Hollywood Crows

TWENTY-TWO

FLOTSAM SAID TO JETSAM, “One of the corpse cops just arrived.”

Hollywood homicide D2, Albino Villaseñor, was the first detective to arrive from home. He parked on the street and emerged from the car with a plastic briefcase and a flashlight, wearing the same brown Men’s Wearhouse suit that he’d worn every time Flotsam had seen him.

His bald head glinted under the luminescence provided by the Hollywood moon, and his white mustache looked wild and feline from his having slept facedown in bed. He nodded to the surfer cops and plodded toward the arched doorway in no particular hurry to see another of the multitude of dead bodies he’d seen during his long career.

He turned toward the street when a white van with a TV news logo on the door climbed the steep street and parked as near as it could get to the driveway. And close behind it was a news van from another Los Angeles TV station. The toney Mt. Olympus address on the police band was drawing them from their beds.

After the detective was inside the foyer, Flotsam said to Jetsam, “Dude, do you think a homicide dick gets a secret high when someone else gets laid low? Wouldn’t that, like, give you the guilts?”

“It’d creep me out, bro,” Jetsam said. “And it looks like there’s gonna be an opening in the Crow office, for sure.”

By this time, the forensics van had arrived and criminalists wearing latex gloves and booties were in the bedroom, treating the situation like a full-scale murder investigation, even though Bino Villaseñor had been informed by the patrol watch commander that the only crime committed had been perpetrated by the decedent. But with an LAPD cop even peripherally involved, great investigative care was to be taken, per orders from the West Bureau deputy chief. Just in case things turned out to be more dicey than they seemed.

“Here come the body snatchers,” Flotsam said when the coroner’s van was waved into the driveway by one of the morning-watch officers who’d received the original call.

When Bino Villaseñor got inside, he found Dan Applewhite in the kitchen with Bix Ramstead, who sat staring at his coffee cup, eyes red and ravaged.

The detective, who did not know the Crow personally, nodded at him. Bino Villaseñor, speaking in the lilting cadence of the East Los Angeles barrio where he’d grown up, said to Bix, “Soon as somebody else from our homicide team arrives, I’d like them to take you to the station. I’ll get down there as soon as I can.”

Bix Ramstead nodded and continued to stare. The detective had seen it before: the unnerving, hopeless look into the abyss.

The detective said to another of the morning-watch cops standing in the foyer by the staircase, “Where’s the lady of the house?”

“Up in one of the bedrooms to your left,” the cop said. “She’s with a woman officer from the midwatch.”

Bino Villaseñor climbed the stairs to the upper floor, looked in the master bedroom where lights had been set up, and did not enter while the criminalists were at work, but he could see that blood had drenched the carpet under Ali’s body. The detective turned left and walked to Nicky’s bedroom, where he found Margot Aziz, still in pajamas and robe, dried blood on her cheek and chest, sitting on the bed, apparently weeping into a handful of tissues. He didn’t know the burly female officer with her, but he indicated with a motion of his head that she could leave. Gert Von Braun walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

“I’m Detective Villaseñor, Mrs. Aziz,” he said to Margot. “We might need you to come to the station for a more formal statement, but I have a few preliminary questions I’d like to ask.”

“Of course,” Margot said. “I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

Bino looked around the huge bedroom, at the mountain of toys and gadgets and picture books and the biggest TV set he’d ever seen in a child’s bedroom, and he said, “Where is your son?”

“He’s spending the night with my au pair,” she said. “That’s why I…well, that’s why Bix and I…you know.”

“How long have you and Officer Ramstead been intimate?” the detective asked, sitting on a chair in front of a PlayStation and opening his notebook folder.

“For about five months.” She almost said “on and off” but realized how inappropriate that would sound and said, “More or less.”

“Do you often sleep together here?”

“This is the first time we’ve ever slept together anywhere. On the other occasions we went to hotels for brief interludes.”

“Tell me what happened after you and Officer Ramstead went to sleep.”

“I heard a noise.”

“What kind of noise?”

“Ali’s car. The window was open and I heard it, but of course I didn’t know it was him. It could have been someone visiting next door. There’s a Russian man living there who gets visitors at all hours.”

“What’d you do then?”

“I’ve been frightened for some time about my husband. He’s irrational… was irrational. He hated me and wanted to take my son from me any way he could. I’ve told my lawyer, William T. Goodman, numerous times about threats my husband made. I can give you my lawyer’s phone number.”

“Later,” the detective said. “Did you tell anyone else about the threats? Did you report the threats to the police?”

“I tried to,” she said. “I told it to Officer Nate Weiss of the Community Relations Office, and Sergeant Treakle, and Detective Fernandez, and of course Bix Ramstead.”

