Blood Test

6

The two uniformed policemen were muscular giants, one white and blond, the other coal-black, his partner’s photographic negative. They questioned us briefly, spending most of their time with the Iranian desk clerk. They didn’t like him instinctively, and showed it in the way L.A.P. D. cops do — by being overly polite.

Most of their interrogation had to do with when he’d last seen the Swopes, what cars had come in and out, how the family had been behaving, who had called them. If you believed him, the motel was an oasis of innocence and he was the original see-no-evil, hear-no-evil kid.

The patrolmen cordoned off the area around room fifteen. The sight of their squad car in the center of the motor court must have ruffled some feathers — I saw fingers drawing back corners of curtains in several of the rooms. The policemen noticed, too, and joked about calling Vice.

Two additional black and whites pulled into the lot and parked haphazardly. Out of them stepped four more uniforms, who joined the first two for a smoke and a huddle. They were followed by a crime scene technical van and an unmarked bronze Matador.

The man who got out of the Matador was in his midthirties, big and heavily built, with a loose, ungainly walk. His face was broad and surprisingly unlined, but bore the stigmata of severe acne. Thick drooping brows shadowed tired eyes of a startling bright green hue. His black hair was cut short around the back and sides but worn full on top in defiance of any known style. A thick shock fell across his forehead like a frontal cowlick. Similarly unchic were the sideburns that reached to the bottom of his soft-lobed ears and his attire — a rumpled checked madras sportcoat with too much turquoise in it, a navy shirt, gray-and-blue striped tie, and light blue slacks that hung over the tops of suede desert boots.

“That one’s got to be a cop,” said Beverly.

“That’s Milo.”

“Your friend — oh.” She was embarrassed.

“It’s okay, that’s what he is.”

Milo conferred with the patrolmen then took out a pad and pencil, stepped over the tape strung across the doorway to room fifteen, and went inside. He stayed in there awhile and came out taking notes.

He loped over to the front office. I got up and met him at the entrance.

“H’lo, Alex.” His big padded hand gripped mine. “Hell of a mess in there. Not really sure what to call it yet.”

He saw Beverly, walked over, and introduced himself.

“Stick with this guy,” he pointed to me, “and inevitably you’re going to get into trouble.”

“I can see that.”

“Are you in a hurry?” he asked her.

“I’m not going back to the hospital,” she said. “All I’ve got, otherwise, is a run at three thirty.”

“Run? Oh, like in cardiovascular stimulation? Yeah, I tried that but the chest began to hurt and visions of mortality danced before my eyes.”

She smiled uneasily, not knowing what to make of him. Milo’s great to have around — in more ways than one — when your preconceptions get overly calcified.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be out of here long before then. Just wanted to know if you could wait while I interview Mr. — ” he consulted the pad, “Fahrizbadeh. Shouldn’t take long.”

“That would be fine.”

He escorted the desk clerk outside and over to fifteen. Beverly and I sat in silence.

“This is horrible,” she said, finally. “That room. The blood.” She sat stiffly in her chair and pressed her knees together.

“He could be okay,” I said without much conviction.

“I hope so, Alex. I really do.”

After a while Milo returned with the desk clerk, who slunk behind the counter without a glance at us and disappeared into the back room.

“Very unobservant guy,” said Milo. “But I think he’s on the level, more or less. Apparently his brother-in-law owns the place. He’s studying business administration at night and works here instead of sleeping.” He looked at Beverly. “What can you tell me about these Swope people?”

She gave him a history similar to the one I’d received in the Laminar Airflow Unit.

“Interesting,” he reflected, chewing on his pencil. “So this could be anything. The parents taking the kid out of town in a hurry, which might not be a crime at all unless the hospital wants to make a thing out of it. Except if that was the case, they wouldn’t leave the car behind. Hypothesis B is the cultists did the job with the parents’ permission, which is still no crime. Or without, which would be good old-fashioned kidnapping.”

“What about the blood?” I asked.

“Yeah, the blood. The techs say O positive. That tell you anything?”

“I think I remember from the chart,” said Beverly, “that Woody and both of the parents are O. I’m not sure about the Rh factor.”

“So much for that. It’s not a hell of a lot anyway, not what you’d expect if someone got shot or cut—” He saw the look on her face and stopped himself.

“Milo,” I said, “the boy’s got cancer. He’s not terminally ill — or wasn’t as of yesterday. But his disease is unpredictable. It could spread and invade a major blood vessel, or convert to leukemia. And if either of those occur, he could suddenly hemorrhage.”

“Jesus,” said the big detective, looking pained. “Poor little guy.”

“Isn’t there something you can do?” demanded Beverly.

“We’ll do our best to find them but to be honest it won’t be easy. They could be just about anywhere by now.”

