the Prostitutes' Ball (2010) (18 page)

Chapter
29.

"Me and Eddie also thought the murder-suicide angle was bogus," McKnight began. "There were a lot of little things that were pointing in the other direction. Like Vulcuna killing his daughter with a fucking hammer. I don't see the guy beating her bloody like that. Everything we found out said he doted on that kid. He was devoted to her. His wife too.

"And the bullshit suicide note the Divine Comedy thing. Who leaves that kind of suicide note? In my opinion, that passage was picked by somebody to make it look like he killed himself."

We were all thinking the same way.

"Then there was the bedroom where he died. Vulcuna bled all over the bed but other than that it was a very clean crime scene. Me and Norris also suspected he mighta got shot elsewhere then wa
s m
oved upstairs, where he bled out. If not that, then somebody came in and cleaned up the bedroom cause there was no blood spatter on the headboard or wall near where he died."

"So why did you write it up as a murder-suicide?" I asked.

"We didn't. We were working it as a triple 187, and we told our supervisor, Lieutenant White in Hollywood station, that's how we saw it. Nine hours into the investigation, while we were still doing our initial evidence pull, we get called back in to see the Loo and he takes us to Parker Center. We go into the Chief of Detectives' office where we're told that the case was over and that the coroner has just ruled it a murder-suicide. We're also told that the super chief himself has taken an interest in the case and also wanted it booked as self
-
inflicted."

This memory troubled him. He took another pull off the bottle of beer before going on.

"There was some guy in an expensive suit standing there a big, lean, black-haired duck with a pale complexion looked to us like some kinda power player. He was never introduced, but me and Ed thought he was maybe from Eagle's Nest Studios or maybe even the mayor's office."

"Stender Sheedy?"

"Don't know his name. Never found out. Never saw him again. But it was real clear to us that a lot of people high up didn't want this case worked and the mayor and super chief were definitely among them. It was closed that same night and we got reassigned. There was nothing me and Ed could do about it. We weren't happy, but we moved on."

He reached into the open box containing the bloody clothing and pulled out a frilly, bloodstained blouse in a cellophane bag.

"Look at this. His daughter was wearing it. Beat the poor girl's face flat. No dad did that, 'specially one who loved his daughter like
Vulcuna did. Whoever did this didn't know that little girl. The killer was a cold-ass impersonal monster."

"So if you and Norris were right, and Vulcuna didn't kill his wife and daughter and then shoot himself, that makes this a triple murder with the killer still at large," Hitch said.

McKnight dropped the bloody blouse back into the box and then picked up the bag holding the Luger. "You're right. And you're also right about that razor thing. Guy who's about to kill himself doesn't reload after a test shot. That's fucking ridiculous."

We all sat in silence thinking about it.

"But you got almost no chance of proving what really happened," McKnight finally continued. "It was more than twenty-five years ago. Lieutenant White has gone to the angels, the old mayor and police chief are retired. Nobody will talk to you about Vulcuna. Case has frostbite."

"There's still a few things we can do now, that you and Norris didn't have available back then," I said. "Like, we could go into that house and spray the bedroom with Luminol. Doesn't matter if somebody came in later and cleaned the headboard and wall. As you know, these new forensic methods will pick up blood traces and cerebral spinal fluid in the walls and floors even after twenty-five-plus years. If Vulcuna got shot in the backyard like we think, then the bedroom won't fluoresce when we Luminol it, making his death a murder."

We all looked at one another. Finally McKnight broke the silence.

"This case has pissed me off for over a quarter century," he said. "It wasn't that me and Eddie were afraid to work it but once it was closed we had no way to proceed. If I can do anything to help you now, I'm in."

"We may need you to say some of this to our captain," I told him. "He's a straight shooter."

"You tell me when and I'll be there."

We shook hands all around and Hitch and I gathered up the evidence boxes. McKnight told us we didn't need a key to open the gate from the inside so we left him with his beer and carried the boxes up the ramp.

As we were loading them into the Acura, Hitch turned to face me. "Luminol. That's a good idea, homes."

"Then let's do it."

"How?" he said. "Stender Sheedy Sr. will fight a search warrant. If we make an illegal entry and find something that could reopen Vulcuna, we'll lose it all in court on the bad search."

"Stender Sheedy may not want us in there, but he's not the owner of the Skyline property," I said. "Neither is Thayer Dunbar. The owner of record is the Dorothy White Foundation, and if I recall, the legal proprietor and sole beneficiary is Brooks Dunbar. Let's get little Brooksie to agree to the warrant. I don't think he much cares what his father or mother think at least not since they cut him off."

"He's a punk. I doubt he's gonna help us," Hitch said.

"I think he will. He just needs the right kind of motivation."

Chapter
30.

"I can almost promise you Brooks won't be at home after ten P
. M
.," Hitch said, looking at his watch. "From what I hear the kid clubs every night."

We were still standing beside our cars in the marina parking lot.

"So how do we find this little turd?" I said as I pulled the day-old arrest warrant for Brooks Dunbar out of my briefcase.

"I think I can track him down. Let's drop our cars downtown and take a slick-back. If I can find him, that black-and-white might be useful."

We left the marina and dropped our cars at the Police Administration Building. Light Santa Ana winds had started blowing, bending the tops of the palm trees with a warm desert breeze. We checked out a slick-back from the motor pool.

"Slick-back" is police slang for a black-and-white that is assigned to detectives and doesn't have a light bar on the roof, hence the name.

I drove the D-ride up the ramp and onto the city streets with Hitch in the passenger seat beside me.

"Let's start with the Ivy," Hitch said.

"He's at the Ivy?" I asked.

"Not as far as I know."

"Then why are we going there?"

