The Museum of Desire

Chapter 4

I followed him out of the tent, across a strip of cement and a wider belt of dirt, up the steps to the domed pavilion. The structure was impressive at a distance but tatty up close, brick floor cracked and buckling, cement columns crudely molded. The roof was rusting iron covered with dead vines that fought one another for space.

Vipers in a feeding frenzy.

Milo said, “Okay to sit, this area’s been gone over.” He plopped down on a flimsy-looking plastic chair and made it groan. “Lotta crap cleared away, most probably garbage from the party. Lovely stuff — condoms, cups, little baggies with remnants of granular stuff.”

The other chairs looked grubby. I stayed on my feet.

He said, “Any impression at all? I’ll take improv.”

I said, “To my eye, they’ve been dead for a while. I’d guess no more than twelve hours but maybe I’m missing something and they were partygoers from Friday night?”

“You’re not missing anything. The company that books venues swears the place was cleared out three a.m. Saturday. That wouldn’t mean much but every C.I. and tech says the condition of the bodies doesn’t match that long of a time period, even with cool weather, there’d have to be more decomp.”

“The car was moved here after three. How’d it gain access to the property?”

“Same way you and Mr. Walters did, open gate. Cleaning company asks for that, closes up when the job’s over. Nothing inside, anyway, just cheap rental furniture.”

He pulled a panatela from an inside jacket pocket. Rolled it between thick fingers but didn’t unwrap it.

I said, “Didn’t see any maggots on the bodies.”

“There weren’t any, just a few blowflies buzzing around the driver’s door when we arrived. Walters opened two doors then shut them. After he threw up. Looks like the closed car formed a sealed environment.”

“Any cameras on the property?”

“Not a one.”

“Who owns the place?”

“Don’t know yet, cleaning company punted to a rental agent and she hasn’t answered my call.”

He held up the cigar and squinted, as if close inspection would reveal secrets. “What’d you think about all that blood at the bottom?”

“Doesn’t fit the wounds,” I said. “As if it got poured on them postmortem.”

“Everything’s wrong about this picture, Alex. Holes only in the driver and the little guy? Joe Stud groped by a woman old enough to be his mother, looks like a church lady? What the hell is that, Alex? Something creepy-Oedipal? Or whatever you guys are calling it nowadays.”

I shook my head.

He said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, too early to expect wisdom.”

He looked over at the tent. “When the call came in, four bodies in a stretch, I was thinking, just what I need, a gang thing with a hip-hop angle. Or worse, some kids partying got wiped out by who-knows-who. Then I get here and it’s even crazier.”

He returned the panatela to his pocket. “Everyone’s weirded out, Alex. Even George Arredondo — the big tech — before he went scientific, he was on the job, patrol in the toughest part of Lancaster. Ten years of violent domestics, meth monsters, child murders. Nothing bothers him. This does.”

He got up, paced the pavilion, sat back down, rubbed his eyes. “Don’t hold back, I’ll settle for wild theory.”

I said, “Four victims, variation of method. So maybe they were killed separately, at different locations. At some point, they’re collected, cleaned up and costumed postmortem, placed in the car and driven up here. Then they’re splashed with blood and left to be discovered. It feels like some sort of a production. With all those steps, moving the bodies, probably more than one person. Or one bad guy who had plenty of time, a safe place to work, and the ability to escape on foot. Or he’d stashed one of those mini-bikes in the trunk.”

“A physically fit psycho,” he said. “Or a gang of zombie fiends. Wonderful. What else, keep ideating.”

The cigar made a second appearance. As I thought, he smoked. When I began talking, he stopped.

“We’re talking a killer or killers who knew the gate would be left open with no one around. That could mean a past partygoer. Or someone with a link to either the rental company or the house itself. What about the victim I.D.’s?”

He pulled out his notepad, flipped a page. “The men all had their wallets in their pant pockets, nothing on the women. The driver’s Solomon Roget, seventy-eight. I googled him. Legit livery driver, home address near Pico-Robertson, the limo’s registered to him along with a 2001 Cadillac sedan. The poor guy with his fly open is Richard Peter Gurnsey, thirty-six, Santa Monica, the little guy is Benson Mauricio Alvarez, forty-four, lives near downtown.”

“Victims from all over the city,” I said. “Any purse on the woman?”

“Empty. Got the Gucci clasp but Alicia informs me it’s a cheap-shit copy. No blood on it, so it was placed after the red bath.”

I said, “A prop.”

He frowned and turned pages. “Gurnsey — he goes by Rick on his social media pages — has a law degree and works in business affairs at Sony Studios in Culver City. He put himself all over Instagram. Mountain biking, scuba diving, hang gliding, fooling in the gym. He also liked showing off his matte-black BMW and he likes women. All young and cute, no apparent fetish for grannies. Roget has no internet presence and neither does Alvarez, who’s mentally challenged. I reverse-directoried his address. Group home for people with developmental issues able to ‘mainstream and live semi-independently.’ ”

I said, “A mentally slow forty-four-year-old, a narcissistic hotshot, a woman who looks like everyone’s straitlaced aunt, and their chauffeur. It’s like they’re characters in a play. Roget doesn’t advertise?”

