Two men swinging axes at a young blonde woman pressed into a doorway. A half-second flash of an arm severed off. A wide-open mouth smeared with orange lipstick screaming mute.
The dream speeded up.
He made it to Bakersfield; unloaded the La Salle; got paid. Back to San Berdoo, biology classes at JC, nightmares about the mouth and the arm. Pearl Harbor, 4F from a punctured eardrum. No amount of study, cash GTAs or anything can push the girl away. Months pass, and he returns to find out how and why.
It takes a while, but he comes up with a triangle: a missing local girl named Kathy Hudgens, her spurned lover Marty Sidwell–dead on Saipan–questioned by the cops and let go because no body was found. The number-two man most likely Buddy Jastrow, Folsom parolee, known for his love of torturing dogs and cats. Also missing–last seen two days after he tore across the dry cabbage field. The dream dissolving into typescript–criminology texts filled with forensic gore shots. Joining the LASD in ‘44 to know WHY; advancing through jail and patrol duty; other deputies hooting at him for his perpetual all-points want on Harlan “Buddy” Jastrow.
A noise went off. Danny Upshaw snapped awake, thinking it was a siren kicking over. Then he saw the stucco swirls on his bedroom ceiling and knew it was the phone.
He picked it up. “Skipper?”
“Yeah,” Captain Al Dietrich said. “How’d you know?”
“You’re the only one who calls me.”
Dietrich snorted. “Anyone ever call you an ascetic?”
“Yeah, you.”
Dietrich laughed. “I like your luck. One night as acting watch commander and you get floods, two accident deaths and a homicide. Want to fill me in on that?”
Danny thought of the corpse: bite marks, the missing eyes. “It’s as bad as anything I’ve seen. Did you talk to Henderson and Deffry?”
“They left canvassing reports–nothing hot. Bad, huh?”
“The worst I’ve seen.”
Dietrich sighed. “Danny, you’re a rookie squadroom dick, and you’ve never worked a job like this. You’ve only seen it in your books–in black and white.”
Kathy Hudgens’ mouth and arm were superimposed against the ceiling–in Technicolor. Danny held on to his temper. “Right, Skipper. It was bad, though. I went down to the morgue and… watched the prep. It got worse. Then I went back to help Deffry and Hender–”
“They told me. They also said you got bossy. Shitcan that, or you’ll get a rep as a prima donna.”
Danny swallowed dry. “Right, Captain. Any ID on the body?”
“Not yet, but I think we’ve got the car it was transported in. It’s a ‘47 Buick Super, green, abandoned a half block up from the building site. White upholstery with what looks like bloodstains. It was reported stolen at ten this morning, clouted outside a jazz club on South Central. The owner was still drunk when he called in–you call him for details.”
“Print man dusting it?”
“Being done now.”
“Is SID going over the lot?”
“No. The print man was all I could wangle downtown.”
“Shit. Captain, I want this one.”
“You can have it. No publicity, though. I don’t want another Black Dahlia mess.”
“What about another man to work with me?”
Dietrich sighed–long and slow. “If the victim warrants it. For now, it’s just you. We’ve only got four detectives, Danny. If this John Doe was trash, I don’t want to waste another man.”
Danny said, “A homicide is a homicide, sir.”
Dietrich said, “You’re smarter than that, Deputy.”
Danny said, “Yes, sir,” hung up, and rolled.
o o o
The day had turned cool and cloudy. Danny played the radio on the ride to Allegro; the weatherman was predicting more rain, maybe flooding in the canyons–and there was no news of the horrific John Doe. Passing the building site, he saw kids playing touch football in the mud and rubberneckers pointing out the scene of last night’s spectacle–an SID prowl of the lot would now yield zero.
The print wagon and abandoned Buick were up at the end of the block. Danny noticed that the sedan was perfectly parked, aligned with the curb six inches or so out, the tires pointed inward to prevent the vehicle from sliding downhill. A psych lead: the killer had just brutally snuffed his victim and transported the body from fuck knows where, yet he still had the calm to coolly dispose of his car by the dump scene–which meant that there were probably no witnesses to the snatch.