Breakdown

Chapter 29

As we returned to the car, I said, “Britnee went down there because Loach planned on fun with Enid and gave her a make-work assignment mission. Unfortunately for him, she got back early.”

“Yeah... an accident. If it wasn’t classified as a crime, we won’t have it. I’ll check with the crypt.”

“One way to find out.”

“Soon as we get back.”

I had other ideas. No sense arguing.

He drove and I played with my phone.

L.A. murders are cataloged in several places. There’s the LAPD roster, the list kept by the coroner, and supplemental files, mostly for statistical purposes, maintained by a host of state and federal agencies.

All of which require a password or other evidence of official approval.

Anyone with Internet access can log onto the Los Angeles Times Homicide Report, a regularly updated cache that promises to provide “a story for every victim,” and does a fine job of fulfilling that pledge.

I had the name in less than a minute. Told him and read him the summary, verbatim.

“ ‘Roderick Salton, thirty-four, a white man, was found dead in a warehouse district near the courthouse on 1945 South Hill Street in Historic South Central. Though Salton worked as a legal assistant at a downtown law firm, his employers said his job wouldn’t have included court business. His family had no ready explanation for what Salton, a Utah transplant slated to enter law school this fall, would be doing in a warehouse district at night. Anyone with information is requested to contact Detective Roger Enow, LAPD Southwest Division.’ ”

An attached color photo showed a full-faced young man with short dark hair and an open smile. Date of death: sixty-eight days ago.

Milo said, “Enow. Good luck.”

“Not an ace?”

“You’d never mistake him for someone who cares. I gave testimony in that court, what a dump.”

“I’ve been on the stand there, too.”

“Custody cases get heard there?”

“They do when the main court’s overloaded.”

“So you know the neighborhood, like they said — industrial and storage. Supposedly respectable citizen ends up dead like that, it’s usually sex, dope, or both. But everything around there closes up at night. Never heard of hookers or dealers congregating.”

I said, “Which would make it the perfect dump spot. So would being relatively close to Salton’s work downtown. And a lawyer would be familiar with the area.”

“Back to that damn firm. Something bad starts there and finishes a few miles south? Did I miss cause of death?”

I re-read. “None listed.” My chest got tight. “Do me a favor and call Bernstein now.”

“Why?”

I told him.

He went bone-white.

The pathologist’s voice boomed through the hands-off speaker. “Correct, Victim Salton is the only other adult poisoning of uncertain manner in the county other than Victim Chase. I already told you it wasn’t the same toxin so don’t get all heated up.”

“You have any feelings about manner?”

“I don’t deal in feelings, I deal in data. If I was a betting man, I’d go for suicide as most likely, then homicide. But until I get some evidence, it will remain undetermined.”

“Enow’s on the case, you’re unlikely to get anything close to evidence.”

“I’m aware of that, not my problem,” said Bernstein. “How’d you come across it?”

Milo explained, leaving out Alicia and Imelda and concentrating on the link to J. Yarmuth Loach.

“DePauw’s lawyer?” said Bernstein. “You’ve got a connection between him and Victim Chase?”

“He’s got business and personal relationships with DePauw. Is managing the property in her absence.”

“That’s a connection?” said Bernstein. “What, you’re thinking she’s absent because he wants her to be? Be careful, too much creativity erodes the soul.”

Milo and I looked at each other. That possibility hadn’t entered our minds.

He said, “Anything’s possible, Bill.”

“Hopefully not,” said Bernstein. “A universe of possibilities is the definition of hell. Well, this isn’t probative but I suppose it’s provocative. You’ve complicated my life.”

“Complicated my own. Could you please fax Salton’s file?”

“I don’t fax, my assistant does and she’s gone home. I should be gone, too — all right, I’ll bring it to your office, you’re on the way. I’m talking the original, you’re responsible for copying and getting it back to me.”

“Great. When?”

“Confirmation: You’re at your office.”

“On the way.”

“I beat you there, I’m not waiting around.”

Milo raced back to the station, we ran up the stairs to his office, and he pulled up the file on Roderick Salton.

“Typical Enow,” he said, reading. “The bare minimum. He even spelled the guy’s name wrong, here. R-O-D-R-I–C-K, in one place, an E in the next paragraph.”

His desk phone rang.

Bill Bernstein said, “Come down immediately.”

The coroner idled a car in the entrance lane of the staff lot, wearing a white baseball cap over the same brown tweed suit and a bright-orange tie patterned with silver scalpels. The car was a sixties Corvette Stingray convertible, electric blue, the white canvas top lowered, chromed tailpipes growling.

Bernstein said, “Finally.” He revved the car. Smoke unfurled around him.

It had taken us all of a minute to reach him.

Milo held out his hand.

Bernstein said, “We’re going to discuss this. Get me in the lot.”

Milo used his card to open the gate and Bernstein sped into a slot marked Reserved Deputy Chief. He stepped out hatless, carrying a larger version of a black leather doctor’s bag, continued past us, and crossed the street without apparent caution.

