Bogomil mouthed, Wonderful.
Milo said, “Basia’s gonna try to scare up something.” He turned to me. “How about some psychological insight?”
I said, “This is more guesswork than insight. If we view the slaughter as a true multiple, it’s likely all four victims meant something to the killer. But these four are as varied as they come. So far the only commonality is the lack of local family ties but, again, why such a mixed group? Another way to look at it is one victim was the primary target and the others were added later as supporting players. To my mind, the most likely primary is Rick Gurnsey.”
I described Gurnsey’s sexual behavior.
Alicia frowned. “Bad boy who tried to sneak in the back door? Yeah, that could annoy someone.”
“If he got aggressive, he was more than an annoyance,” I said. “At the very least his behavior was high-risk. The murderer had a firearm but chose to stab him, and the lack of defense wounds says Gurnsey was caught off guard.”
“Up close and personal,” said Reed. “Cut during an intimate situation.”
“That’s how it feels to me, Moe.”
“An angry woman?” said Bogomil. “Then why the others?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “We could also be talking about an angry husband slash boyfriend. Or most likely, two people working in concert because this slaughter involved a lot of subduing and transferring.”
“Vengeful couple,” said Reed.
“Supporting players,” said Binchy. “Like casting a movie.”
I said, “Right from the beginning the crime scene’s felt theatrical to me. Given Gurnsey’s behavior, the way he was posed, his having a wider social net than the others, I’d concentrate on him. Past relationships, people he worked with.”
Bogomil said, “The woman was just as posed as Gurnsey. And choking her out was pretty up close and personal.”
I said, “It’s possible both of them were primary targets. On the other hand, her age, her looks, her possible homelessness, could be thought of as factors chosen to humiliate Gurnsey.”
“You jumped me with your alleged manhood so I’m showing it to the world, soft and small? I guess that makes sense.” She smiled. “As the girl in the room, I can say that.”
Milo said, “Hopefully we can I.D. her. We find out she’s an heiress with a big life insurance policy, we’ll shift our perspective.”
Alicia played with the pale ends of her hair. “The men were wearing normal clothes but to my eye, she was in what looked like vintage. Like someone went into the costume room and played dress-up. So yeah, there is that production feel to it.”
Binchy said, “A chauffeur’s uniform could also be seen as a costume. Choosing a chauffeur — and a car like that — is also pretty theatrical.”
Milo said, “This is good. Keep thinking and don’t be afraid to guess. Anything else?”
Silence.
“Okay, good point about the clothes, Alicia. I’ll have the lab check for labels. Onward.”
He tapped the photo of Lassie, told them about the dog blood.
They sat there.
Finally, Bogomil said, “Bastard.”
Meeting over, the young D’s dispersed, everyone begging off Milo’s offer to take the pastries with them.
He said, “Maybe it was the dog, ruined their appetites.” He brought the box back to his office, placed it in the scant space to the left of his computer, and shot it a longing glance. Phoning the crime lab at Cal State L.A., he spoke to the director, Noreen Sharp, about the clothing.
She said, “We talking fiber analysis?”
“A list of the labels will do just fine, Noreen.”
“Easy enough. This is some complication you got yourself, Milo. We had to use the truck bay for the limo, pulled up a fair amount of prints. The crypt hasn’t sent over your victims’ bio-data yet so I can’t tell you if they mean anything.”
“I’ll get that done for you. What do you think about the dog blood?”
“I think,” said Sharp, “that it’s bizarre and monstrous and totally over-the-top. We’ve dealt with canine transfers over the years, mostly hairs we could trace to bad guys. Dumping blood? Who’d do that? We’re still scraping away the carpet gook, it’s like cleaning grease from a barbecue. There’s a lot of surface area so we used a new computer program from Israel to tell us how many samples we need to cover enough ground. Multiple drench-spots makes it tough, the program’s not set up for that, so it probably overestimated when it came up with a hundred seventy-eight and mapped where they should come from. We’ll go with that so obviously it’s going to take time.”
“Appreciate it, Noreen.”
“It’s what we do. Does Dr. Delaware have anything to say about this? I mean, let’s face it, it smells psycho.”
“He thinks it smells theatrical.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Maybe they’re not that different. Okay, let me get you those labels.”
Milo’s next call was to Basia’s office at the crypt. He got her assistant, requested the bio-data be sent to Sharp. Was putting his phone down when a text pinged. He read and shook his head.
“Labels on all the clothing were removed — tech could see the stitch-marks.”
I said, “Her clothing could’ve been altered or she got it from a donation bin with the labels removed.”
His computer dinged a text. “Gurnsey’s phone records. Here we go.”
Six months of calls. “This is gonna take time.”
His arm dipped into the pastry box. Random selection produced a chocolate cinnamon roll.
He said, “Go home, enjoy the benefits of hearth and home. I’ll content myself with calories.”
Chapter 13
Custody evaluations pay most of my bills but I prefer trauma and injury suits because kids who’ve been injured deserve compensation and no one gets hateful.
Thursday morning, I was finishing the final report on a case I’d worked a couple of weeks ago. A three-year-old had swallowed bug bait left out by the manager of the apartment where he lived with his mother. Full recovery after a stomach pump, now the litigation. My job was evaluating the child for emotional repercussions.
I’d told the attorney the boy seemed fine, that I wouldn’t be offering any radical predictions.
He said, “No prob, I just need the basics with your stamp of approval.”
I rechecked what I’d written, auto-signed and emailed, went into the kitchen for coffee. When I got back my cell was bouncing on the desktop.
Milo said, “Got through Gurnsey’s calls, separated business from personal. I’m having the troops backward-directory each number to see who actually answers. The media coverage brought in eighty-eight tips so far and one might even be interesting. A woman phoned an hour ago, said she’d been at a party at the same house. Which is interesting because the address hasn’t been released. I asked when, she said January, a benefit, she preferred to talk about it in person. Which is different, no? Most people’ll do anything to avoid a face-to-face. She lives in Little Holmby, you could walk there. Can you make it in an hour?”
“Sure.”
“Her name’s Candace Kierstead. Here’s the address.”
I was in running clothes but hadn’t run. Showering, shaving, and shifting to work duds, I left the house, fast-walked down the Glen, sharp-eyed, facing traffic, crossed Sunset at the light, and continued south and west to Conrock Avenue.
Little Holmby is a tranquil pocket of traditional architecture sandwiched between the imperial estates of Holmby Hills and the town-sized campus of the U. Conrock was a predictably pretty street lined with immaculate houses just large enough to forestall teardown fever.
Milo’s Impala was parked on the east side of the street, midway up the block. When he saw me, he got out.