Hard Bite (6 page)

The silver lining to all this was an early PhD in the streets. He'd already heard every lie, every con, every scheme possible from his parents before turning legal age. It was hard to put a con over on Doug, even his first week on patrol. The younger the criminal he busted, the better. He told it straight when he got a teenage delinquent in his car. He told them they still had a choice in life. He described the direction they were headed in and where it would lead. Occasionally, he made headway.

He's brought back to the present by exiting the 5 freeway at Main. The Crown Vic jounces over downtown's infamous potholes. Funny how the sunshine streets of LA change the minute you get in the 213 area code—from pleasantly sunny to baked glare. A guy needs eye protection just to look at the asphalt. Doug turns onto Daly Street, in chronic disrepair even though the passing mom-and-pop burger stands, tired storefronts and an 18-minute Laundromat must pay taxes like everybody else. The worn commercial strip finally gives way to little clapboard houses, built back when this had been a nice neighborhood, before the 5 chopped it in half.

Doug pulls into the entrance of the County of Los Angeles, Department of Coroner. The sign says,
Law and Science Serving the Community
. He turns right, past the stately main building with its grand, 1915 facade of red brick and Corinthian columns, and keeps going to a squat yellow and brown structure, so un-idealistic it doesn't even rate a sign. Its identity is stenciled in muddy green letters on the outside wall:
1104A, Medical Examiner Forensic Laboratories
.

The lot is jammed with precisely parked and gleaming Crown Victorias, white in color with the distinctive coroner's logo on the side showing a microscope, a beaker, a set of scales and a medical symbol
.
Designed in 1966 at the suggestion of LA's original celebrity coroner, Dr. Thomas Noguchi. The doctor was famous for his work on the Manson family murders and the assassination of Senator Robert F. Kennedy.

But celebrity history is for tourists, not working detectives. Doug
checks in and heads to the basement. The pungent smell of plastic-wrapped bodies, disinfectant, body odor and air freshener brews a noxious perfume: "Eau de Coroner" by those who know it well. The smell permeates everything.

Claire is in the large room, "the body shop" as Doug calls it on the outside. It's bright in here, even the floor is white tile, plumbed with drainage. It's the kind of room meant to be hosed down from ceiling to floor at the end of the day. Claire is engrossed in watching the coroner's every move over twin autopsy tables. The bodies delivered a few hours ago have been removed from their bags and rest on full-size metal trays, placed side-by-side, each on their own table.

Doug takes a deep breath he's instantly sorry for and steps inside. The plastic bags over Hector Stamos' hands are long gone, just like Claire promised. Plastic bags are avoided because they accumulate moisture, destroying evidence. Lecturing the capable Dr. Claire on this point at a crime scene could have earned him lifelong-enemy status at the coroner's and he feels a surge of pride and relief—13 years of marriage and he's actually learned something about male-female relations.

Claire looks up. "We did a saliva washing." Doug comes closer as the coroner measures bite marks on both bodies.

"Anything on the clothing?"

"A few hair samples."

"Any more on this one's ID?" Doug indicates the extremely mutilated corpse, found in Hawaiian Gardens.

"Nothing on this end." You?"

"Nope."

A final answer hangs unsaid in the room—that the man is probably an unidentifiable alien, as so many are in the LA dog-fighting underground. Unless someone steps forward—next of kin or significant other—his body will join the ranks of the five-thousand-plus unclaimed persons already in this basement.

Claire moves away from the subject, "How did notification go?"

"Nothing unusual. How those bites looking?"

The coroner glances from one cadaver to the other. A small, wry smile plays on his lips. "Claire told me your hungry dog theory." He suppresses a snort. "It makes as much sense as any. The jugular bite is smaller, but still consistent with an animal bite, so presumably it was done by one of the two dogs that were present at the Hawaiian Gardens CS."

Claire waves a tiny hand in Doug's general direction. "No blunt force trauma, no gunshot wounds, nothing to show human participation. How about you—any evidence of robbery?"

Doug shakes his head. "Nothing to suggest murder, either. Your opinion on cause of death?" