Eyes poked out. Sex organs mauled. Bare flesh gored down to the quick.
Danny followed the morgue wagon downtown, wishing his car had a siren to get him there faster.
o
o
o
The LA City and County morgues occupied the bottom floor of a warehouse on Alameda just south of Chinatown. A wooden partition separated the two operations: examination slabs, refrigerators and dissecting tables for bodies found within City confines, a different set of facilities for stiffs from the unincorporated area patrolled by the Sheriff’s Department. Before Mickey Cohen sent the LAPD and Mayor’s Office topsy-turvy with his Brenda Allen revelations–the high brass taking kickbacks from LA’s most famous whores–there had been solid City/County cooperation, pathologists and cadaver caddies sharing plastic sheets, bone saws and pickling fluid. Now, with the County cops giving Cohen shelter on the Strip, there was nothing but interagency grief.
Edicts had come down from City Personnel: _no_ loan-outs of City medical tools; _no_ fraternizing with the County crew while on duty; _no_ Bunsen burner moonshine parties, for fear of mistagged DOA’s and body parts snatched as souvenirs resulting in scandals to back up the Brenda Allen job. Danny Upshaw Side 3
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The followed the stretcher bearing John Doe # 1–1/1/50 up the County loading dock, knowing his chance of getting his favorite City pathologist to do the autopsy was close to nil.
The County side was bustling: traffic fatalities lined up on gurneys, morgue jockeys tagging big toes, uniformed deputies writing dead body reports and Coroner’s men chaining cigarettes to kill the stench of blood, formaldehyde and stale chink takeout. Danny side-stepped his way over to a fire exit, then hooked around to the City loading dock, interrupting a trio of LAPD patrolmen singing “Auld Lang Syne.” Inside, the scene was identical to the one on the County turf, except that the uniforms were navy blue–not olive drab and khaki.
Danny headed straight for the office of Dr. Norton Layman, Assistant Chief Medical Examiner for the City of Los Angeles, author of _Science Against Crime_ and his instructor for the USC night school course “Forensic Pathology for Beginners.” A note was tacked to the door: “I’m on days starting 1/1. May God bless our new epoch with less business than the first half of this rather bloody century–N .L.”
Cursing to himself, Danny got out his pen and notepad and wrote:
“Doc–I should have known you’d take the busiest night of the year off.
There’s an interesting 187 on the County side–male, sexually mutilated. Grist for your new book, and since I caught the squeal I’m sure I’ll get the case.
Will you try to get the autopsy? Capt. Dietrich says the ME on the County day shift gambles and is susceptible to bribes. Enough said–D. Upshaw.” He placed the sheet of paper on Layman’s desk blotter, anchored it with an ornamental human skull and walked back to County territory.
Business had slacked off. Daylight was starting to creep across the loading dock; the night’s catch was lined up on steel examination slabs. Danny looked around and saw that the only live one in the place was an ME’s assistant propped up in a chair by the dispatch room, alternately picking his teeth and his nose.
He walked over. The old man, breathing raisinjack, said, “Who are you?”
“Deputy Upshaw, West Hollywood Squad. Who’s catching?”
“Nice duty. Ain’t you a little young for a gravy job like that?”
“I’m a hard worker. Who’s catching?”
The old man wiped his nose-picking finger on the wall. “I can tell conversation ain’t your strong suit. Doc Katz was catching, only a snootful of juice caught him. Now he’s catching a few winks in that kike kayak of his. How come the hebes all drive Cadillacs? You’re a detective, you got an answer for that?”
Danny felt his fists jam into his pockets and clench, his warning to ease down. “It beats me. What’s your name?”
“Ralph Carty, that’s–”
“Ralph, have you ever done a preautopsy prep?”
Carty laughed. “Sonny, I done them all. I did Rudy Valentino, who was hung like a cricket. I did Lupe Velez and Carole Landis, and I got pictures of both of them. Lupe shaved her snatch. You pretend they ain’t dead, you can have fun. What do you say? Lupe and Carole, five-spot a throw?”