“Haven’t found anything yet. He doesn’t appear to work for a company and the limo is registered to him personally so I’m thinking freelance.”

“I wonder how he got business.”

“Maybe word of mouth? Don’t know much about anything, Alex. Let’s go back.”

Reed, Binchy, and Bogomil were waiting for us just inside the tent. Off in a corner, near the limo’s rear tire, stood a coroner’s investigator working her phone. Gloria Mendez pulled down her mask and waved. No trace of her usual smile.

I waved back. Her thumbs stayed busy.

Milo said, “Hey, kids.”

The trio said, “Sir,” in unison, but looked at me. Expecting wisdom.

I repeated what I’d told Milo about multiple offenders and the theatrical quality of the body dump.

Moe Reed said, “Makes sense.”

Sean Binchy said, “Total sense.”

Alicia Bogomil said, “The posing, Doctor. The way Gurnsey was...” She blushed. “Do you see this as a sexual thing?”

“Could be,” I said. “Or it could all be about power.”

“So are sex crimes.”

Reed said, “Sex crimes are about sex and power.” To me: “Right?”

Milo said, “What Dr. D. would like to tell you but won’t because he’s kind and empathic is we’re starting with a lot of weird and nothing else.”

Alicia said, “So what do we need to do, L.T.?”

“Same as any other case, kiddo: learn about the victims.”

“Speaking of which,” she said, “I just took a closer look at the woman. Like I told you, the purse is cheap-phony. She’s also wearing a lot of makeup but it was put on sloppily and where her skin shows through, here” — touching the space between her cheekbone and her ear — “it looks raw. Wind-whipped. And there are blood vessels all over her nose.”

Reed said, “Street person?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Milo chewed his cheek. “Alvarez’s assisted living place is near downtown, lots of shelters and SROs and encampments. There could be a link between the two of them.”

I said, “Alvarez has some sort of mental disability. Maybe she does, too.”

Binchy looked troubled.

Milo said, “What, Sean?”

“Someone taking advantage of the weak.” His freckled face registered sadness. A detective who still believed in inherent goodness.

Bogomil said, “Gurnsey doesn’t fit with that. Unless he did charity work downtown or something like that.”

Milo said, “I like all this thinking — see, I told you Dr. D. would inspire us. Okay, you all know what you need to start with.”

Binchy said, “Canvass the neighborhood.”

“Every house up and down Benedict.”

“Then four death knocks,” said Reed. “How’re we dividing it?”

Milo said, “We’re not. I’ll take all of them.”

The three detectives said nothing.

“It’s called benevolent leadership,” he said. “Let’s get moving.”

Three yessirs and they were gone.

I said, “Taking on your favorite job. Feeling emotionally resilient?”

“What the hell, they’re young and tender, and I’ve already got a mood disorder.”

“What’s that?”

“Personal variant of bipolar. Half the time I’m pissed off, the other I’m merely irritated.”

He strode to the limo where George Arredondo was still working, had a brief conversation with the tech, repeated it with the bespectacled woman. Then over to Mendez for the same.

Shaking his head as he returned. “Gloria says they’ve got copious samples of everything, we’ll see what the lab says but with the big decomp case don’t expect anything quick.”

We exited the tent again and took a quick walk through the house. Empty, gray, echoing, nothing but more lawn furniture, tatty beanbags, and detritus from the party.

Outside, Milo stretched, fooled with the knot of his tie, and looked up at a bluing L.A. sky. “So much evil, so little time. You don’t have to come death-knocking with me, Alex. On the other hand...”

“Good way to learn about the victims.”

“I thought you’d see it my way. Leave the Seville here, I’m in the mood to drive. More than that, I’m feeling all official.”

As we headed for the front parking area, I texted Robin and told her I’d be gone all day.

Bad?

   Complicated.

Ooh. Worse than bad. Okay, love you.

   Love you, too.

A skinny, stick-legged man was exiting the FD ambulance, elbows gripped by two EMTs.

Medium height, caved-in thorax, long gray hair, ragged beard. He wore a brown T-shirt several sizes too large, droopy jeans, and sneakers. The hair flapped as his head shook from side to side in protest.

“Our reporting person,” said Milo. “Care to meet him?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

As we walked toward Enos Walters, Milo said, “The posing. You said stage production. It reminded me of one of those museum dioramas.”

I said, “What would you title it?”

“Un-civilization.”

When Walters saw us he tried to break free of the EMTs’ grip, couldn’t, and shouted, “Fuck this! I’m no suspect!”

Milo said, “Let him go, guys. Mr. Walters, Lieutenant Sturgis, we spoke briefly before.”

“What, you think I can’t remember?”

“You were a little shaky—”

“Wouldn’t you be, seeing something like that?” Walters shook himself off like a gun dog shedding water.

The taller medic said, “His blood pressure’s been all over the place and his atrial beats are premature. We recommend hospitalization for observation.”

