I found Lee on the sidewalk, helping string up crime scene ropes. He stared through me, like all he could see was the ghosts in the air. I said, “Junior Nash, remember?”
Lee’s gaze zeroed in on me. “He didn’t do this. He’s trash, but he didn’t do this.”
Noise rose from the street as more reporters arrived and a line of blues linked arms to restrain them. I shouted to make myself heard: “He beat an old woman to death! He’s our priority warrantee!”
Lee grabbed my arms and squeezed them numb. “This is our priority, and we’re staying! I’m senior, and I say so!” The words rumbled over the scene, causing heads to turn in our direction. I pulled my arms free and snapped to who Lee’s ghost was.
“Okay, partner.”
o o o
Over the next hour, 39th and Norton filled up with police vehicles, reporters and a big crowd of rubberneckers. The body was removed on two sheet-covered stretchers; in the back of the meat wagon a lab team rolled the dead girl’s prints before hauling her downtown to the morgue. Harry Sears gave the press a handout that Russ Millard composed, the straight dope of everything except the gutting of the stiff. Sears drove to City Hall to check the records of the Missing Persons Bureau, and Millard stayed behind to direct the investigation.
Lab technicians were dispatched to prowl the lot for possible murder weapons and women’s clothing; another forensic team was sent to check for latents and bloodstains at Junior Nash’s fuck pad. Then Millard counted cop heads. There were four men directing traffic and keeping civilian ghouls in line, twelve bluesuits and five plainclothesmen, Lee and me. Millard dug a street atlas out of his cruiser and divided the entire Leimert Park area into foot beats, then assigned each man his territory and mandatory questions to be asked of every person in every house, apartment and store: Have you heard female screams at any time over the past forty-eight hours? Have you seen anyone discarding or incinerating women’s clothing? Have you noticed any suspicious cars or people loitering in the area? Have you passed by Norton Avenue between 39th and Coliseum Streets during the past twenty-four hours, and if so, did you notice anyone in the vacant lots?
I was assigned Olmsted Avenue, three blocks east of Norton, from Coliseum south to Leimert Boulevard; Lee was given the stores and building sites on Crenshaw, from 39th north to Jefferson. We made plans to meet at the Olympic at 8:00 and split up; I started pounding pavement.
I walked, rang doorbells and asked questions, getting negative answers, writing down the addresses where no one was at home, so that the second wave of canvassing cops would have the numbers to work from. I talked to sherry-sneaking housewives and bratty little kids; to pensioners and on-leave servicemen, even an off-duty cop who worked West LA Division. I threw in questions on Junior Nash and the late model white sedan and showed around his mug shots. All I got was a big fat zero; at 7:00 I walked back to my car disgusted by what I’d blundered into.
Lee’s car was gone, and forensic arclights were being set up at 39th and Norton. I drove to the Olympic hoping for a good series of bouts to take the bad taste of the day out of my mouth.
H.J. Caruso had left tickets for us at the front turnstile, along with a note saying he had a hot date and wouldn’t be showing up. Lee’s ticket was still in the envelope; I grabbed mine and headed for H.J.’s box. The first prelim of an all-bantamweight card had already started, and I settled in to watch and wait for Lee.
The two tiny Mex warriors put on a good fight, and the crowd ate it up. Coins rained down from the top tier; shouts in Spanish and English filled the arena. After four rounds I knew that Lee wasn’t going to show; the bantys, both cut bad, made me think of the butchered girl. I got up and left, knowing exactly where Lee was.
I drove back to 39th and Norton. The entire lot was lit up by arclights–as bright as day. Lee was standing just inside the crime scene rope. The night had turned cold; he was hunched into his letterman’s jacket as he watched the lab techs poke around in the weeds.