Breakdown

Chapter 38

The warrant arrived shortly after eleven a.m. Two suspects named in the murders of three victims, Rod Salton excluded because Nguyen termed him “insufficiently related.”

Permission granted to enter and search indoor premises as well as the entire 5.23-acre parcel. Milo said, “So what do you think? Day or night?”

I said, “Still day. Night’s more likely to attract attention.”

“I agree. Got the schedules for the cleaners and the gardeners and tomorrow’s clear. Hopefully, a pool service won’t show up. Let’s see if Liz can.”

The anthropologist would be back tonight from San Francisco, would begin setting it up and be ready to work.

Milo told her about the plan to mislabel civilian vans. “How many vehicles will you need and what kind of staff are we talking about? Fewer the better.”

“If I can poach the new postdoc for a day, two of us should be able to handle the digging. Equipment’s nothing heavy. At this stage, we’re talking stakes, rope, chisels, trowels, spades, cameras, brushes, distilled water, vials for samples. One good-sized van should be fine.”

“I’ll get two.”

“This is all covert because you don’t want it getting back to the suspects.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, that’s fine for initial exploration but I can see a problem if we find something. The crypt won’t allow transporting remains except in their vans and those are anything but inconspicuous.”

Milo groaned. Picturing the vehicles like I was: official seals and blue stripes running across the sides topped by Coroner in the same color. Just in case you missed that, the same identification in larger lettering at the rear, along with multiple applications of the legend Law and Science Serving the Community.

“I’ll talk to Bernstein, see if he’s flexible.”

“I can raise it with him, was figuring to ask him to borrow Gregor — the postdoc. Otherwise, I’ll need to find a grad student on short notice and try keeping their mouth shut.”

“Let me do it, Liz. Hope he doesn’t screw us up.”

“He probably won’t. Not because he’s a softie at heart but he’s after the same thing you are. Pathologists hate undetermined.”

Bernstein said, “Your geniuses missed an entire damn section? After my geniuses did the same damn thing?”

“There’s a high wall that’s easy to mistake for the property line, Bill.”

“Bleh bleh bleh bleh. All right, spilled milk. What’s the alleged plan?”

Milo filled him in.

Bernstein said, “Not terrible. Okay, take Gregor, I’m tired of hearing that accent of his and all he’s been doing is rehydrating disarticulated fingers so he can learn how to print our more damaged guests with finesse.”

“I’ll need help with transport if we find something. Vehicles without official labeling.”

“You need?” said Bernstein. “Didn’t you ever study economics? There are no needs, only preferences.”

“Okay, I strongly prefer—”

“All because you don’t want to spook these fine citizens currently cavorting in Rome.”

“They’re rich and socially connected—”

“They’re still thousands of miles away. I think you’re worrying over nothing.”

Milo didn’t answer.

“Passive resistance?” said Bernstein. “Okay, maybe I can fix your problem. One of our vans is supposed to be repainted. It’s stripped down to primer, looks like crap, but we’ve been keeping it in service because we can’t afford to give it up, does that tell you about our workload and our budget? We send it to socially unconnected neighborhoods and stick on a magnetic sign. Kind of — what do those idiots call themselves... Goth.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

“Hold on, I said maybe. For all I know they took it to the paint shop. Wait.”

Moments later: “Your lucky day, it’s still in service, currently doing a pickup in Willowbrook, should be back in a couple of hours. You need it, come pick it up. Hideous ugly heap of scrap, you don’t think that’s going to bend some Bel Air noses?”

“Better than going public, Bill.”

“Your call,” said Bernstein. “I don’t want to hear any more about this until there’s something to dissect.”

Logging onto the White Glove Cleaning website, capturing an image of their sign, and having six copies made at a sign store in West L.A. took a while. I stood outside the sign store and watched as Milo, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, paid cash, hoping the man behind the counter wouldn’t ask questions.