That surprised Bino Villaseñor, who said, “Did any of the officers talk to you about making a police report against your husband for making terroristic threats?”

“Nobody seemed to think the threats were explicit enough to qualify as a crime. Everyone seemed convinced that a successful businessman like Ali Aziz wouldn’t do anything irrational. But I knew he was an insanely jealous and dangerous man, especially where our son was concerned. I knew he’d eventually try to steal Nicky from me. What I didn’t know was that he was insane enough to come here to murder me.”

“How’d he get in? Did he still have a key?”

“Not that I know of,” she said. “I changed the locks when he turned vicious during our divorce and custody battles.”

“How about the alarm? Didn’t you change the code when he moved out?”

“Yes,” she said, “but…sorry, it’s hard to talk about.”

“Take your time,” the detective said.

“I’m ashamed. So ashamed. But the truth is, Bix and I were drinking quite a lot. He drank a lot more than I did, and I had to practically carry him up the stairs. And, well, we made love. We were both exhausted. I simply could not get up again to set the alarm. I dozed off. I don’t know, maybe I felt secure with a police officer…with Bix in bed with me. I’d forgotten that the front door was unlocked.”

“Why was it unlocked? Doesn’t it have a self-locking latch on it?”

“Yes, but Bix unlatched it when he went out to his car to get something.”

“To get what?”

“His gun.”

“He went outside to get his gun? Why?”

“I wanted to buy a gun as protection, and I needed to know how things like the safety button work. I asked Bix to show me. You see, I was convinced that Ali might snap one of these days. And apparently he did.”

She could see that the detective was very interested now. He’d stopped making notes. He looked her in the eye and said, “Let’s go back to where you heard the car in the driveway. What did you do?”

“I tried to wake Bix. I poked him. I called his name. He wouldn’t budge. He was out cold, snoring. He was very drunk when we went to bed.”

“Then?”

“Then I crept to the landing and looked down and I was almost sure I heard the front door creaking on its hinges. And I ran back in the bedroom and shook Bix and said his name, but it was no use. Bix’s gun and keys and wallet were on the nightstand. I took his gun out of the holster. You have no idea how terrified I was.”

“And then?” the detective said, and his dark eyes under wiry white eyebrows were penetrating.

“Then I didn’t know what to do!”

“Did you try to phone nine-one-one?”

“There wasn’t time! I could hear his footsteps on the stairs! He was coming fast! I was panicked!”

“Then?”

“I ducked behind the closet door! He came in the room! He had the gun in his hand! He was walking toward the bed with the gun pointed! I thought he was going to shoot Bix! I leaped out and I got between him and Bix and I yelled! I yelled, ‘Ali, don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’ But he turned and pointed the gun at me and I fired!”

She buried her face in tissues then, said, “Excuse me,” and got up and ran into Nicky’s bathroom, where he heard her turn on the water in the sink.

When she returned, the dried blood was no longer on her cheek and chest, and she said, “I’m sorry. I was feeling nauseous. And I didn’t know there was blood on me till I looked in the mirror just now. I guess I knelt beside him. I don’t even remember that. You’ll have to ask Bix what happened then. I don’t think I fainted, but I just have no memory of what happened after I fired.”

“How many times did you fire?” the detective asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Had you ever fired a handgun before?”

“Yes, in the Valley at a gun shop. I went there thinking about buying a gun because of Ali. I took a shooting lesson and decided I’d ask Bix about which gun I should buy. I can give you the name of the gun shop. I have it downstairs in my phone file.”

“Is there anyone else you told about the threats your husband made against you?”

“I don’t have any close girlfriends to confide in. My entire life involves taking care of my son. Let’s see, other than the police officers I named…” Then she said, “Yes, two more police officers.”

“Who’re they?”

“The ones who came the night Sergeant Treakle was here. I thought I heard footsteps outside on the walkway between my property and my neighbor’s. I felt sure it was Ali, but the officers looked around and couldn’t find anything. You can get their names from Sergeant Treakle at Hollywood Station.”

The detective cocked an eyebrow, closed his notebook, and said, “Speaking of Hollywood Station, I think it would be helpful if you would come down to the station now for a few more questions and a more formal statement.”

“Are you accusing me of something?” she said.

“No, it’s just routine,” the detective said.

“I can’t possibly go there,” Margot said. “I’ve been through a great trauma. As soon as your people are out of my house, I’ve got to have my au pair bring Nicky home. There’s a lot for me to do, as you can imagine. I’ll be here at my house to help you any way I can, but I won’t go to the police station unless my lawyer agrees to it and goes with me. And that would happen only after I get some sleep. I’m exhausted.”

“I see,” Bino Villaseñor said, studying her more closely than ever.

