Danny said, “Jesus fuck.”
Layman said, “An appropriate blasphemy, but it gets worse. Here’s some incidentals first:
“One, no residual heroin in the bloodstream–Mr. Doe was not now addicted, although needle marks on his arms indicate he once was. Two, death occurred around 1:00 to 2:00 A.M., and the neck and genital bruises were both postmortem. The cuts on the back were postmortem, almost certainly made by razor blades attached to something like a pine slab or a 2 by 4. So far, brutal– but not past my ken. However…”
Layman stopped–his old classroom orator’s pause. Danny, sweating out his jolts of bonded, said, “Come on, Doc.”
“All right. The substance in the eye sockets was KY Jelly. The killer inserted his penis into the sockets and ejaculated–at least twice. I found six cubic centimeters of semen seeping back toward the cranial vault. O+ secretor–the most common blood type among white people.”
Danny opened the phone booth door; he heard wisps of bebop and saw Coleman Healy going down on one knee, sax raised to the rafters. “The bites on the torso?”
Layman said, “Not human is what I’m thinking. The wounds were too shredded to make casts from–there’s no way I could have lifted any kind of viable teeth marks. Also, the ME’s assistant who took over after you pulled your little number swabbed the affected area with alcohol, so I couldn’t test for saliva or gastric juices. The victim’s blood–AB+–was all I found there. You discovered the body when?”
“Shortly after 4:00 A.M.”
“Then scavenging animals down from the hills are unlikely. The wounds are too localized for that theory, anyway.”
“Doc, are you sure we’re dealing with teeth marks?”
“Absolutely. The inflammation around the wounds is from a mouth sucking. It’s too wide to be human–”
“Do you think–”
“Don’t interrupt. I’m thinking that–maybe–the killer spread blood bait on the affected area and let some kind of well-trained vicious dog at the victim. How many men are working this job, Danny?”
“Just me.”
“ID on the victim? Leads?”
“It’s going well, Doc.”
“Get him.”
“I will.”
Danny hung up and walked outside. Cold air edged the heat off his booze intake and let him collate evidence. He now had three solid leads:
The homosexual mutilations combined with Coleman Healy’s observation of Marty Goines being “fruit”; his “nance” “sugar daddy type”–who resembled the tall, gray-haired man the bartender saw with Goines, heading toward the stolen Buick last night–an hour or so before the estimated time of death; the heroin OD cause of death; the bartender’s description of Goines weaving in a junk nod–that jolt of dope a probable precursor to the shot that burst his heart; Goines’ previous addiction and recent dope cure. Putting the possible animal mutilations out of mind, he had one hard lead: the tall, gray-haired man–a sugar daddy capable of glomming heroin, hypodermic syringes and talking a reformed junkie into geezing up on the spot and ditching his New Year’s Eve gig.
And no LAPD cooperation–yet–on local horse pushers; a junkie squeeze was the only logical play.
Danny walked across the street to Tommy Tucker’s Playroom, found an empty booth and ordered coffee to kill the liquor in his system and keep him awake. The music/motif was ballads and zebra-striped upholstery, cheap jungle wallpaper offset by tiki torches licking flames up to the ceiling, another fire hazard, a blaze to burn the whole block to cinder city. The coffee was black and strong and made inroads on the bonded; the bop was soft– caresses for the couples in the booths: lovebirds holding hands and sipping rum drinks. The total package made him think of San Berdoo circa ‘39, him and Tim in a hot Olds ragger joy-riding to a hicktown prom, changing clothes at his place while the old lady hawked Watchtowers outside Coulter’s Department Store. Down to their skivvies, horseplay, jokes about substitutes for girls; Timmy with Roxanne Beausoleil outside the gym that night–the two of them bouncing the Olds almost off its suspension. Him the prom wallflower, declining seconds on Roxy, drinking spiked punch, getting mawkish with the slow grind numbers and the hurt.
Danny killed the memories with police work–eyeball prowls for Health and Safety Code violations, liquor infractions, wrongness. The doorman was admitting minors; high yellows in slit gowns were oozing around soliciting business, there was only one side exit in a huge room sixteen seconds away from fireballing. Time passed; the music went from soft to loud to soft again; Coffee and constant eye circuits got his nerves fine-honed. Then he hit paydirt, spotting two Negroes by the exit curtains pulling a handoff: cash for something palmable, a quick segue into the Parking lot.