The guy didn’t even look up. Most people aren’t overly afflicted with curiosity. It separates the creative and the tormented from the rest of the pack.

At noon the following day, a white Ford Econoline driven by Liz Wilkinson, and a blue Dodge Ram ProMaster with Milo at the wheel, made their way from the impound lot to Bel Air. Both were tagged with White Glove signs. If you didn’t notice the three bullet holes in the rear bumper of the blue one, you’d never give it a second thought.

No one around to think. The only human walking on St. Denis was a uniformed maid accompanying a mastiff the size of a pony. The dog noticed us. She didn’t.

Once we arrived at the DePauw estate, there was still the matter of getting onto the property without attracting attention or inflicting conspicuous damage.

Milo nosed his van to the gates first, got out and walked to Liz’s window. “I’ll climb over, there’s gotta be a button on the other side. If not, we’ll figure something out.”

“I will do it,” said the crypt postdoc, a crew-cut, muscle-bound M.D., Ph.D. from Warsaw named Gregor Poplawsky. Before Milo could argue, he’d bounded out and scaled the wall. Seconds later, the gates swung open.

Poplawsky beamed. “Correct hypothesis, Lieutenant.” Pointing to a red button atop the swing-arm of the right-hand gate motor.

“Good to hear, Gregor.”

“Yes, I like that, too,” said Poplawsky. “The world being sometimes rational.”

The five-hundred-foot path I’d walked the night of Zelda’s death was a brief motorized ascent. The vans parked in front of the house, the four of us got out and gloved up, and, just as before, we entered the garden on the north side. First step: inspect the house’s rear loggia for potted plants. Seven large ones, in blue and white porcelain pots. Four palms, three ferns. Milo peered through French doors into the house and said, “Nice place. Onward.”

In daylight, the terraced garden was glorious, hedges razor-edged and emerald, trees shaped to uniform height dripping with oranges, mandarins, and lemons. The air was tangy with citrus perfume and wealth.

Despite that, a rancid stink of evil squatted in the back of my sinuses but I doubted anyone else could smell it.

Nothing rational about it; the spot where Zelda had lain was clean. As if she’d never been there.

Liz, Gregor, Milo, and I descended slowly, inspecting flowers along the way. Tea roses, barbered and abloom, were bottomed by hexagonal, brick-edged beds of begonia and vinca. The latter could be used therapeutically — vincristine was an anti-cancer drug. Nothing here suggested the destruction of life.

We kept climbing down, passed the statuary — Greek warrior goddesses — and the pool, a bit tatty, up close. The menagerie of topiary animals was anything but martial: bunnies, squirrels, kittens, birds.

Liz Wilkinson said, “Am I the only one who finds this freaky?”

Gregor Poplawsky said, “A little Disneyland.”

Milo said, “Creepyland.”

We continued walking, arrived at the wall of forest where brick met up with the dirt floor. Parting branches led to the central opening I’d seen online. Maybe three feet wide. The side accesses were narrower, impromptu gaps between the trees, not actual pathways.

Milo cupped his hand over his eyes and peered in. The earth beneath my feet was paler, tan splotched with gray when overhead branches cut off sunlight. Firm, possibly laced with decomposed gravel.

Milo pointed. The rest of us collected behind him and saw what had captured his interest: a rut running through the central walkway.

I said, “Wheelbarrow?”

“Dr. W.?”

Liz had a look. “Something with a single wheel and enough weight to exert pressure, that’s for sure.”

Gregor said, “Unless someone’s a unicyclist, like in a circus, I say yes, wheelbarrow.”

Liz kneeled, pointed to faint lozenges on both sides of the wheel rut. “Those are shoe prints but too indistinct to tell us anything.”

Milo took pictures with his phone, scrawled in his pad. “You bring casting material, Dr. W.?”