Milo said, “Thanks for taking the time, Bill.”

“You need to work on your parking situation. I shouldn’t have to make a special request. No way am I leaving my other girl on the street.”

“Nice wheels. You actually drive it to East L.A.?”

“Why not? I’ve got a designated space there in full view of the camera.” Bernstein hefted his bag hard. Something thumped. “I’ve also got a Glock nicer than the ones you get and a carry permit, let some scum try to jack me.”

Milo grinned at me. “We should start calling you Wild Bill.”

“My fraternity brothers beat you to it.”

Bernstein threw open the station door, bounded up the stairs, stopped at the mouth of the corridor. “Which one’s your office?”

Milo led him there.

“This?” said Bernstein. “Who’d you offend? Find somewhere appropriate for human habitation.”

Milo already had; an interview room several doors down. He said, “Good idea, Bill — okay, that one will work.”

“It better,” said Bernstein. “You’ve put me in a foul mood.”

Once inside, he said, “Three chairs, good.” His pug nose wrinkled. “Stinks, you need better maintenance.”

My nose picked up a faint trace of perspiration. I’d been at the crypt when the stench of decay permeated the entire building.

Bernstein placed his black bag on the floor, sat and unclasped, placed papers on the table and squared the pile. “Victim Salton.”

Off came his glasses. He tugged his tie knot. Scalpels flashed. “Being assigned to Enow is tantamount to drifting in the miasma.”

Milo said, “Roger being Roger.”

“He’s a goldbrick, you need to do something about your internal standards. On top of his usual incompetence, he was annoying. Trying to pressure me to rule it as suicide so he could file it as a close and go off fishing somewhere. Fat chance, as if I’d help him clean his plate.” Wry smile. “So to speak. Seeing as we’re talking about oral ingestion.”

“Oral ingestion of what, Bill?”

“I’m getting to that.” Bernstein spread pages, selected one. “Aconite. From the plant aconitum. Also known as monkshood, devil’s helmet, wolfsbane, women’s bane.” He laughed. “Choose your poison.”

Selecting a sheet, he slid it across the table.

Color photo of a long-stalked plant with striking purplish-blue flowers.

“You’re going to say it’s pretty,” said Bernstein. “Don’t think of sticking it in your garden if you’ve got a dog or a small child or a squirrel you care about. It’s got a noble history as an implement of extremely unpleasant death. E.g. Shakespeare — Henry the Fourth, Medea trying to polish off Theseus. As well as various witchcraft loonies, cretins who believe in werewolves, that kind of crap. Even that kiddie book — Harry whatever.”

Milo said, “It’s legal to grow.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? You’d be amazed at how much death potential there is in a random garden. Aconite’s a particularly efficient assassin, a couple of hours and poof, maybe a bit longer if the dose is smaller. The mechanism is the opening of tetrodotoxin-sensitive neural cells — why am I bothering getting technical with you — it screws up the nervous system, okay? You get nauseous and vomit, your internal organs basically explode and bleed out, you shut down, end of story.”

“Sounds like colchicine.”

“It’s far more precise than colchicine. Your victim Salton had minute specks of vomitus on his clothes but he was pretty clean overall so I suspected he’d died elsewhere. I told Enow. Per usual, he didn’t care.”

Milo said, “Any external marks on the body?”

“Not a pinprick. When I see something like that, the first option isn’t going to be poison, it’ll be disease, even young people keel over from strokes, aneurysms, occluded arteries. But even before I opened him I noticed cyanotic fingernail beds, which was intriguing, we’re talking acute oxygen deprivation. Of course, anything cardiac could theoretically cut off — never mind, bottom line, carbon monoxide had to be considered, just as with Victim Chase. Negative. And when I did get inside, I found a total mess that was definitely not CO. I took lots of samples for biopsy and ordered a tox screen immediately. The third extension pulled in aconite. I listed it in my report.”

“Enow didn’t. He just said ‘Poison.’ ”

“Again, not my problem.”

I said, “Colchicine can be used as gout medicine. Any legit uses for this?”

“Some British homeopaths like it for a diuretic, which I think is insane. Even at the dilutions they use, why take a chance? I want to lose water, I’ll eat asparagus, better my pee should smell than my entire body implodes. It’s been used in China and India for herbal concoctions, but those people also grind rhinoceros horn to help geezers get hard-ons, which is about as useful as prayer, so big surprise. To answer your next predictable question, has it been used for murder recently? Not in the U.S., but a few years ago an Indian woman in England cooked up a tasty curry that killed her boyfriend because he’d gone back to his wife. Women’s bane. Hell hath no fury.”

He produced a spotless linen handkerchief, wiped his glasses, put them back on. “Enough neurobiology for dummies. Am I to understand that you’re hypothesizing a connection between Victim Chase and Victim Salton solely because of this lawyer? What’s your theory? A white-glove type buys two poisons from an herbal quack and laces high tea? If so, good luck confirming. There are crap peddlers everywhere from Venice to Chinatown, even worse, the Internet. And none of those idiots register with their fellow idiots at the FDA.”

