s place at the beach, the stilt-house was small but laid out in a design that made the best of its space and emphasized the view. At the front, sliding glass doors led to a large timber deck and looked out over the canyon.
The downstairs area consisted of one split-level room, the back, and higher, section fitted with a black matte dining table and matching chairs, the front with an off-white three-piece suite. The interior walls and floors were made of bleached pine. Contemporary paintings hung on the walls: the kinds of squiggles and seemingly random blocks of color that Arvo had never been able to work up much enthusiasm for.
A black-iron spiral staircase led upstairs, where there was one large bedroom, two smaller ones, a bathroom and closet space.
In the master bedroom, the naked body lay face up, spread-eagled on the king-size bed, hands and feet bound to the brass rails, a halo of blood around his head on the pillow. His clothes were neatly folded over the chair beside the bed, the missing kitchen knife resting on top of his white shirt, smearing it dark red. Facedown on the bedside table lay a paperback copy of Lonesome Dove, about half read, along with a sachet of white powder.
In life, Jack Marillo had been a six-foot, slim, vital, healthy, handsome, Italian male. In death, he looked pale and bloodless, nothing but an empty shell. His lifeless eyes were ringed with dark circles, like a raccoon’s, as if he had applied thick kohl or gone too many nights without sleep. They stared at a knothole in the ceiling. Though the body hadn’t started to decompose, the stench of blood and death in such a warm, enclosed space was almost overwhelming.
All around him, on the walls, on the rugs, on the bedsheets, Jack’s blood had been spilled. It had splattered over the abstract paintings, Arvo noticed, making hardly any difference at all to the quality of the art. Real Jackson Pollock stuff. On the sheepskin rugs that littered the floor, it resembled ink blots, and on the bedclothes around the body, it looked as if someone had emptied a couple of buckets of sludge.
Joe and Heffer hung back in the doorway. They had clearly been in the room earlier, where Joe would have pulled out his pocket Instamatic and taken a few photos before the “experts” arrived and messed up the scene. Nothing would have been touched yet, nothing moved. Jim Sung, who had seen everything you could imagine and more, looked around, sniffed, made a few notes, then went over to the body.
From where Arvo stood, the cause of death looked obvious enough, though he knew from experience not to jump to conclusions. Around Jack Marillo’s throat and chest were numerous stab wounds, at least one of them nicking the carotid artery just beside his jaw. That was the source of the fountain of blood that had sprayed over some of the paintings.
In addition to the stab wounds and the halo of blood on the pillow, there was one very odd and disturbing thing about the body. In the soft flesh of the upper abdomen, just below the lowest stab wound, someone had carved the crude shape of a heart with an arrow piercing it. It measured about three or four inches across at its widest point, Arvo guessed. Whoever cut it had also tried to carve something inside, maybe a name or some words, but it had turned out to be illegible, at least to the naked eye.
Jim Sung touched the skin, then he felt the jaws and neck.
“Okay to turn him over?” he asked.
“Just a minute,” said Joe. He took a penknife from his pocket and cut the cords that tied Marillo to the bed rails. He did this in a very special and methodical way to preserve them as evidence. First, he cut the cord between the rail and the hand, or foot, then he cut off the rest of the cord that was tied and knotted around the rail, making sure he didn’t cut through the knot itself. As he went, he tied the pieces together with string, which Jim Sung supplied from the depths of his bag, so that they could retain their original form for the experts. Sometimes, you could tell a lot from knots. He left the cords around Marillo’s wrists for the coroner.