The Wedding Guest

Chapter 16

Le Ostrich Café shared a block with a vegan restaurant, a high-end butcher shop, and a fish market. Nothing about the place stood out. A general practitioner among specialists.

Cramped, crowded interior with a take-out counter and a coffee bar. The fare on the chalkboard was pastries and salads. As Milo and I looked around, a woman in an oversized gray sweater and black jeggings stood up and waved.

Forties, leggy, model-thin, but half a foot short of model height. Short, wispy ash-blond hair topped a triangular face marked by a strong nose and an unusually broad, full-lipped mouth. One of those mouths that enjoys smiling and was having a grand time proving it.

Milo made the introductions, calling her “Doctor” and doing the same for me.

She said, “Basia,” and smiled even wider. Her barely touched meal was sourdough bread, cold string beans topped by sesame seeds, and a discouraged green salad.

She said, “I made an unfortunate choice. The only protein they have is chicken breast and that’s like blank white paper.”

Milo said, “We can go over to the butcher shop and get you some charcuterie.”

“It is tempting, Lieutenant. Please sit. Unless you want something here. Then you have to go there for order and pickup.”

Milo pointed to a jar on the counter. “And they expect tips.”

“Ha,” said Basia Lopatinski. “It’s better than Soviet Poland but not as good as America should be. Do you want something?”

“No, thanks, Doctor. We’re intrigued by your call.”

“I am intrigued as well, by your strangled Jane Doe. I requested to meet you away from the crypt and didn’t put what I’m going to tell you in the report, because recently we have instructions to adhere to observed facts and avoid theory. I, especially, need to behave myself because I am not full-time staff.”

“Freelancing?”

“That’s one way to put it, but really probation,” she said. “In Warsaw, I was a professor of forensic pathology. Here, I’m considered barely out of training. I just took my California and national boards.” She crossed her fingers. “Meanwhile, I am supervised and my current supervisor is the guy who wrote the no-theorizing rule.”

“Who’s that?”

“I’d rather not say, Lieutenant. Not that what I have to tell you is controversial. It’s merely outside the scope of my job description.”

“Got it.”

“Okay, then.” Another generous smile. “Initially, there were three things about your Jane Doe that stood out to me. First of all, the use of what was most probably a wire garrote in such an unusual manner. As you know, ligature strangulation is a comparatively rare cause of death. Even then, most ligatures are cloth — rope, shoelaces, clothing. A garrote fits more with a gangster execution — I saw a few when I did some training in Italy. In those cases, a strong, thin, band of metal was used and the wound was far deeper, generally close to complete decapitation. What we have here is basically a subcutaneous wound that only grazes underlying muscle. Yet enough pressure was exerted to bring about asphyxiation.”

I said, “Someone taking their time.”

“Someone exercising precise control,” said Basia Lopatinski. “If this was a musical matter, we might say a virtuoso performance in lento tempo.”

“That’s interesting. Maybe we’re dealing with a musician.” I told her about the guitar string gauges.

“Yes, I thought of that as well. But as I said, theory is not encouraged.”

She buttered a slice of bread, nibbled a corner. “The second initial point of interest is consistent with the first. As I’m sure you know, fentanyl is fatal in extremely small doses. I know you policemen wear gloves because even a subcutaneous dose can be dangerous. And when combined with heroin, the danger of a lethal overdose is significant. And yet we don’t have that. Not close. We have a cocktail with just enough to incapacitate, perhaps to the point of unconsciousness, perhaps only to the point of semiconsciousness.”

Milo said, “A sadist prolonging the process.”

Lopatinski took three more bites. “Yes, sadism makes sense. The third factor isn’t supposition, it’s correlation. Whether or not it’s a causal correlation — I’m being too abstract, sorry.”

She took a sip of tea. “The third factor is another homicide. A case I handled in Warsaw.”

Milo sat forward. “Unsolved?”

“No, solved. That’s what makes it even more interesting. I’ll summarize. Eight years ago I was a professor of pathology and deputy chief medical examiner at the Warsaw morgue. A victim came in, a prostitute dumped in a public latrine in a bad part of town. The murderer was caught — a career criminal who also played folk music on the street for gullible tourists. Ignacy Skiwski. I will spell that for you.”

Milo copied. “A latrine.”

Basia Lopatinski said, “Exactly, the first similarity. The others involved modus. Pre-injection — with heroin alone, fentanyl was not widely available then. Initially, the injection was believed to be in the antecubital fossa where an addict would inject.”

