Hard Bite (3 page)

Claire grabs a pair of brown bags, unused and folded flat, along with a roll of tape. She slides one of the bags over Hector's hand, tears a strip of tape, and winds it around the bag so it stays in place over his wrist. In deference to the wet grass, she quickly covers the bags with plastic.

"There goes the evidence on the hands," the deputy says none-too-quietly.

The new examiner rocks back on her heels—body language that signals her thought has concluded. She's so slight, her white protective jumpsuit hangs in baggy folds. To Doug's eye, she doesn't look a day over twelve years old, although he knows that's impossible. He strolls over slowly. No profit in making the kid more nervous than she probably is already.

"Hi, I'm Detective Coltson," he says softly.

"The plastic comes off as soon as he's in the van, Detective. I know my business."

"Never thought you didn't, Doctor." Long ago, Doug mastered EDR—Emergency Deadpan Response. "This guy catch the business end of a switchblade?"

A pair of definitely-not-nervous eyes meet his. "I can say for certain it's not a knife wound."

"What then?"

"A bite. Not human, animal. His jugular was torn open on the first try."

Doug's cell phone bleeps. He steps back to listen, out of range of the ME. It's the Captain.

"We got another one in Hawaiian Gardens, two-point-four miles away. When you're through, go by and take a look. See if anything corresponds."

"Sure. You call Leone yet?"

"Your partner went to an emergency dentist in the middle of the night for an abscessed tooth. Blowout infection. 10-4."

The second crime scene is a picture Doug would rather forget but knows it'll hang around a long time, surfacing at the damned-est times, if it ever fades away. An old garage on an alley—crude cinderblock and rough furnishings that could easily pass as last century—with a man and a crushed windpipe, his chewed face unrecognizable and unidentifiable. No ID, no fingerprints on file, and—unsurprisingly for Hawaiian Gardens—no one nearby knows him or has seen or heard anything. A car-wash customer passing through on the way to the beach called in the crime after glimpsing the carnage from his car window.

Whatever animal did this—dogs most likely, considering the bloody paw prints around the body—they made quite a job on this guy. He must've had arms earlier in the day, because there are arm-shaped stains of body fluids and tissue extending from his body in an arm-like way. But the man lying on the dirty cement has none. His arms are gone. Flesh and bone gnawed completely away. Just like most of his face, eyes included.

Doug glances around the cramped garage, outfitted with accouterments of extermination—a killing depot for burnt-out fight dogs. A large cage sits with its door swinging wide open. Ropes and leather collars lie stacked on a table. Right outside the garage is an in-ground drain to take care of blood run-off. A good hosing down could have set everything to rights before dawn—if things had gone according to plan, which evidently they didn't.

Doug examines a rope hanging from the ceiling, as Claire sidles in.

"Hanging? Why do it here?"

"When Michael Vick got convicted, dog fighters took the execution side of the business off-site." Doug points to the savage dance of bloody paw prints around the corpse. "You think the same dog that did this left here and ran a couple miles to Lakewood Park?"

"Possible. If so, why didn't the dog eat the guy in the park, too?"

Doug takes another eyeful of the chewed corpse at their feet. "Maybe he wasn't hungry by then."

A call from Dispatch blips on Doug's cell. "Yes."

"Do you want a victim's advocate sent out to notify the family of Hector Stamos?"

"Yeah we should do it fast." For no reason, Doug remembers how his scalp reacted at Lakewood Park. Strange it's not happening at this arguably more gruesome crime scene. He lets the thought pass. "Have the advocate team meet me there. I want to go along on this one."

***

On the drive to Northridge, Tabby calls. He wrenches his mind away from the task at hand and concentrates solely on the call, imagining her standing in the kitchen in a light nightdress, long brown hair disheveled, the way he likes it. A lot of force divorces happen because guys just can't leave their work behind for a minute, even when it's time for family. He decided a long time ago not to be one of those casualties. "Hello?"

"Hi handsome, it's your girlfriend."

Doug cracks his first smile that day. "Does my wife know you're calling?"

"Yes, she says it's okay."

"Really."

A chuckle. "She even says it's okay if we fool around."

"Reeeallly."

Tabitha's tone changes. "Are you working on that business I see on the news? The dog killings?"

"Yeah. It had to happen the day Leone's out with a bum tooth. Hey, did the news say a sweep started for loose dogs, yet?"

"An Animal Control truck just went down our street. Are you going to be home tonight?"

"Not sure, but I'll let you know."

"'Kay, Doug. Your wife says I love you."

"Tell her I love her too. And Tabitha—"

"Yes?"

"Keep the kids inside after school. Until you hear from me."

***

The three of them stand on the doorstep of a well-tended bungalow with purple wisteria on either side of the concrete steps—Doug and two victim's advocates—a man and a woman fully fluent in Spanish, and specially trained in giving families difficult news. The male advocate taps on the door. A small, neat Hispanic lady about sixty years of age answers.

"Hello, Buenas Dias, Señora. Habla English?" he begins.

The woman looks startled. "No habla—" she starts as a large man about thirty years appears behind her. Doug notes he has the wide frame and massive hands of someone used to hoisting 100-pound bags of cement.
A bricklaying family...

"What is it?" the man says in perfect English. Doug pegs him as second-generation Hispanic, a population numbering millions in LA.

"Is this the home of Hector Stamos?"

"What happened?"

The advocates introduce themselves and Doug.

