“Besides no reprimand or interdepartmental charges on Sanderline Johnson?”
“Chief, come on.”
“I destroyed the autopsy report on Johnson. The coroner noted a non sequitur Side 23
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bruise with imbedded paint fragments on his forehead, as if he banged his head against a windowsill before he jumped. I’m not saying that you’re culpable; but other people, notably Welles Noonan, might. I had the file destroyed. And I have a case for you. I’m detaching you from Ad Vice immediately to start working on it.”
Weak knees: “What case?”
“The Kafesjian burglary. I read the Wilshire Squad occurrence report, and I’ve decided I want a major investigation. I’m fully aware of the family’s LAPD
history, and I don’t care what Captain Wilhite wants. You and Sergeant Stemmons are detached as of now. Shake the family, shake their known associates. J.C.
employs a runner named Abe Voldrich, so lean on him while you’re at it. I want a full forensic and the files checked for similar B&Es. Start tomorrow–with a show of force.”
I stood up. “This is fucking insane. Lean on our sanctioned Southside dope kingpin when the U.S. Attorney just might be planning a rackets probe down there. Some pervo kills two dogs and jacks off on some-”
Exley, standing/crowding: “Do it. Detach canvassing officers from Wilshire Patrol and bring in the Crime Lab. Stemmons lacks field experience, but use him anyway. Show of force. And don’t make me regret the favors I’ve done you.”
CHAPTER SIX
SHOW OF FORCE.
8:00 A.M., 1684 South Tremaine. Personnel: lab crew, print team, four bluesuits.
The blues deployed: house-to-house witness checks, trashcan checks. Traffic cops standing by to shoo the press off.
Show of force–Exley’s wild hair up the ass.
Show of force-short-shrift it.
A compromise with Dan Wilhite–one edgy phone call. I said Exley pure had me; he called the job crazy–J.C. and the Department: twenty years of two-way profit. I owed Dan; he owed me–favors backlogged. Wilhite, scared: “I retire in three months. My dealings with the family won’t stand up to outside-agency scrutiny.
Dave… can you … play it easy?”
I said, “My ass first, yours second.”
He said, “I’ll call J.C. and jerk his leash.”
8:04–showtirne.
Black & whites, a lab van. Patrolmen, tech men. Gawkers galore, little kids.
The driveway–I walked the lab guys back. Ray Pinker: “I called Animal Control.
They told me they got no dead dog reports from this address. You think the people planted them in some pet cemetery?”
Garbage day–trashcans lined up in the alley. “Maybe, but check those cans behind the back fence. I don’t think Old Man Kafesjian’s so sentimental.”
“I heard he was a real sweetheart. We find the dogs, then what?”
“Take tissue samples for a make on what they were poisoned with. If they’re still chewing on washcloths, get me a make on the chemical–it smelled like chloroform. I need ten minutes to talk up J.C., then I want you to come inside and bag fibers in the kitchen, living room and dining room. Send the print guys in then, and tell them just the downstairs–I don’t think our burglar went upstairs. He jerked off on some pedal pushers, so if Pops didn’t throw them out you can test the semen for blood type.”
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“Jesus.”
“Yeah, Jesus. Listen, if he did dump them, they’re probably in those garbage cans. Pastel-colored pedal pushers ripped at the crotch, not everyday stuff. And Ray? I want a nice fat summary report on all this.”
“Don’t shit a shitter. You want me to pad it, say it.”
“Pad it. I don’t know what Exley wants, so let’s give him something to chew on.”
Madge at the back door, looking out. Heavy makeup-Pan-Cake over bruises.
Ray nudged me. “She doesn’t look Armenian.”
“She’s not, and their kids don’t look it either. Ray–”
“Yeah, I’ll pad it.”
Back to the street–rubberneckers swarming. Junior and Tommy K. locking eyes.
Tommy, porch loafer: bongo shirt, pegger pants, sax.
Junior sporting his new look: whipped dog with a mean streak.
I braced him–avuncular. “Come on, don’t let that guy bother you.”
“It’s those looks of his. Like he knows something I don’t.”