White Jazz Part 40

"Urgent. Repeat urgent. Lieutenant D.D. Klein seeking Chief Exley. Over."

"Roger, 4-A-31."

Makes.h.i.+ft code: "Urgent. Advise Chief Exley homicides at 249 South Arden likely _major_ case connected. Request permission to seal under IA autonomy. Urgent that you find Chief Exley. Over."

"Roger, 4-A-31. State your location."

"3rd and Mariposa westbound. Over."

Dead air, speeding-- "4-A-31, please Roger."

"Roger, this is 4-A-31."

"4-A-31, a.s.sume command 249 South Arden IA autonomy. Over."

"4-A-3 1, Roger, over."

3rd westbound--siren earaches. Arden Boulevard--right turn, right there: A big Tudor house swamped--prowl cars, morgue cars.

Civilian cliques on the sidewalk--nervous.

Ice cream trucks, kids.

I jammed in curbside. Two bra.s.s hats on the porch, looking queasy.

I ran up. One lieutenant, one captain--green. A hedge behind them dripping vomit.

"Ed Exley wants this sealed: no press, no downtown Homicide. I'm in charge, and IA's bagging the evidence."

Nods--queasy--n.o.body said, "Who are you?"

"Who found them?"

The captain: "Their mailman called it in. He had a special-delivery package, and he wanted to leave it at the side door. The dogs didn't bark like they usually do, and he saw blood on a window."

"He ID'd them?"

"Right. It's a father and two daughters. Phillip Herrick, Laura and Christine. The mother's dead--the mailman said she killed herself earlier this year. Hold your nose when you--"

In--smell it--blood. Flashbulbs, gray suits--I pushed through.

The entrance foyer floor: two dead shepherds belly-up, dripping mouth foam. Tools nearby--spade/shears/pitchfork--b.l.o.o.d.y.

Meat sc.r.a.ps/drool/puke trails.

Stabbed and cut and forked--entrail piles soaking a throw rug.

I squatted down and pried their jaws loose--tech men gasped.

Washrags in their mouths--stelfactiznide-chloride-soaked.

Match it up--Kafesjian 459.

Walk/look/think--plainclothesmen gave me room: The front hallway--broken records/tossed covers. Christmas jazz wax-confirm the Mom-peeper letters.

The dining room: Booze bottles and portraits smashed--another K.-job match. _Family pictures_: a dad and two daughters.

Mom to peeper: "Your sisters."

Suicide talk/suicide confirmation.

A tech stampede-follow it--the den.

Three dead on the floor: one male, two female.

Details: Their eyes shot out--powder-black cheeks, exit spatter.

Ripped cus.h.i.+ons on a chair--bullet m.u.f.flers.

Shears, chainsaw, axe--b.l.o.o.d.y, propped in a corner.

The rug--soaked bubbling.

His pants down.

Castrated--his p.e.n.i.s in an ashtray.

The women: Cut/sawed/snipped--limbs dangling by skin shreds.

b.l.o.o.d.y walls, windows sprayed--kids looking in.

Artery gout red: the floor, the ceiling, the walls. Plainclothesmen oozing sh.e.l.l shock.

A framed photo spritzed: handsome daddy, grown daughters.

Peeper kin.

"Fuuuck"/"My G.o.d"/Hail Marys. I skirted the blood and checked access.

Rear hall, back door, steps--jimmy marks, meat sc.r.a.ps, drool.

One high-heel pump just inside.

Work it: He pries in quiet, throws the meat, waits outside.

The dogs smell it, eat it, quease.

He walks in.

Shoots Herrick.

Finds the tools, kills the dogs.

The girls come home, see the door, run in. One shoe lost--scattered tools--he hears them.

CRAAAZY shooting/mutilation--leaded windows kill the noise.

Homicide/symbolic destruction--he probably didn't steal.

Snap guess: the girls showed up unexpected.

I looked outside--trees, shrubs--hiding spots. No blood drip--say he stole clean clothes.

Blues and a mailman smoking--brace them. "Did the Herricks have a son?"