She patted the inner crook of her arm. “This victim was an addict, no one thought anything of it. But then we shaved her head and found the wound in the neck and I realized the arm puncture had already begun to scab so it was older. I informed my superior and he told me to concentrate on the strangulation because it was the true cause of death. I did, but what stood out to me was exactly the same as your case. No deep wound, just enough pressure with a metal garrote to cut off oxygen fatally.”

I said, “Folk music. A guitar string.”

She nodded. “The police recovered a cheap instrument from Skiwski’s room that was missing a string — I don’t remember which one. I termed the gauge consistent with the wound. As I wrote in your report, skin is not static, it moves around, so one can never be sure.”

I smiled. “That theory made it into Jane Doe’s summary.”

“Ah! You have found me out, Dr. Delaware. Yes, I slipped it by. In any event, Skiwski was apprehended and bound over for trial.”

Milo said, “How’d he get caught?”

“Another prostitute saw him leaving with the victim and the victim’s blood was recovered from his clothing. He never confessed but he had no alibi or explanation. Also, he had a criminal record.”

“For what?”

“Theft, drunkenness. More important, aggressions on women.”

“What kind of aggressions?”

“Beatings, intimidation.”

I said, “Sounds like low impulse control. When he graduated to murder he got sophisticated?”

“All I know is what I saw on the table. In any event, a month or so after Skiwski’s arrest, he hung himself in his cell.”

“Did he use another guitar string?”

“Towels,” she said. “For himself, he was gentler.”

I said, “How old was he?”

“Thirties — late thirties if I recall correctly. Why do you ask?”

Milo understood the question. “That’s old enough to have done it before.”

Lopatinski’s eyes rounded. Soft, golden brown. A woman who saw death daily but hadn’t been twisted into something dry and acrid. “You think it was a serial?”

I said, “It’s the kind of crime you see in serials.”

Basia Lopatinski thought about that. “Yes, you’re making sense. I don’t believe the police found any matching crimes. Did they look for any?”

World-weary shrug.

She picked up the gnawed slice of bread. “Even had I thought of it, I’m not sure I would have suggested it. We were liberated in 1992 but attitudes persisted. Don’t rock boats.”

“And now you’ve got no theorizing.”

“What can I say, Dr. Delaware? One gets used to cognitive limits but the imagination persists.” Another three nibbles washed down by tea. “Eight years ago, and then it turns up again, here. You see why I wanted to let you know.”

Milo said, “Deeply appreciated, Doctor. Was Skiwski’s case publicized?”

I got on my phone.

Basia Lopatinski said, “In local papers, of course.”

“Including the details — the guitar string?”

“Including that.”

“What about international exposure?”

“Did someone in L.A. read about it and decide to imitate? I have no idea how widely the story circulated.”

I held up my phone. “Nothing comes up here.”

Lopatinski said, “Perhaps it was covered in a Polish American paper. I will check, if you’d like.”

Milo said, “We’d definitely like.”

An expansive grin seemed to bisect her face. “May I assume you won’t — how do you say — rat me out?”

“To Eschermann? God forbid,” said Milo.

Lopatinski stared at him, then laughed. “You must be a detective.”

“On good days.”

I said, “An alternative to international coverage is someone living in Poland back then who moved here. Or corresponding with someone in Poland.”

“And then they decide to imitate? Psychopathic contagion?” said Lopatinski. “I had a case when I was in medical school in Poznan. Teenage girls coming down with what looked like bedbug bites that turned out to be psychosomatic eczema. One after the other, they’d break out into lesions. An entire school was quarantined before the truth emerged. But that is far from imitative murder.”

“Not contagion,” I said. “Just someone seeing possibilities.”

Lopatinski’s mouth narrowed as if yanked by a drawstring. First time she’d displayed anything other than cheer. “I reported all of my observations to a detective and he passed them along to a reporter as his own insight. I would hate to think that my communication was in any way responsible for a copycat.”

Milo said, “You did what you were supposed to, some idiot blabbed to the press. It’s always gonna happen. Unless no one ever talks to anyone about anything and that kinda sounds like the bad old days in Poland, no?”

“A detective and a psychologist?” said Lopatinski. To me: “Your good influence?”

Milo said, “What, I can’t be warm and fuzzy on my own? Bottom line, Doc, you’ve really helped, here. Thanks for going the extra mile. So was this piece of shit a decent musician?”

