“A lead on a suspect–a tall, gray-haired man. The bartender saw him with Goines last night, walking toward a car parked on Central.”
Coleman Healy ran fingers down the keys of his sax. “I’ve seen Marty with a guy like that a couple of times. Tall, middle-aged, dignified looking.” He paused, then said, “Look, Upshaw, not to besmirch the dead, but can I give you an impression I got–on the QT?”
Danny slid his stool back, just enough to get a full-face reaction–Healy wired up, eager to help. “Go ahead, impressions help sometimes.”
“Well, I think Marty was fruit. The older guy looked like a nance to me, like a sugar daddy type. The two of them were playing footsie at a table, and when I noticed it, Marty pulled away from the guy–sort of like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.”
Danny tingled, thinking of the tags he eschewed because they were too coarse and antithetical to Vollmer and Maslick: PANSY SLASH. QUEER BASH. FRUIT SNUFF. HOMO PASSION JOB.
“Coleman, could you ID the older man?”
Healy played with his sax. “I don’t think so. The light here is strange, and the queer stuff is just an impression I got.”
“Have you seen the man before or since those times with Goines?”
“No. Never solo. And I was here all night, in case you think I did it.”
Danny shook his head. “Do you know if Goines was using narcotics?”
“Nix. He was too interested in booze to be a junk fiend.”
“What about other people who knew him? Other musicians around here?”
“Ixnay. We just gabbed a couple of times.”
Danny put out his hand; Healy turned it upside down, twisting it from a squarejohn to a jazzman shake. He said, “See you in church,” and headed for the stage.
Queer slash.
Fruit snuff.
Homo passion job.
Danny watched Coleman Healy mount the bandstand and exchange back slaps with the other musicians. Fat and cadaverous, pocked, oily and consumptive looking, they seemed wrong next to the sleek alto-like a crime scene photo with blurs that fucked up the symmetry and made you notice the wrong things. The music started: piano handing a jump melody to the trumpet, drums kicking in, Healy’s sax wailing, lilting, wailing, drifting off the base refrain into chord variations. The music digressed into noise; Danny spotted a bank of phone booths next to the powder room and rolled back to police work.
His first nickel got him the watch boss at the 77th Street Station. Danny explained that he was a Sheriff’s detective working a homicide–a jazz musician and possible dope addict slashed and dumped off the Sunset Strip. The victim was probably not currently using drugs–but he wanted a list of local H pushers anyway–the snuff might be tied to dope intrigue. The watch boss said, “How’s Mickey these days?,” added, “Submit a request through official channels,” and hung up.
Pissed, Danny dialed Doc Layman’s personal number at the City Morgue, one eye on the bandstand. The pathologist answered on the second ring. “Yes?”
“Danny Upshaw, Doctor.”
Layman laughed. “Danny Upstart is more like it–I just autopsied the John Doe you tried to usurp.”
Danny drew in a breath, turning away from Coleman Healy gyrating with his sax. “Yes? And?”
“And a question first. Did you stick a tongue depressor in the corpse’s mouth?”
“Yes.”
“Deputy, never, ever, introduce foreign elements into interior cavities until after you have thoroughly spotted the exterior. The cadaver had cuts with imbedded wood slivers all over his back– pine–and you stuck a piece of pine into his mouth, leaving similar slivers. Do you see how you could have fouled up my assessment?”
“Yes, but it was obvious the victim was strangled by a towel or a sash–the terrycloth fibers were a dead giveaway.”
Layman sighed–long, exasperated. “The cause of death was a massive heroin overdose. The shot was administered into a vein by the spine, by the killer himself–the victim couldn’t have reached it. The towel was placed in the mouth to absorb blood when the heroin hit the victim’s heart and caused arteries to pop, Which means the killer had at least elementary anatomical knowledge.”