“Fuck that,” said Walters. “I’ll outlive you, asshole.”

Milo said, “Up to him.”

“Fucking-A.”

“Your decision, sir.” The EMTs returned to their ambulance and drove off.

Enos Walters said, “Shitheads strap me down, wanna take me to some hospital where they wanna fuck me up.”

Raspy voice accustomed to anger, speech slightly fuzzed as it emanated from between sunken lips. No teeth on top, a few on the bottom, cracked and brown.

Milo said, “Sorry for the inconvenience — can I call you Enos?”

“Ee-no,” said Walters. “Ee-nos sounds too much like... I had enough of that — okay? Got it? Ee-no. Can I call myself what I want?”

One scrawny hand balled, the other scratched a deflated cheek. Crude blue-black tattoos climbed up a stringy neck: lopsided crucifix, tiny devil, incongruously pretty pink rose in full bloom. Under the beard, a haggard hatchet face was dotted by eruptions of nasty-looking pimples. Meth rash.

Walters’s eyes bounced and roamed. “Believe this shit? Build a castle and let assholes party in it?”

“Crazy,” said Milo.

Walters tensed and stepped back, nearly tripping but waving off Milo’s helping hand. “I ain’t crazy. My heart’s okay, too, I’m not celling up in some fucking ward.”

“No offense intended, Mr. Walters. I meant the situation.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Eyelids twitched. “I need to get out of here.”

Milo produced another panatela. “Smoke?”

“Don’t do that shit, used to do Viceroys,” said Walters. “Quit last year. Being healthy. Been here since six thirty, gotta get the fuck out.”

“Sorry for your inconvenience. Could you please tell us what happened when you got here at six thirty?”

“More like six twenty.” Walters looked at the cigar, snatched it, and slipped it into a jean pocket. “Why not, you tried to stick me in that death wagon so yeah, you owe me.”

His eyes bounced around. “I’m being a citizen and you hold me. You guys are something.”

Milo said, “When you got here at six twenty—”

“Yeah, yeah yeah,” said Walters. “Listen carefully, I ain’t repeating.”

Rocking on his feet and fighting for concentration, he told the story, the pace picking up with each sentence until he was racing, spewing out words, barely intelligible.

Brain alleyways detoured permanently by speed. When the verbal flash flood stopped, Walters was mouth-breathing hard.

Lots of words, no revelations.

Milo said, “Thanks. Could I please have your address and phone number?”

“Why?”

“For the record.”

“I don’t do the record,” said Walters. “And I don’t got no phone.”

“You called 911—”

“On this.” Fishing a burner out of his jeans. “Runs out in a few minutes, you won’t reach me so don’t waste my time.”

“How about your address?”

“The Cyril.”

“On Main?”

“Yeah.”

“Room number?”

“It changes,” said Walters. “Now let me outta—”

“The company you work for, Bright Dawn—”

“Bright Dawn Assholes Corporated. I’m finished with that shit.”

“ ’Cause of this?” said Milo.

“ ’Cause of everything. Start early, end late, fuck-all pay.”

“You ever clean this property before?”

“First time. Last time.”

“Who’s the owner of the company?”

“How should I know?” said Walters.

“Who pays you?”

“Irma.”

“Last name?”

“How should I know? Why’s it matter?”

“Filling in details, sir.”

“I was a sir, you wouldn’t detain me like a fucking prisoner. For doing the right thing.”

“Appreciate your help, Mr. Walters. Irma—”

“In the office. Ask for the bitch with the fat ass.”

Milo smiled.

Walters said, “You think I’m kidding? Like this.” Stretching his arms.

“The people in the limo, recognize any of them?”

“Why would I?”

“Okay, thanks, Mr. Walters. You can go now.”

Walters’s gnarled hands slapped his hips. He stood there.

“Something the matter?” said Milo.

“How the hell’m I gonna do that? I got dropped off.”

“The company won’t pick you up?”

“I’m over with them. Don’t want nothin’ from them.” Walters jutted his negligible mandible and stretched out a palm. Tattoo on his inside wrist. Ridiculously buxom naked woman smoking a cigarette. Below that: Viceroys. Taste That’s Right.

Below that what could have been an old razor scar.

Milo pulled out his wallet and handed over two twenties.

Walters inspected the money. His eyebrows rose. “Huh.” He teetered away.

Milo said, “He’ll probably walk all the way downtown and use my money for crank.”

I said, “Oh, you enabler.”

“Does that mean I have to attend meetings? Anyway, he didn’t add a thing.”

“He’s emotionally unstable so I don’t see him helping you in court.”

“Court? Talk about jumping guns, you just vaulted an arsenal. Yeah, so much for ol’ Eno. You know why I asked about knowing the vics.”

“The Cyril’s downtown.”

He nodded. “SRO, a dump among dumps. But Walters didn’t throw off any tells and he’s not exactly a criminal mastermind.”

He hitched his trousers. “Time to deliver some really bad news. Whose day do we ruin first?”

“Gurnsey lived the closest.”

“There you go,” he said. “Thinking efficiently.”