The mailman nodded. "Richard. He escaped from Chino something like September of last year. He went up on dope charges."

Mom--"pen pals/same city"--lamster Richie explained it. "Spurred you/rash thing"--he waltzed minimum-security Chino.

Nervous blues jabbering: Richie caught/convicted/ga.s.sed--their instant suspect.

Killer Richie?--NO--think it through: The Red Arrow Inn--Richie's peep spot B&E'd. His bed ripped--with Kafesjian 459 silver. Dead cert--this killer/that burglar--one man-- broken bottle/smashed record/snuffed dog confirmation. Richie-- pa.s.sive watcher--someone watching and pressing him. Tommy K. chasing him outright, flirt with the notion: Tommy stone psycho, Tommy trashes his own house, now THIS.

Back inside: Blood drops--dark, fading--the main hallway off the den. I followed them upstairs--red into pink, a bathroom--stop.

Floor water--the toilet bowl full--a knife floating in p.i.s.s water. Pink water in the shower, b.l.o.o.d.y hair clots.

Reconstruct it: b.l.o.o.d.y clothes ripped and flushed--the toilet floods. A shower then?--check the towel rack--one towel sodden.

Recent--broad-daylight killings.

I checked the hallway--wet footprint indentations on the carpet. Easy tracks--straight to a bedroom.

Drawers open, clothes scattered. A wallet on the floor--turned out, no cash.

A driver's license: Phillip Clark Herrick, DOB 5/14/06. The ID pic: "f.u.c.k me Daddy" bland handsome.

Wallet sleeves--a photo--Lucille naked. A fake license: Joseph Arden--Herrick stats, a fake address.

I checked the window: South Arden was roped off. Bluesuit cordons held reporters back.

Other bedrooms-- One hallway, three doors. Two open--girlish bedrooms--undisturbed. One door locked--I shoulder-popped it.

A snap make: Richie's room preserved.

Neat, mothball-reeking.

Jazz posters.

Books: music bios, sax theory.

Kid-type paintings: Lucille softened, demure.

A graduation pic: Richie, peeper sketch perfect.

Doors slamming-check the window--IA swarming in.

Lucille--idealized, a madonna.

Books: all jazz.

Funny--no tech stuff--and Richie knew bugging.

Running footsteps--Exley in my face, catching breath. "You should be downstairs. Ray Pinker briefed me, but I wanted your interpretation first."

"There's nothing to interpret. It's Richie Herrick, or it's the guy who broke into his motel room. Check my early reports, I mentioned him then."

"I remember. And you've been avoiding me. I told you to call me after you forensic'd Stemmons' apartment."

"There was nothing to report."

"Where have you been?"

"People keep asking me that."

"That's not an answer."

b.l.o.o.d.y wing tips--he got close.

"So what now? That's a question."

"I'm issuing an APB on Richard Herrick."

"Think it over first. I don't _think_ this is him."

"You obviously want me to prompt you. _So_, Lieutenant?"

"So I think we should haul in Tommy K. I've got a strong tip that he's been looking for Richie Herrick. Richie's a d.a.m.n good hider, but Tommy _knows_ him. He's got a better chance of finding him than we do."

"No direct approach on the Kafesjians. And I am issuing that APB, because the Kafesjians are under blanket Fed surveillance, which somewhat impedes their ability to search for Herrick. Moreover, these deaths are front-page news. Herrick will read about them and act even more furtively. We can only control the press so far."

"Yeah, which must really gall you."

"Frankly, it does. Now surprise me or antic.i.p.ate me. Tell me something I don't know."

I jabbed his vest--hard. "Johnny Duhamel's dead. He's a Sheriff's John Doe down near Compton, and I think you two are dirty together. You're running me on the Kafesjians, and it ties in to Duhamel. I'm not thinking so straight these days, and I'm getting to the point where I'm going to f.u.c.k you for it."

Exley stepped back. "You're detached to Homicide and in charge of this investigation. You can do anything you want except approach the Kafesjians."