I
WOKE UP
on Friday morning, a week after Alex’s murder, feeling as irritable and fatigued as if I’d had no sleep at all. The sky was overcast in the window, coastal fog that would clear up before noon to reveal another flaming day in mid-June. I got out of bed, wrapped myself in an old flannel robe that was at once too hot, and stepped on a tack as I made my way into the kitchen, leaving drops of blood on the carpet. At the sink, I poured water into the coffeepot and looked out the window at the unmarked police car parked across the street in front of the Hercus’s house. Inez had arranged the meeting with Odell and company for later that morning, so I was hopeful this would be the last day I would be watched by the police, though the curious stares of my neighbors might continue for a long time to come. While the coffee brewed, I got the paper from the porch. Scanning the headlines, I saw the usual collection of calamities and scandals. My horoscope spoke of confusion and secrets.
I poured a cup of coffee and went out to the deck. My house was perched on the side of a small canyon and my property declined steeply into a brambly wilderness that was home to raccoons, skunks and the occasional deer. There was a road at the bottom of the canyon and, on the other side, far grander houses. When I’d bought the house, I had imagined the canyon was an escape from the city, a green and rustic place, but the city was inescapable. The green was as flat as painted scenery and the air was stale and exhausted. One night recently, I’d heard shots, and the next day word filtered up that a family of three had been murdered during a robbery two blocks down the hill. There was now a movement afoot to gate our neighborhood and, in effect, secede from the city, as if that would make any difference.
I rinsed my cup at the sink, watching the police car. I could make out a man at the wheel. Gaitan? Probably not. This was drudge work. And then, suddenly, the car sped off without so much as a backward glance at me.
On my way into West Hollywood for the meeting, I stopped at a book store and found a copy of the
Inferno.
I parked my car on Larabee Street and went to the coffeehouse to wait for Inez before proceeding to the sheriff’s station across the street. I reread Dante’s account of meeting his beloved teacher, Ser Brunetto, among the sodomites on the burning plain and my glance fell upon this passage:
“… a troop of souls ran up beside the dike peering at us, each one, the way at dusk men eye one another under a new moon …”
I remembered that Dante’s description of the burning plain reminded Richie of a gay resort in Palm Springs. A desert setting; tanned, fit men forever circling each other, peering into one another’s faces. What were we looking for? I closed the book. The morning mist had cleared and now the air was still like steel wool. The pair of ficus trees in front of the coffeehouse were wilted and dusty. I saw Inez turn the corner, remove her sunglasses and push open the door to the coffeehouse. She came over to my table, an odd, questioning expression on her face, as if she didn’t completely recognize me.
“Inez? Are you all right?”
“There’s been another killing,” she said, and for a split second I read the question in her eyes.
“Sit down,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
There were five of us cramped around Odell’s desk on folding chairs in his windowless office. From where I sat, I faced a framed photograph of Odell and a young woman in the uniform of LAPD. Glowering at me from the other side of the desk was Gaitan’s dark face as he popped antacids. Serena Dance sat between him and Odell, Inez next to me. The tension between the two women was almost as thick as it was between Gaitan and me, Inez’s cold, “Hello, Serena,” having elicited an equally frosty, “Inez.” Only Odell, with his snowman’s face and sharp eyes, seemed impervious to the currents of hostility that crossed the room. He saw me looking at the photo on his desk, smiled and said, “My daughter.”
“Let’s get down to business,” Inez said. “There was another killing last night. Same MO. Young gay man beaten and stabbed, dumped in the alley with a hate message carved on his body. Since you’ve had my client under constant surveillance for the last week, you know he had nothing to do with it. Now maybe you’ll stop harassing him and find this guy before he kills again.”
“Who told you about the second killing?” Gaitan demanded.
“I did,” Odell replied calmly.
Gaitan addressed him angrily. “So much for the blackout.”
“The blackout applies only to the media,” Odell responded. “Ms. Montoya had a right to know, since it affects her client.”
“This is my investigation,” Gaitan said. “I decide who needs to know what and when.”
“These murders are happening in my town,” Odell responded. “I want them stopped.”
“You could have prevented them,” Inez told him.
Odell cocked his head back. “I beg your pardon?”
“Our information is that Alex Amerian was the victim of two hate crimes before he was murdered, and neither the sheriff nor the DA either properly investigated or prosecuted those crimes. Then he was murdered under circumstances that suggest another hate crime. How much clearer does it have to be before you people get it?”
“Get what, ma’am?” Odell asked, dangerously.
“Alex Amerian wasn’t just murdered, he was assassinated by the same people who beat him up and torched his car, and when you had your chance to prevent it, you sat on your hands.” She laid out the details of our theory of Alex’s murder.