A sergeant from Watch 3 told 6-X-66 that one of his morning-watch units would take over, and the midwatch team could go end-of-watch. While 6-X-66 was heading back to Hollywood Station, Gert Von Braun said to Dan Applewhite, “I wish we’d pulled that guy outta his Jaguar. Maybe we’d have found the gun.”

“We had no probable cause,” Dan said. “His driver’s license had the Mount Olympus address on it, and his registration too. It all checked out.”

“I almost always make a guy get out when it’s late at night to see if he’s DUI. Maybe I got intimidated because he was a big-bucks guy from the Hollywood Hills, with lots of LAPD business cards in his wallet.”

“Gert, he wasn’t DUI. He was cold sober.”

“Maybe we shoulda written him a ticket.”

“That woulda delayed what happened by ten minutes, is all.”

“I don’t feel good about the way we handled it.”

“Look, Gert,” Dan said, “that guy was determined to kill his wife and he got what he deserved. Stop beating yourself up.”

“It’s not him I’m thinking about. It’s that Crow, Bix Ramstead. How well do you know him?”

“I’ve seen him around for years, but I never worked partners with him,” Dan Applewhite said.

“He’s through, for sure,” Gert said.

“Bix Ramstead made his choices, just like Ali Aziz,” Dan said. “What happened to both those guys has nothing to do with you and me.”

“I guess so,” Gert said. “But I don’t feel right about it.”

“We’re off tomorrow,” Dan Applewhite reminded her. “So how about doing a Hollywood thing? How about going with me to one of those old movies I told you about? Maybe one starring Tyrone Power. If you wouldn’t mind going out with a geezer.”

“You’re not so old,” she said.

It was still an hour from sunrise when Bino Villaseñor was seated across the table from Bix Ramstead in one of the interview rooms at the Hollywood detectives’ squad room. They had talked for forty-five minutes uninterrupted, all of it recorded.

Bix Ramstead’s eyes seemed sunken in their sockets. He still had the unsettling stare when he wasn’t directly answering a question, what the detective called “the stare of despair.” His mouth was dry and gluey, and when he spoke, the dryness made his lips pop.

Bino Villaseñor said, “You must need a cold drink bad. And so do I.”

The detective left the interview room for several minutes, and Bix put his head down on his arms and closed his eyes, seeing strange images flashing in his mind. When the door opened again, Bix could hear voices outside talking quietly.

Bino Villaseñor put two cold sodas in front of Bix, who was dehydrated from so much alcohol. Bix popped one open and drank it down, then the other. The detective sipped at his and watched Bix Ramstead.

“Is that better?”

Bix nodded.

“We’ve pretty much covered it,” the detective said, “unless you have any more to offer.”

Bix took a deep breath and said, “No. To summarize: I was stinking blind drunk and I don’t remember much of anything after going upstairs. I did hear her yelling ‘Don’t shoot.’ I’m sure of that much. And I damn sure heard the shots. And I saw him dead on the floor, or seconds from death, with blood gushing from chest wounds, and a gun by his hand. Nothing could’ve saved him. I did not talk to Margot about anything after that and did not contaminate the scene in any way. I told her to sit in her son’s room until police arrived. I went downstairs and waited. And I’d give my right arm or both of them if I could set the clock back to seven last night, when I decided I could handle one shot of vodka.”

“Okay, Bix,” Bino Villaseñor said. “I believe you.”

Bix looked up then, the first time the detective could see some life in his eyes, and he said, “Don’t you believe her?”

“I guess I’ll have to,” the detective said. “The stories fit like a glove. A latex glove. But I’ll always wonder about a few things. That woman told no less than half a dozen cops from Hollywood Station and Hollywood South that her husband was threatening her. She may as well have made a video for YouTube entitled My Husband Wants Me Dead. She even took a shooting lesson and wanted to buy a gun. And finally, she managed to get the greatest corroboration in the world. A veteran married police officer, with nothing to gain and everything to lose, was right there as a witness to the event.”

Bix looked at the detective and said gravely, “Do you actually think we conspired to murder her husband?”

“No, I don’t think you conspired with anybody,” the detective said. “You wouldn’t be dumb enough to put yourself right in the bedroom during a capital murder. There’d be lots better ways for you to get it done. But buddy, you were dumb enough to destroy your career. Yet I got this very uneasy feeling about a woman who manages to get her boyfriend in bed for the first time on the very night that her husband decides to murder her in her sleep.”

“I’m not her boyfriend,” Bix said.

“What are you, then?”

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” Bix Ramstead said. “Are we through here?”

“We’re through, except that Internal Affairs is outside, waiting to get at you next.”

Bix gave the detective a bitter smile then and said, “Why would I bother to talk to IA? As you’ve pointed out, my career is over. My pension is lost. My children will be seeing this filthy story on the news. Their classmates will ask them humiliating questions. And my wife, she…”

He stopped there and Bino Villaseñor said, “You’re not gonna talk to them?”