"I'm Hector's brother, Ramon." He touches the small lady on her shoulder. "This is my mother."

"I'm sorry. We have some bad news," the female advocate says gently. "May we come in?"

As everyone settles, Doug lets his eyes roam around the orderly living room, furnished in the 1980s with nothing changed much since.
Both grown sons with jobs still live with Mom. That's how Hector afforded his fancy ride.

Mrs. Stamos perches stiffly beside her son on the couch. She watches Doug's eyes as he glances at the top of the entertainment center where a framed picture sits of two young boys, around the ages of three and five. As the advocates deliver their news in soft voices—first Spanish and then English, Mrs. Stamos shuts her eyes and puts a hand over her mouth. Doug sees no need to ask the obvious—if the picture is Hector and Ramon twenty-five years ago. He already has the answer.

Ramon clears his throat. "It was like a freak accident?"

The advocates murmur a few details, carefully whitewashed of gore or excessive drama. Ramon wants to know everything but to Doug's relief, the advocates gently deflect him. Caring families want to know all, unaware that horrific details can come back to haunt them and give them no peace. When it seems Ramon and his mother are ready, Doug raises a few routine questions hinting around at enemies and reasons. All Ramon can do is shake his head. Mrs. Stamos adds nothing.

"Your brother had a large amount of cash in his car. Any ideas why?"

"Sometimes at the end of a job we get paid in cash." Ramon hesitates. "Can we see him?"

"Soon. If there's no evidence of foul play we'll release him. Is there a funeral home you prefer, Mrs. Stamos?"

The woman buries her face in her hands.

"We'll have to get back to you," Ramon adds.

"I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you for coming to see us. Gracias."

Mrs. Stamos and Ramon watch as the visitors step off the porch and return to their vehicles. Mrs. Stamos barely moves her lips as she whispers, "What's going to happen, Hector?"

"Orella will take care of everything. Don't worry."

"God help us." As the sandy-haired homicide detective gets into his car, she crosses herself.

It's noon, and in the far distance a persistent ringing and thumping makes me crack an eyelid. It's the cell phone, brringing its head off. The distant thumping is the front door. Somebody reeeally wants in. Can't be Cinda, she has a key. Then I hear the reedy voice, "Yooooo hooooo, Mister Drayhart! Dean! It's me, Marcie, your nurse."

Marcie Blattlatch got assigned for in-home visits two weeks ago. If it weren't mandatory for her to check in, ensuring steady disability checks from my top-of-the-line private insurer, I'd turf her happy butt out of here for good. But Nurse Blattlatch writes the reports that trigger the checks so she's a necessary evil.

"I'm coming, just a minute!" It takes a while to swing my legs out of bed and get my rump inched onto the seat of the chair. Next, I have to get my hand on. I call it my hand, but it's formally known as a body-powered prosthetic hook. The steel hook protrudes from a mold of black carbon fiber fitted over my arm stump. It's held in place by a nylon harness that fits over my upper arm and shoulders. All the while, Blattlatch yodels and tap-dances in the hall. Finally, I get to the door and she barrels past me with a stream of babble that makes me wish I could trade my hearing to get my legs back.

"Mister Drayhart, I come at the same time every week. I wish you were prepared when I arrive."

"Sorry, still getting used to it."

"How are your bowel movements. Have you had one today?"

"Look. Miss... Nurse Blattlatch, I..."

"I've got a Fleet right in my bag." She actually starts rummaging in her tote.

"No! Plumbing's fine."

"And your digestion? Have you tried pureeing chicken breast and spinach as I suggested last week?" Not waiting for an answer, she bustles into the kitchen. "I'll leave you with a batch. And how is Sidney behaving?"

"He's good. Would you like to try giving him an enema?"

No response. She's an old hand with cranky customers like myself.

Sid has seen fit to rouse himself from the couch, blinking sleepily. He hasn't decided yet whether to be happy to see a new visitor or pissed off that he's been wakened from a sleep-in.

I hear the cupboards open. Pills rattle.

"And your meds, Mr. Drayhart, taking everything on time? Any discomfort?"

She means well, but she'd start each visit with a proctologic exam and end with a lie detector if I let her.

"None. Zero. Fit as a fiddle, no complaints." I really have to bite my tongue on that one.

After a noisy spin with a blender and lots of cupboard slamming and rummaging she moves on to change my bed. Sid follows, in case there's a show.

A moment passes and I hear a gasp, a stifled cry. What is it? A cockroach? A mouse? I roll into the bedroom. She gives me a look like I must have shit the sheets. "What is it?" I say.

Blattlatch ignores my question and stomps back out to the kitchen where I can hear her rattling through the cutlery drawers. She returns with a pair of tongs and plunges them into the mound of sheets. Out come the tongs, clasping something red and frilly. It's the thong Cinda wore for a short time while she was here. I vaguely remember shooting it into the air, slingshot style. Spandex is quite aerodynamic, if NASA only knew.

Blattlatch looks at the end of her tongs like she's got a rat by the tail. She actually sniffs at it. Brings the thong closer. Sniffs again. Explodes, "Used! Worn! Uuuck!"

Sid climbs the headboard, chittering and squeaking. Such a drama monkey, he loves seeing Blattlatch upset. He must get it from me.

"They belong to a friend," I venture.

"Dis-GUS-ting," Blattlatch cries. Frog marches the thong to the trash, dumps it with a clatter of tongs and whirls to face me. "Where did you get that? Ordering off the internet? Eh?"