Strangeness on the Cathcart end, the case might go wide, more than a psycho robbery gang. _He_ could make the case, twist Exley, work an angle to help out Stens. Which meant:
Not greasing Ad Vice for smut leads.
Holding back evidence from Dudley.
BEING A DETECTIVE–NOT A HEADBASHER–ON HIS OWN.
He fed himself drunk talk for guts:
It ain’t like you’re your own man.
It ain’t like you’re your own man.
It ain’t like you’re your own man.
He was scared.
He owed Dudley.
He was crossing the only man on earth more dangerous than he was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ray Pinker walked Ed through the Nite Owl, reconstructing.
“Bim, bam, I’m betting it happened like this. First, the three enter and show their weaponry. One man takes the cash register girl, the kitchen boy and the waitress. This guy hits Donna DeLuca with his shotgun butt–she’s standing by the cash register, and we found a piece of her scalp on the floor there. She gives him the money and the money from her purse, he shoves her and Patty Chesimard to the locker, picking up Gilbert Escobar in the kitchen en route. Gilbert resists–note the drag marks, the pots and pans on the floor. A pop to the head–bim, barn–that little pool of blood you see outlined in chalk. The safe is exposed under the cook’s stand, one of the three employee victims opens it, note the spilled coins. Bim, barn, Gilbert resists some more, another gun-butt shot, note the circle marked 1-A on the floor, we found three gold teeth there, bagged them and matched them: Gilbert Luis Escobar. The drag marks start there, old Gil has quit fighting, bim, bam, suspect number one plants victims one, two and three inside the food locker.”
Back to the restaurant proper–still sealed three nights post-mortem. Gawkers pressed up to the windows; Pinker kept talking. “Meanwhile, gunmen two and three are rounding up victims four through six. The drag marks going back to the locker and the spilled food and dishes speak for themselves. You might not be able to see it because the linoleum’s so dark, but there’s blood under the first two tables: Cathcart and Lunceford, sitting separately, two gun-butt shots. We know who was where through blood typing. Cathcart drops by table two, Lunceford by table one. Now–”
Ed cut in. “Did you dust the plates for more confirmation?”
Pinker nodded. “Smudges and smears, two viable latents on dishes under Lunceford’s table. That’s how we ID’d him–we got a match to the set they took when he joined the LAPD. Cathcart and Susan Lefferts had their hands blown off, no way to cross-check on that, their dishes were too smudged anyway. We tagged Cathcart on a partial dental and his prison measurement chart, Lefferts on a full dental. Now, you see the shoe on the floor?”
“Yes.”
“Well, from an angle study it looks like Lefferts was flailing to get to Cathcart at the next table, even though they were sitting separately. Dumb panic, she obviously didn’t know him. She started screaming, and one of the gunmen stuck a wad of napkins from that container there in her mouth. Doc Layman found a big wad of swallowed tissue in her throat at autopsy, he thinks she might have gagged and suffocated just as the shooting started. Bim, barn, Cathcart and Lefferts are dragged to the locker, Lunceford walks, the poor bastard probably thinks it’s just a stickup. At the locker, purses and wallets are taken–we found a scrap of Gilbert Escobar’s driver’s license floating in blood just inside the door, along with six wax-saturated cotton balls. The gunmen had the brains to protect their ears.”
The last bit didn’t play: his coloreds were too impetuous. “It doesn’t seem like enough men to do the job.”
Pinker shrugged. “It worked. Are you suggesting one or more of the victims knew one or more of the killers?”
“I know, it’s unlikely.”
“Do you want to see the locker? It’ll have to be now, we promised the owner he could have the place back.”
“I saw it that night.”
“I saw the pictures. Jesus, you couldn’t tell they were human. You’re working the Lefferts background check, right?”