Bix took his badge and ID card from his badge holder, put them on the table, and said, “You talk to them.”

Bino looked in those despairing eyes and instantly thought of the Behavioral Science Services shrink. “Okay, Bix, screw IA. But there’s a couple of news teams outside, waiting to jump all over you. How about letting me call the BSS guy for you? You need to talk to somebody right now, buddy.”

Bix said, “No, I have to go home now and feed Annie.”

Before the detective could say anything further, Bix Ramstead stood and walked out the door of the interview room, out of the detectives’ squad room, and out the front door of the station, toward his minivan in the north lot, where the surfer cops had driven it.

He hadn’t gotten to the parking lot when one of the on-scene reporters, a tall guy with a full head of flaxen hair, wearing light foundation that had smudged the collar of his starched white shirt, leaped from a van, holding a mike. He ran after Bix Ramstead with a camera operator trailing behind.

Bix looked around for a moment until he spotted where the surfer cops had parked his van and was halfway to it when the reporter caught up with him, saying, “Officer Ramstead! Officer Ramstead! Can you tell us how long you and Margot Aziz have been lovers?”

Bix ignored him and kept walking.

The reporter matched him stride for stride and said, “Do you and Mrs. Aziz have future plans?”

Bix ignored him and kept walking.

The reporter said, “Have you phoned your wife about this yet? Have you spoken to your children?”

Bix ignored him and kept walking.

As they reached Bix’s minivan, the reporter asked the ultimate cliché question that Bix Ramstead had personally heard a hundred media hacks ask victims at terrible events.

The reporter said, “How do you feel right now?”

And that got Bix Ramstead’s attention. He turned and said, “How do you feel right now?” And he swung a roundhouse right that caught the reporter on the side of the jaw, knocking him back against the camera operator and sending them both sprawling onto the asphalt of the parking lot.

As Bix was driving away, the reporter picked himself up and yelled, “Man, you are really in trouble now!”

It was late morning by the time Bix got home. The killing of Ali Aziz had happened too late to make the morning newspaper, but he was certain it would’ve been on the morning TV news. He had feared that his brother might be waiting for him.

When he unlocked the door, Annie ran from the bedroom and leaped on him with energy he hadn’t thought she had at her age. She was bursting with joyful whimpers, licking him and bouncing like a puppy. He knelt down and held her in his arms and said, “Oh, Annie, I didn’t feed you last night. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

Then Bix sat down on the floor, his face in Annie’s fur, his arms around her neck, and wept.

When he was able to get up, Bix ignored the flashing on his answering machine. Instead, he went to the kitchen and prepared a huge breakfast for Annie, giving her two hard-boiled eggs, several ounces of boiled chicken breast, and her kibble. He mixed some nonfat cottage cheese in the bowl and put it down on the kitchen floor.

While Annie’s face was buried in the food, he walked out the back door and filled her water bowl to the brim. But while he was doing it, he heard the flap in the doggy door open, and Annie poked her head out to make sure he wasn’t leaving her again.

“Oh, Annie,” he said. “I’m here.”

Then Bix went back inside, and Annie returned happily to her breakfast while he entered his son’s bedroom. Bix looked at a baseball trophy and at photos of Patrick playing ball with Annie when she was a pup, and one of Patrick graduating from middle school. Then he entered his daughter’s room and picked up a photo of Janie and his wife, Darcey, sitting side by side on the piano bench. He couldn’t remember what they were playing when he’d taken the photo and he was surprised to see that Janie had inherited her mother’s lips. How had he never noticed that before?

He entered their bedroom then, his and Darcey’s. She’d never liked the photo of her when she was pregnant with Janie, but he loved that photo for the serenity in her face. He was very glad that his daughter’s features favored Darcey and not himself.

Bix opened the closet door and reached on the high shelf, back behind a pair of hiking boots he wore whenever they went camping. He opened a zipper case and removed his off-duty gun, a two-inch stainless-steel revolver. When he got to the kitchen, he saw that Annie had cleaned the bowl, so he opened the refrigerator and put all of the remaining chicken into the bowl along with more kibble and cottage cheese.

He went to the wall phone and called the LAPD emergency number, got a PSR on the line, and gave his name and address. He asked that a patrol unit be sent code 2. Then he opened the front door quietly, not wanting Annie to see him leaving again. He walked to the front yard and took the revolver from his pocket.

When Annie heard the gunshot she stopped eating. She ran to the living room and looked out the window. Then she bolted through the doggy door into the backyard and ran along the side of the house to the chain-link fence that prevented her from going into the front yard. She stood up on the fence with her front paws until she could clearly see him lying on the grass.

Then Annie started howling. She was still howling when the first black-and-white arrived.