“In the van,” said Liz. “I wanted to get an overview first. If we don’t get better than these, casting won’t be worth it. Though I can do a few to look thorough. The wheel print is interesting. Ideally, it’ll run all the way to the back and you’ll have clear evidence of transport. If there are human remains back there. So let’s stay off this stretch and try one of those side paths. Hopefully there’s at least one that hasn’t been used recently.”

We inspected the gaps. Three irregular ribbons, none exhibiting signs of use. None wide enough to walk through without having to draw back branches.

Milo glanced back at the rutted path. “One-lane highway.”

Liz said, “I love how the earth tells stories.”

The forest was a couple of hundred feet deep, growing denser as we neared the wall that pretended to be a border. Freckles of blue sky sparked through the green-black of old growth. The temperature was ten degrees cooler in here, the acid-sweet of summer fruit replaced by a resinous bite of pines and firs, the yeasty smell of dry needles and pinecones crumbling to dust.

Just before the wall was a belt of dry dirt, six or so feet deep and equally wide. The wooden door was unusually tall, running nearly to the top of ten feet of fieldstone. Substantial thing, the door, with stout vertical oak slats crossed by three horizontal boards. Hints of green paint.

Heavy-duty slide bolt, as well. Bronze, handmade by a long-ago craftsman.

No lock.

I said, “No worry anyone would figure it out.”

Milo said, “Let’s hear it for overconfidence.”

He took a closer look at the area directly facing the door. The wheel rut continued, hooked right for a foot, then resumed its trail. Gloving up, he stepped carefully to avoid marring the impression and freed the bolt. Easy slide. He bent and sniffed. “Been WD-40’d recently.”

A soft push opened the door.

A new smell took over.

Gregor said, “Oh, boy. For sure we know this.”

Liz said, “Go back to the van, please, and get the cases marked A and B. A’s the small tools, B’s the camera and the casting materials.”

“Stakes and pins in there, too?” said Gregor.

Someone else might’ve been put off by the second-guessing, but Liz said, “Smart question. Yes, it’s part of the casting kit.”

“You got it, boss.” Gregor turned and retraced the way we’d come, holding back branches and moving gracefully, not missing a step.

Liz said, “He wrestled in one of the Olympics.” She turned back to the open doorway. “There could be prints on the bolt, I forgot to ask for the print kit, but we can glove up and do it later. I’m also going to get a lot of before shots, so no one can say we set anything up.”

Milo pulled out his phone and began taking photos.

“That’s okay for backup, Milo, but I’m going to use my Leica, get as high def as possible.”

Milo said, “I really want to talk to the gardeners. And the damn landscape architect, she certified the place free of colchicine.”

Liz said, “She could be telling the truth, from her limited perspective.”

“She never went back here?”

“There’s no sign anyone tended to the property behind the formal area. The needles and leaves are piled high in there and the trees haven’t been trimmed in a long time. That could work to your benefit, harder to claim a casual intruder.”

Behind us, branches rustled. “Better than the gym,” said Poplawsky, beaming. He toted a large black case in each hand, clamped a smaller box under his arm. “I also bring the fingerprint kit. For the door and what else could happen.”

“Good thinking,” said Liz.

“I need to prove myself.”

Dozens of photos taken at various angles, the bitter-swill stench growing stronger.

One of the cases contained tightly folded white paper suits and booties that the four of us donned, along with latex gloves. The color contrasted nicely with Liz’s chocolate skin. The rest of us looked like ghosts.

Gregor was eager to try out his fingerprinting skills, but Milo said, “Let me.”

He’s adept at lifting latents, sometimes takes over when techs are overburdened or moving too slowly. He pulled up several from the bolt but none from the wood or the bordering stone. “Ready, Dr. W?”

Liz said, “Couldn’t be readier.”

Experienced up close, the rectangle felt like a miniature walled graveyard. We began by examining the border shrubs, using color photos Dr. Ben Haroyushi had sent me, for comparison.