“Don’t you put out A.P.B.’s or something like that?” she insisted.

“That’s already been done. As soon as Alex called I got in touch with the law in La Vista — it’s a one-man show run by a sheriff named Houten. He hasn’t seen them but he promised to keep a lookout. He also gave me a good physical description of the family and I put it over the wire. Highway patrols got it, as well as L.A. and San Diego P.D.s and all the decent-sized departments in between. But we’ve got no vehicle to look for, no plates. Anything you’d like to suggest in addition to all of that?”

It was a sincere request for ideas, devoid of sarcasm, and it threw her off guard.

“Uh, no,” she admitted, “I can’t think of anything. I just hope you find him.”

“I hope so, too — can I call you Beverly?”

“Oh, sure.”

“I don’t have any brilliant theories about this, Beverly, but I promise to give it a lot of thought. And, if you think of anything, call me.” He gave her a card. “Anything at all, okay? Now, can I have one of the men give you a lift home?”

“Alex could—”

He flashed her a wide, loose-lipped smile. “I’m going to be needing to talk to Alex for a while. I’ll get you a ride.” He went out to the six patrolmen, selected the best-looking of the bunch, a trim six-footer with curly black hair and shiny teeth, and brought him back to the office.

“Ms. Lucas, this is Officer Fierro.”

“Where to, ma’am?” Fierro tipped his hat. She gave him an address in Westwood and he guided her to his squad car.

Just as she was getting in, Milo rummaged in his shirt pocket and called out, “Hey, Brian, hold on.”

Fierro stopped and Milo bounded over to the car. I jogged along with him.

“This mean anything to you, Beverly?” He handed her a match-book.

She examined it. “Adam and Eve Messenger Service? Yeah. One of the nurses told me Nona Swope had gotten a job as a messenger. I remember thinking it was strange — why would she get a job when they were only in town temporarily?” She looked at the matchbook more closely. “What is this, a hooker service or something like that?”

“Something like that.”

“I knew she was a wild one,” she said angrily, and gave him back the matchbook. “Is that all?”

“Uh huh.”

“Then I’d like to go home.”

Milo gave the signal and Fierro got behind the wheel and started up the engine.

“Uptight lady,” said Milo after they drove away.

“She used to be a sweet young thing,” I said. “Too much time on the cancer ward can do things to you.”

He frowned.

“Quite a mess in there,” he said.

“Looks bad, doesn’t it?”

“You want me to speculate? Maybe, maybe not. The room was tossed by someone who was angry. But couldn’t it have been one of the parents, furious at having a sick kid, all scared and confused about pulling him out? You worked with people in that situation. Ever see anyone freak like that?”

I reeled back a few years.

“There was always anger,” I told him. “Most of the time people talked it out. But sometimes it got physical. I can recall at least one intern getting slugged by a father. Plenty of threats. One guy who’d lost his leg in a hunting accident three weeks before his daughter came down with kidney tumors carried a couple of pistols into the hospital the day after she died. It was usually the ones who denied it and held it in and didn’t communicate with anyone who were the most explosive.” Which fit the description Beverly had given me of Garland Swope. I told him so.

“So that could be it,” he said uneasily.

“But you don’t think so.”

The heavy shoulders shrugged.

“I don’t think anything at this point. Because this is a crazy city, pal. More homicides each year and folks are getting wasted for the weirdest reasons. Last week, some old character jammed a steak knife in his neighbor’s chest because he was sure the guy was killing his tomato plants with evil rays from his navel. Deranged assholes walk into fast-food joints and mow down kids eating burgers, for chrissake. When I first went into Homicide things seemed relatively logical, pretty simple, really. Most of the stuff we used to catch was due to love or jealousy or money, family feuds — your basic human conflicts. Not now, compadre. Too many holes in the Swiss cheese? Ice the deli man. Looney Tunes.”

“And this looks like the work of a crazy?”

“Who the hell knows, Alex? We’re not talking hard science. Most probably we’ll find it was what I said before. One of them — probably the father — got a good look at the shitty cards he’d been dealt and tossed the room. They left the car behind so it’s probably temporary.

“On the other hand, I can’t guarantee they didn’t happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, didn’t collide with a nutcase who thought they were Pluto Vampires out to take over his liver.” He held the matchbook between thumb and forefinger and waved it like a miniature flag.

“Right now,” he said, “all we’ve got is this. It’s not in my ballpark but I’ll pay the place a visit and follow it up for you, okay?”

“Thanks, Milo. Getting to the bottom of it would calm a few people down. Want company?”

“Sure, why not? Haven’t seen you in a good while. If missing the lovely Ms. Castagna hasn’t made you unbearably morose, you might even turn out to be good company.”