“Gentlemen, Narco’s taking this over. You go back to the station. Sergeant Stemmons and I will file reports if it comes to that.”
Miller:” ‘Comes to that’? Do you _smell_ that?”
Heavy, acidic. “Is this a homicide?”
Nash: “Not exactly. Sir, you wouldn’t believe the way that punk Tommy What’s-His-Name talked to us. _Comes_ to–”
“Go back and tell the watch commander Dan Wilhite sent me over. Tell him it’s J.C. Kafesjian’s place, so it’s not your standard 459. If that doesn’t convince him, have him wake up Chief Exley.”
“Lieutenant–”
Grab a flashlight, chase the smell–back to a snipped chain-link fence.
Fuck–two Dobermans–no eyes, throats slit, teeth gnashing chemicalsoaked washrags. Gutted–entrails, blood–blood dripping toward a jimmied back door.
Shouts inside–two men, two women. Junior: “I shooed the squadroom guys off.
Some 459, huh?”
“Lay it out for me, I don’t want to question the family.”
“Well, they were all at a party. The wife had a headache, so she took a cab home first. She went out to let the dogs in and found them. She called Wilshire, and Nash and Miller caught the squeal. J.C., Tommy and the daughter–the two kids live here, too–came home and raised a ruckus when they found cops in the living room.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“Madge–that’s the wife-showed me the damage, then J.C. shut her up. Some heirloom-type silverware was stolen, and the damage was some strange stuff. Do you feature this? I have never worked a B&E job like this one.”
Yells, horn bleats.
“It’s not a job. And what do you mean ‘strange stuff’?”
“Nash and Miller tagged it. You’ll see.”
I flashed the yard–foamy meat scraps-call the dogs poisoned. Junior: “He fed them that meat, then mutilated them. He got blood on himself, then trailed it into the house.”
Follow it:
Back-door pry marks. A laundry porch–bloody towels discarded– the burglar cleaned up.
The kitchen door intact–he slipped the latch. No more blood, the sink evidence tagged: “Broken Whiskey Bottles.” Cabinet-drawers theft tagged: “Antique Silverware.”
Them:
“You whore, to let strange policemen into our home!”
“Daddy, please don’t!”
“We always call Dan when we need help!”
A dining room table, photo scraps piled on top: “Family Pictures.” Sax bleats Side 18
Ellroy – White Jazz
upstairs.
Walk the pad.
Too-thick carpets, velvet sofas, flocked wallpaper. Window air coolers–Jesus statues perched beside them. A rug tagged: “Broken Records/Album Covers”–_The Legendary Champ Dineen: Sooo Slow Moods_; _Straight Life_: The Art Pepper Quartet; _The Champ Plays the Duke_.
LPs by a hi-fi–stacked neat.
Junior walked in. “Like I told you, huh? Some damage.”
“Who’s making that noise?”
“The horn? That’s Tommy Kafesjian.”
“Go up and make nice. Apologize for the intrusion, offer to call Animal Control for the dogs. Ask him if he wants an investigation. Be nice, do you understand?”
“Dave, he’s a criminal.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be brown-nosing his old man even worse.”
“DADDY, DON’T!”–booming through closed doors.
“J.C., LEAVE THE GIRL ALONE!”
Spooky–Junior _ran_ upstairs.
“THAT’S RIGHT, GET OUT”–a side door slamming–“Daddy” in my face.
J.C. close up: a greasy fat man getting old. Burly, pockmarked, bloody facial scratches.
“I’m Dave Klein. Dan Wilhite sent me over to square things.”
Squinting: “What’s so important he couldn’t come himself?”
“We can do this any way you want, Mr. Kafesjian. If you want an investigatlon, you’ve got It. You want us to dust for prints, maybe get you a name, you’ve got it. If you want payback, Dan will support you in anything within reason, if you follow–”
“I follow what you mean and I clean my own house. I deal with Captain Dan strictly, not strangers in my parlor.”
Two women snuck by. Soft brunettes–nongrease types. The daughter waved–silver nails, blood drops.
“You see my girls, now forget them. They are not for you to know.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“Not for you to talk about. Not for you to mention business rivals who might want to hurt me and mine.”
“Rivals in the dry-cleaning biz?”
“Not for you to make jokes! Look! Look!”
A door tag: “Mutilated Clothing.” “Look! Look! Look!”–J.C. yanked the knob–“Look! Look! Look!”
Look: a small closet. Spread-legged, crotch-ripped pedal pushers tacked across the walls.