The graceful, crocus-like, lilac flowers of meadow saffron sat at the front of the beds, alongside the lovely, purplish-blue blossoms of wolfsbane. At either end, ephemeral white lily of the valley buds sprouted, at the rear stood the taller plants, both evoking hollyhocks: foxglove with its bright pink saucer-like blooms and a riotous mix of larkspur in white, blue, and mauve.

“Pretty,” said Gregor. “Arranged nicely.”

“Get ready for the garden show,” said Milo. “Look but don’t eat.”

Liz, back at the center of the rectangle, pointed to impressions in the dirt. “This is going to go quickly.”

A pair of lumpy, careless heaps, loose dirt scattered nearby, the rut from the forest running straight to the nearer one. Lots of shoe prints, deeper than those in the forest, mottled the immediate area.

Liz said, “Two sets, one larger than the other, both look like tennis shoes... a couple look clean enough to print. Great!”

She directed as Gregor poured and cast. Once he’d found his rhythm, she returned to the lumps. As she whisked away soil with a brush, the reek grew stronger and she wrinkled her nose and put on a face mask.

Milo said, “Good idea,” and got three masks.

Gregor said, “I’m okay. I want to experience.”

Liz began troweling surface soil, working slowly, meticulously.

Milo walked back to the poison garden, where he squatted and scrawled, Gregor continued casting shoe prints, and I stood around with nothing to do.

My wandering eye spotted a scrap of paper in a far corner and pointed it out. Liz got up and tweezered.

“Gum wrapper,” she said, holding the scrap up to the light. “Oh, you’re kidding — Louis Vuitton makes gum?”

“Fresh breath for the privileged,” said Gregor.

“Something that unusual, let’s bag it. I suppose it could’ve blown in by itself — from that hedge-fund neighbor. But there hasn’t been much wind recently and nothing else has drifted over.”

“Chewing while they worked,” said Milo, taking the wrapper and bagging it.

Gregor said, “Like to them it was casual. Here, what do you think?”

Liz examined the printed shoe impressions. “These are nice. Okay, help me get to the bottom of the real stuff.”

“Shallow grave” didn’t begin to describe it. The bodies had been left less than a foot beneath the surface.

Two bodies, both female. Bloated skin, a pink-white mottle not unlike salami where it wasn’t green. Slipping off the bones and settling in hideous pleats. Deeper discoloration — nearly black — at the tips of digits and the nose. The legs more leathery, particularly where they connected to the feet.

Dark hair for the nearer corpse, white for the other. Generous pelvises on both. Even with the rot, my inexpert eye tagged the bodies as female.

Milo said, “Don’t see any maggots.”

Liz said, “They do their thing early on — the first week or so. Blowflies can arrive within hours. This is early decomp, it could last for months given the dryness and the temperature.”

“Don’t see any lesions, either.”

“Not so far, let’s see.” She got close to the dark-haired body, lifted the skull gently. Reverently. “I see one, now, in the occiput. Discrete, clean hole, my bet’s on a small-caliber bullet.”

Performing a similar inspection of the other body, she said, “Same thing.”

“Execution,” said Milo. “All that poison but they used a gun on these two.”

I said, “Tickets to Rome, no time to spare.”

“Or,” he said, “they’d had enough fun with the others, it was personal. These poor women were vermin to be dealt with quickly.”

Liz probed in the grave. “I’m feeling something down here — if it’s what I think it is — Gregor, come here and give me a hand.” Pointing down at the white-haired corpse.

A plastic sheet was worked under the body and the anthropologists lifted it out. Exposed to the light, the corpse looked smaller, pathetic.

I thought of Imelda Soriano’s family. What they’d learn soon. What Liz pointed out drew me away from that.

Below Imelda was a third body, skeletonized, the bones bare and dry, not even a hint of mummified tissue. The merest fuzz of pale yellowish hair crowned the skull.

Liz Wilkinson said, “This one’s been here for a while.”

“Thirty years,” I said.

“You know who she is?”

Milo said, “She’s the crux of a crazy woman’s reality. I’m calling Wild Bill.”