“There was no corroboration that Amerian was gay bashed,” Dance said, when Inez finished. “Furthermore, the sheriff investigated his claim that a deputy had refused to take his report, and decided it was untrue.”
“I know that’s the company line, but you thought there was enough truth in Amerian’s claim to cut him a deal on an ADW charge,” Inez reminded her. “You weren’t so sure then a jury would believe the sheriff. After looking at these pictures, I can’t blame you.” She threw the toilet-stall pictures across Odell’s desk. “These were taken at department headquarters in the deputies’ bathroom.”
“What is this supposed to prove?” Serena asked.
“That your faith in the sheriff may be a little misplaced,” Inez replied.
Odell examined the pictures. “Anyone who put anything like this on the walls of my station would find himself out of a job before the ink dried.”
“You still deny that one of your deputies refused to take a report from Alex Amerian when he was gay bashed last year?” I asked him.
Odell shifted in his seat. “It was investigated.”
“Did you also investigate the firebombings that occurred last winter?” I asked him.
“Those are still open cases,” he replied.
“Six months later and still no arrests,” I said.
“And two murders,” Inez chimed in. “It should be clear by now that you’ve got some kind of hate group operating in this city, but instead of going after them, you harass my client.”
“Harass?” Gaitan broke in. “Rios was the last person to see the victim, he admits he beat him up. That makes him a righteous suspect.”
“You only have those facts because he cooperated with you,” Inez said. “Don’t forget that, and don’t forget you haven’t found a shred of independent evidence that connects him to Amerian’s murder and now you’ve got another body on your hands.”
“A copycat,” Gaitan said dismissively.
“No,” Inez said, “it’s not a copycat killing and you know it.”
“How can you be so sure?” Serena asked.
“Because when the sheriff’s department briefed the media on the first killing, it withheld the fact that there was a hate message carved on the victim’s chest. Isn’t that right, Sergeant Odell?”
“Yep,” he said.
“But the second victim also had a hate message carved on his chest,” she said. “What was it? ‘Dies 4 Sins.’”
Gaitan shrugged. “Someone could’ve leaked the information.” He glanced at Odell. “Maybe one of your gay deputies.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Odell growled.
“Things get out,” Gaitan said. “People take care of their own. All in
la familia
, right, Rios?”
I glanced at Serena. In a voice of controlled fury, she asked Gaitan, “Did you have Rios under surveillance when the second victim was killed?”
“So?” Gaitan begrudged.
“Therefore, he’s in the clear.”
“Hey,” Gaitan complained. “The body’s still warm. No one’s in the clear. Besides, his lawyer’s wrong. We have other evidence that connects him to Amerian.”
“What evidence?” Inez demanded.
“I’ll let you know when I arrest him.”
Serena said, “You’ll let all of us know now.”
Gaitan stared at her. “I don’t take my orders from you, lady.”
“Cut the crap, Mac,” Odell said. “We’re here to solve this thing.”
“I don’t take orders from you, either.”
“Don’t make me get my captain,” Odell said. “Don’t make get on the phone to yours. Again.”
“I doubt if that would impress him,” I said. “Detective Gaitan has a long record of insubordination, reprimands and suspensions. Don’t you?”
“What is this?” he hissed at me.
“I’ve been doing some investigation of my own, Gaitan,” I said. “I have enough paper on you to put you on trial. Excessive force complaints going back to when you worked county jail and roughed up inmates in the queens’ tank. A three-day suspension for the time you called a black suspect a ‘nigger.’ Repeated accusations that you planted evidence when you worked Narcotics. A couple of times, a judge dismissed a case just because you were the investigating officer. You want to arrest me? Go right ahead. I’ll match my reputation against yours in front of a jury any time.”
“Your reputation? As what, a drunk?” He looked at Inez. “You know Rios was suspended from the state bar for drinking? Up in San Francisco, your ex-colleagues tell me you were a blackout drinker. You was drinking the night Amerian was murdered. The waiter says you went through a bottle of wine, plus who knows how much more later. I think you killed him in a blackout. Is that how it happened?”
“My last drink was eight years ago,” I said.
“I’ve got the waiter from the restaurant.”
“I’ve heard about your interview technique from my neighbors,” I said. “You tell them what you want them to say. You hear what you want to hear.”
Odell cleared his throat. “That’s enough. This is degenerating into a pissing contest.”
Gaitan got up. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ve had enough. I’m going back to work.” He looked at me on his way out and spat. “
Desgraciado.
”
“What did he say?” Serena asked.
“There’s no English equivalent,” I said. “It’s a kind of Mexican tribal curse.”
“I want him off this investigation,” Inez told Odell.
“I’m not his commander. Anyway, it sounds like he’s got something on your client that deserves a little more looking into.”
“What, that I killed Alex in a blackout? That’s ludicrous.”