"Watch and be amazed," he replied.

We headed toward Sunset and then to the Ivy on Robertson. It was after eleven P
. M
., but the restaurant was packed. About forty paparazzi were camped out across the street, their Nikon digital cameras at the ready.

We pulled up and got out of the car. As soon as Hitch was visible, a lot of the photographers started snapping his picture and calling his name.

"If we end up in People magazine over this, I'll kill you," I growled.

"Don't worry. I'm in the wrong age demo for People. They only want eighteen to twenty-four unless your name's Obama or you're a middle-aged actor who's beating the shit out of his girlfriend. These guys like me. They only take my picture so I won't feel left out."

Hitch told the valet we'd just be a minute and to leave our ride at the curb. The red coat reluctantly pulled the black-and-white up and parked it next to the valet stand where, immediately, it began to draw nervous looks from the patio tables, soiling the trendy ambience of the posh Westside restaurant.

Hitch walked across the street to the crowd of scruffy-looking photographers. I had no idea what he was up to, but followed.

Paparazzi are the tree squirrels of celebrity journalism. The guys were mostly wide bodies with plumber butts. The girls had stringy hair and bad complexions. They were nocturnal animals who surged around West L
. A
. like schooling fish, always hunting for the action with Vitaminwater and protein bars stuffed in their pockets.

"Hey guys, anybody see Brooks Dunbar lately?" Hitch called out.

"He was trying to get into Club Nine about an hour ago," one of the scruffy guys said. "But he owes that place a fortune, so they probably didn't let him past the rope."

"If you can scare him up for me, then the next time I'm with Jamie, I'll slow my man down so you can get some shots."

"Solid," several of them said as they flipped open cell phones and started calling other paparazzi around Hollywood.

"Got him," a tall, hefty girl wearing low-rider jeans said. "The Cottonwood on Melrose. He just got there but he's never in one place long, so you better hurry."

"Thanks, Julie. I owe ya." Catcalls and "See ya's" followed us back to our car.

"Not bad," I said. "Definitely a fresh way to do it."

I slid behind the wheel of the slick-back and we headed toward the Cottonwood Club on Melrose.

We got there just in time because as I pulled in, the Heir Abhorrent and his posse of hangers-on were already being escorted out of the club by a bouncer who was roughly the size of an old Wurlitzer jukebox. Brooks was screaming insults at this monster.

"You assholes overcharged my AmEx! I'm not paying you a fucking dollar until you make it right!"

He was trailed by his drugged entourage; two guys and four girls, all bone-thin losers. The bouncer shoved him to the curb and went back inside. Brooks then turned his ire on the circling pack of flashbulb
-
popping paparazzi.

"Eat my crotch, you shitsticks!" He flipped them off. He climbed to his feet as his friends all giggled. The photographers scuttled along behind this band of unruly brats who loved the fact that they were being chased by a pack of Hollywood photographers, while all the time pretending to be very pissed off about it.

"You fucking assholes need to get a real job!" Brooks, who had never had one, yelled.

Hitch and I cut them off. I grabbed Dunbar by the arm and shoved the arrest warrant in his face. Cameras flashed.

"You are under arrest for failure to appear as a material witness in a murder investigation."

We cuffed him and Mirandized him while the pack of teenagers and paparazzi looked on.

"Leave my mate be!" the Aussie girl I recognized from his Christmas party yelled.

We ignored her and shoved Brooks into the back of the car as the photographers circled, gunning off shots with the Cottonwood Club in the background. The tabloid headline over these photos would undoubtedly be something cute like "Heir Abhorrent Errs."

Our detective car had the desired effect.

"Am I being arrested?" Brooks said, suddenly aware of his predicament. "Whatta you doin'? I don't like this. I wanna leave." He was protesting loudly as we drove away.

Men's Central Jail is no damn fun at all. Especially if you're a pudgy white guy wearing a T-shirt that says EAT SHIT AND DIE MOTHERFUCKER.

Despite his drug history, according to his yellow sheet Brooks Dunbar had never actually landed there before, having successfully used money and privilege to beat two possession beefs and one indecent exposure where he'd mooned sorority row at USC from the passenger seat of his dad's Ferrari.

Fifteen minutes later we were in the booking cage at the City Jail.

"For now he's being booked as a material witness on a seventy
-
two-hour hold," I told the sergeant in charge as I filled out the paperwork. "Put this guy in a dorm on the second floor."

The sergeant ran the night shift at MCJ and started processing my paperwork. I wanted Brooks in a group cell so he could experience the full ambience of our facility.

"You cant do this!" he shrieked, standing in the center of an outlined box painted on the floor while his picture was snapped. He looked terrible. His hair was mussed and his eyes bleary. I thought if it were ever published, this shot would live in perpetuity on the Internet.

"I can t stay here!" Brooks wailed.

I didn't blame him. The jail was a foreboding place with sliding metal doors, chipped yellow paint, and the faint smell of vomit mixed with desperation.

"I warned you, Brooks. You should ve come to my office when you had the chance. Now we do it this way."

After he was processed Hitch and I left him with the booking sergeant and went to a restaurant across the street to get a cup of coffee. As we walked, I could feel the Santa Anas growing in strength. The trees on Bauchet Street were beginning to rustle in the desert wind. We went into the coffee shop and took a booth. After the waitress poured, we sat back and pondered our options.

"How long you want to keep him up there?" Hitch asked.

"He's not very tough. An hour ought to do it. We also need to get an ADA to chase us down a broad search warrant for both the house and yard at Skyline Drive. We need somebody who won't give us up if the pressure builds."

"I got just the one." Hitch smiled. "Frieda Wilson. She's been on the DA's staff for a year and she's got a huge case on the Hitchmeister."