Breedlove took the toothpick out of his mouth and spoke seriously. "Warren, I am happy doing what I am doing. Chief Pathologist right here at West LA. is it for me. I have a nice home and a nice wife and a nice quiet life away from the hospital. I want to continue. I do not want to be a media star."
"All I'm suggesting is that you report what you've found here," Hovde said mildly.
"Can you imagine what Eyewitness News would do with this story? Or the Herald-Examiner? Or, God help us, the National Enquirer?"
"You've got a point," Hovde admitted.
"I do my job, and I do it well," Breedlove said. "I put my findings in my reports, I pass my reports on through channels. If anybody up the line wants to make something out of them, they're welcome to the whole stinking mess. Do you want to make something out of it?"
"No," Hovde said slowly. "I guess I don't."
There was a short, uncomfortable silence between the two doctors.
"Warren, can I make a suggestion?" Breedlove said.
"Go ahead."
"This friend of yours, this patient, Joana Raitt…"
"Yes?"
"I'd tell her to be damned careful walking past cemeteries."
Hovde regarded the pathologist for a long moment and saw that he was serious. "I'll do that," he said.
He scanned the police report one more time and saw that the case had been assigned to Detective Sergeant Dan Olivares. Hovde knew the name. He had worked with the policeman the year before on a series of grisly rape murders in the Venice area. The two men had got along well.
He handed the report back to Breedlove. "Thanks for calling me on this, Kermit. Let me know if…" He did not know how to finish the sentence.
"If I get another one?" Breedlove supplied. "I'll be happy to."
Hovde left him there with the corpse and took the elevator back upstairs. He was grateful for the rush of warm air that met him when he stepped out into the hallway. At one of the nurses' stations he used the telephone to call the Police Building in downtown Los Angeles. He asked for Sergeant Olivares in Homicide. The instrument buzzed once and a pleasant baritone answered.
"Olivares."
"Dan, this is Warren Hovde."
"Good to hear from you, Doctor. How are you?"
"Fine, fine. Dan, there's a case you're working on that I'd like to talk to you about."
"What case?"
"Edward Frankovich, homicide victim Sunday night in Hollywood."
"Oh, yeah, that was a messy one. I've got the sheet in front of me now. Was he a patient of yours?"
"No, but the girl is. The one who lives in the house where it happened."
There was a rustle of paper on the other end of the line.
"Joana Raitt," said Olivares.
"Yes, that's the girl."
"It says here her boyfriend, Glen Early, was the one who did Frankovich in."
"Yes, I know Glen too," said Hovde.
"I wouldn't worry about him, if that's why you called. I don't think he's in any trouble. We've got an apartment house full of witnesses ready to swear he acted in defense of his life and the girl's. This Frankovich was clearly freaked out. I make him a psycho or a doper."
"I'm glad to hear Glen's in the clear," Hovde said, "but that's not all I wanted to talk to you about."
"Do you have some information?" Suddenly the official tone of the policeman was in Olivares' voice.
"I'm not sure. Can we get together?"
"Early and the girl are due down here in a little while to enter their statements on the record. Would you like to sit in?"
"I would, if you don't mind."
"Come on down. I'll have a visitor's badge waiting for you with the guard downstairs."
Dr. Hovde hung up the phone and walked slowly down the antiseptic corridor and out of the hospital. There was no backing out now, he was in this business with both feet, whether he wanted to be or not. Walking down the steps outside the building, he thought about how simple his life had been just a week ago. All he had to worry about then was sore throats, broken bones, and his impending divorce.
The good old days, he thought sourly, and climbed into his car.
Chapter 16
The Los Angeles Police Building was part of the new municipal complex that flanked the old familiar City Hall. The room assigned to Sergeant Olivares for his interview with Joana Raitt and Glen Early was on the twelfth floor. It was furnished with a short conference table and half a dozen padded vinyl chairs. A window overlooked the Civic Center. Mall, where flags of the fifty states hung limp on their poles. The walls of the room were beige, the carpet a dull brown. The only suggestion of personality in the room were the ashtrays, which advertised the Dunes Hotel in Las Vegas.
Sergeant Olivares sat on one side of the table, with Joana and Glen across from him. The sergeant was a compact man with smooth black hair, a neat moustache, and wide spaces between his teeth. At the far end of the table sat Warren Hovde, with his chair angled away from the others to show that he had no official role in the proceedings.
Both Glen and Joana looked nervous and glanced frequently at each other for reassurance. Joana smoked rapidly, while Glen chewed at a hangnail on his thumb. Olivares kept the questioning in a quiet, conversational tone. He assured them repeatedly that there would not likely be any charges arising from the death of Edward Frankovich.
"What I'd like," said Olivares, "is for each of you just to tell in your own words what happened last night, from the time you first saw Frankovich outside the house until the police arrived. If it's all right with you I'll record your statements on the machine here, but if you prefer I can call in a stenographer."
"I have no objection to the tape," Joana said. Glen nodded his agreement.
"You'll both have a chance to see the transcript and sign it," Olivares said. He depressed the record lever on the cassette machine and sat back to let first Joana, then Glen tell their stories of the violent events of Sunday night.
Dr. Hovde sat quietly and listened as the young people spoke. Their voices were low. Their eyes reflected the horror of the experience. Hovde could not suppress a shudder as he reflected on what he knew about the dead man that they did not.
When Joana and Glen had finished their stories, Sergeant Olivares snapped off the cassette recorder. From the floor at his feet he brought up an attache case. He zipped it open and pulled out an eight-by-ten photograph. It was obviously a blow-up of a black-and-white snapshot. It showed a big smiling man standing self-consciously next to a palm tree. The man wore a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans. There was nothing about him that would draw a second glance in a crowd.
"Do you recognize this man?" Olivares asked.
Joana and Glen studied the photograph briefly, then looked at each other.
"That's him," Joana said. "That's the man. But he looked different last night."
"Different in what way?"
"He wasn't smiling, for one thing," Joana said. "He had kind of a… dazed expression."
"And his face was darker than it is in the picture," Glen added. "Almost purple."
"But you have no doubt this is the man who broke in and attacked you?"
"No doubt," Joana said.
"I'm not likely to forget that face," said Glen.
The detective nodded. "Joana, I want you to look at the photograph again and try to remember if you have ever seen this man before he came to your door Sunday night."
Joana squared the picture on the table in front of her and stared at it. A tiny frown of concentration creased her forehead. "No, I'm sure that was the first time."
"You never ran across him in your work? Or socially in any way?"
"No."
"A casual meeting, in a store, or a theater, or a gas station?"