“You’re a lawyer,” Odell said. “You know how it works. This is standard operating procedure.”
“Let me tell you something that isn’t,” Inez said, gathering up her papers. “If my client isn’t cleared by Monday morning, we’ll call a press conference on Monday afternoon to talk about the sheriff’s record on hate crimes in this case and why you’re wasting time and money investigating an innocent man while there’s a murderer on the loose.”
Flushed, Serena said, “You can’t make demands like that without allowing us to investigate …”
“You should have investigated when Amerian was still alive.”
“Inez, can I have a minute with you?” I said. We went out into the hallway. “Press conference? What are you talking about? I can’t admit I’m a suspect, even to deny it, because we both know what people will remember.”
“Relax,” she said. “They’ll cave.”
“Just in case they don’t,” I said, “you’ve got to give them more time. I have an argument on Tuesday in San Francisco in front of the state Supreme Court. I’d rather not show up as a suspected felon. Can we keep a lid on it until I get back?”
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll give them a week. To next Friday.”
“And what happens if they won’t clear me? We’re not going to go through with a press conference.”
“We worry about it then.”
We returned to Odell’s office, where Inez gave him and Serena our ultimatum. As I walked Inez to her car, I asked, “What’s with you and Serena Dance?”
“She’s a fanatic,” she replied, unlocking her door.
“What do you mean?”
“When I was in the House working on the federal hate-crime bill, she was part of a group of gay lobbyists who threatened to out any closeted legislator who refused to support putting gays and lesbians in the statute,” she said. “One of the people they threatened was a friend of mine. A married man with kids from a conservative district in the Midwest. They put him through hell.”
“Was he gay?”
She crushed her cigarette beneath a fire-engine red high heel. “That’s not always the point, Henry. Things can be a little more complex than that.”
“Maybe,” I replied. “But I get tired of doing double duty for all those closet cases who want to have their cake and eat it, too. The ones who claim being gay is a bedroom issue, not a civil rights one. Maybe they’re the ones who need a lesson in complexity.”
She shook her head. “You could lose a lot of friends with that attitude.”
“I’ve already lost a lot of friends, Inez,” I told her, as she slipped into her car. “Like Josh. They’re not coming back. It’s hard for me to get excited about a few ruined political careers.”
“Whatever happened to tolerance?”
“Tolerance is a luxury.”
“Watch what you say doesn’t come back to bite you.”
By evening the media blackout on the second murder had apparently been lifted, because the local TV stations were running the story with lead-ins like “Serial Murder Stalks West Hollywood Gays.” I surfed the channels until I found the least offensive station. On the screen was a black-and-white photograph—obviously a mug shot—of the second victim, a twenty-six-year-old man named Jack Baldwin. The camera cut to footage of male hustlers on Santa Monica Boulevard while the voice-over narrator said, “Baldwin, a known male prostitute, who was last seen by friends getting into a taxicab two nights ago near the intersection of Santa Monica Boulevard and Formosa Avenue in West Hollywood. His nude body was found yesterday in a Dumpster behind this restaurant.” The screen showed a fast food Mexican restaurant that the reporter pointed out was only a block from the sheriff’s station. “According to the medical examiner, Baldwin was stabbed and beaten. Only a week ago, another man, twenty-nine-year old Alex Amerian, was also found in a Dumpster in the alley behind Santa Monica Boulevard with similar injuries. Police refuse to speculate on whether the murders were connected, but the young male residents of West Hollywood, who are predominantly homosexual, are convinced there is a serial killer on the loose.” The camera went to a tank-topped kid who expressed concern for his safety and his belief that the sheriff’s department did not do enough to protect him. “Furthermore,” the reporter continued, switching to another talking head, “according to Victor Frenza at the Gay and Lesbian Community Services Center, these killings may be part of an upsurge in hate crimes against homosexuals, which increased by fifty-five percent last year in the county.” The camera recorded Victor Frenza’s thoughts on hate crimes, then returned to a helmet-haired reporter standing in front of the sheriff’s station. “West Hollywood doesn’t have its own police department. It contracts with the sheriff’s department to provide police services. Relations between the department and the city’s gay residents have frequently been rocky in the past. In response to criticism from gays and lesbians, the department has started an aggressive campaign to recruit gays into its ranks. A year ago, a new captain, Walt Sturges, was brought in to command the West Hollywood station. Sturges has required mandatory sensitivity training for his deputies, brought in gay and lesbian deputies, and designated as his liaison to the gay community Sergeant Lucas Odell, a twenty-three-year veteran of the department, whose daughter, Layne, is one of only six openly lesbian officers in the LAPD. Sturges has received high marks from the gay community for these moves, but all that could be threatened if these murders continue. This is Linda Frye …”