Milo said, “Actually, we’re wondering about a link to Enid DePauw’s garden.”

Bernstein said nothing.

“Women’s bane, Bill?”

“I get it. What’s her connection to Salton?”

Silence.

“You don’t have one but you’re ready to complicate matters.”

“Bill—”

“I suggest you keep a clear head. The only common link is the lawyer and in the case of Victim Chase, it’s indirect at best. We know the colchicine didn’t originate on DePauw’s property. We looked, you looked.” His finger jabbed the photo. “Did you observe this growing there?”

“I wouldn’t have been looking, Bill.”

I said, “We could be talking potted plants. Or something that got dug up.”

“Coulda woulda. Either way, you’re not going to find the evidence this late in the game. The larger question is why this lawyer — or that woman — would kill a homeless psychotic and a legal assistant. What’s the connection between your victims?”

Milo shook his head.

Bernstein said, “Precisely.”

I said, “Maybe the motive was fun.”

Milo swiveled toward me. Bernstein stared. “Are you basing that on psychological data or fishing?”

I said, “Everything needs to be considered.”

“Ridiculous. If that was true, the world would be chaos,” said Bernstein. “So Lucretia Borgia is alive and well in Bel Air? What’s next, eye of newt, tongue of toad? Be logical, narrow your focus to a point where there are concrete steps you can take.”

Milo said, “Such as?”

Bernstein flushed. “I’m on the stand now? The answer is I don’t know. Happy?” Clasping his suitcase, he got up. “You learn something that clarifies manner, let me know.”

I said, “Did Salton’s family try to contact you?”

“You’ve got the answers and the questions.”

Milo said, “It’s a good question, Bill, seeing as manner is still undetermined and Roger didn’t give them squat.”

“And you’ll do better by them? Not from what I’ve heard so far.”

He turned to leave.

Milo said, “Sorry if doing my job annoys you, Bill, but I need to make sense—”

The coroner stopped short, rotated slowly. His color remained high.

“I’m grievously overworked because the county is a tight-fisted bastard and refuses to staff adequately. Last night I was there until two a.m. and ate crap takeout instead of the gourmet dinner my bride had prepared. Yet again. Yes, there was contact with Salton’s widow but it was minimal and not relevant to you. She phoned around a month after the death, wanting information. One of my assistants handled the call, we had little to give her, she wasn’t pleased. She certainly didn’t like the idea of suicide.”

“Any theories on her part?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Bernstein groped in his pocket, produced a flip-phone, punched. “Enrique, do you remember talking to a decedent’s wife, two months ago, give or take, surname Salton?... you do? Excellent, Enrique, low risk of Alzheimer’s in your family. Tell me, did she have any theories about what killed her husband?... I see. Did you inquire about that... I understand, no reason to, we don’t have all day to jaw with families... no, probably not. No, you’re fine. Keep that cerebrum healthy, Enrique. Get the hell out of there and have a couple of margaritas. Back to your roots, margies originated in El Paso... you did? Good for you. You should go on Jeopardy!”

He clicked off. Color faded, but more fatigue than relaxation. “Apparently she said something about it having to do with work. Even if we had passed that along to Enow, what’s the chance he’d have done anything about it?”

“Zero,” said Milo.

“Less than zero,” said Bernstein.

“One good thing about Enow not giving a shit is no toes to step on when I contact the wife myself.”

Bernstein stooped, unclasped his black bag, sifted through paper. “Here’s her number.”

Milo and I remained in the interview room.

He said, “Bill makes me look light and airy. But even for him, that was intense.”

I said, “Rigid personality coming up against new possibilities.”

“Not a good trait for a coroner.”

“Usually it’s no problem, you know the typical homicide.”

“Shot to the head, knife to the gut, write the report.”

“Zelda he pegged as accidental, Salton as undetermined, even though he thought the body had been moved. Now he’s got to consider both as possible murders and wonder if he missed something. He didn’t, but he has high standards for everyone, including himself.”

“Zelda, Salton, the maids,” he said. “You really think this could be a fun thing? God, I hope not.” His eyes lowered to the phone number Bernstein had given him. “Let’s see if the widow has any suggestions.”

Roderick and Andrea-Leah Salton’s listed address was an apartment in North Hollywood. At this hour, a trip to the Valley would be a hydrocarbon crawl.

Milo switched his phone to speaker and called. A woman answered. He hadn’t gotten far explaining when she said, “Something came up about Roddy?”

“We’d like to go over the case in person, Mrs. Salton.”

“You’ve still got nothing.”

“We’re taking a fresh look. If you could spare some time—”

“Fresh,” she said. “He was certainly stale — your predecessor. Why not, come over.”

“Traffic’s gonna slow us down, ma’am. If we set out later, say seven, seven-thirty, will you still be around?”

“I’m around. I don’t go anywhere.”