“Quite the contrary, Lieutenant,” said Basia Lopatinski. “Everyone said he played out of tune.”

He renewed his offer of indulgences from the butcher and when Lopatinski turned him down with a demure head shake, he thanked her again. As we headed for the door, he veered to the display counter.

“Pastries actually look pretty okay.”

He bought two dozen mixed, returned to Lopatinski’s table, and put the box down.

She said, “What’s this?”

“Thanks from the department.”

“Really—”

“No argument, Doc. You go beyond the call of duty, you get refined sugar.”

Outside the restaurant, he eyed the butcher shop for a moment, walked on by. “Now what? I subtly ask everyone at the wedding if they’ve ever been to Poland?”

“It’s the age of self-advertisement,” I said. “People put their vacations online. Why not start with Corinne and Denny. Maybe they like to travel.”

In the car, he punched numbers on a phone.

A subdued Corinne said, “VCR Staffing.”

“Hi, it’s Milo Sturgis. That story about Denny in Hawaii. Is that the only place he’s done it?”

“Probably. He just got caught that time.”

“Where have you guys traveled?”

“Why’re you asking this?”

“Trying to get to know him.”

“I’ve told you everything you need to know: He’s an asshole.”

“So no European—”

“Of course we’ve been to Europe.” A beat. “Not for a while — at least ten years ago... no, thirteen. Baby was in high school, off on a senior trip. I’d travel all over the place but he likes the sun so it’s Costa Rica, Mexico, Belize, all that. He spends his time cooking his skin and checking out bikinis. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll contract melanoma or something.”

“Europe’s too cold.”

“Depends when you go. I used to like it in Paris. I mean no matter the weather, how bad can Paris be?”

“Paris, Rome, it’s all good. Heard Prague’s nice. Hungary, Poland, also, nowadays.”

“One of my friends told me Prague’s gorgeous,” said Corinne. “Maybe I’ll go by myself.” Her voice caught. “Maybe Paris wasn’t as good as I’m remembering. Maybe every time he went off on his own to take a walk he was doing something gross, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“Sorry,” said Milo.

“No sorrier than me. This call, is he actually a suspect? I mean do I need to move out for my personal safety?”

Milo said, “He’s not, Corinne, and I couldn’t advise you to do that unless he’s been violent to you or threatened to be.”

“Never lifted a finger, Lieutenant. Rarely raises his voice, he just... makes me feel alone. I’ve always thought of him as a coward. Except when he used to surf. He was brave about tackling big waves — God, this is depressing, I really don’t like talking about it.”

Click.

Milo shook his head. “Your local constabulary, spreading good cheer.”

While I drove back to the station, he got back on his phone and checked the Rapfogels’ social network to verify what Corinne had said. Only one trip memorialized. Instagram posting of the couple eating gigantic lobsters in what looked like a rain forest. She, bored, looking to the side, he hunched over his meal, a bib full of stains.

He said, “Denny’s as red as the crustaceans, she just might get her wish.”

In the time it took us to get back, he’d run similar searches on the Burdettes and the Mastros. “Nope, they keep it domestic. Nebraska and national parks.”

Up in his office, he said, “Last try: the happy couple... here we go... Tahoe... San Francisco... Two Bunch Palms out in the desert... apparently no one’s into pierogi.”

I said, “Speaking of the happy couple.”

“You think it’s time?”

“They were the primary victims and Red Dress is closer to their age than to their parents’.”

He scrolled and found the address Garrett had listed. “East of here, near La Cienega and Olympic. Be a few hours until he’s off work.”

“Why not talk to Baby alone?”

“Yeah, might be interesting. If she talks.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“I’m a bad memory — hell, why not try a solo. But I want to be there when Garrett arrives, kill two birds, and that’s still a way off. You know what? I’m gonna sit here and go through the whole damn list of names from the invite list and search for a magical Slavic connection. I don’t want to keep you, go home and be normal.”

“And have to drive back for Baby and Garrett?”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

We took the list to a deli near the station, ordered a pot of coffee, and reserved a corner booth courtesy Milo’s usual extravagant cop tip.

His phone, my phone, both of us squinting and delving into the travel habits of total strangers.

Two hours later, not a single reference to Poland though a few people had been to Prague and one couple had thought Budapest interesting.

He said, “Gotta talk to the Polish tourist bureau, they’re falling down on the job. Okay, my head hurts, let’s see if Baby’s in her crib.”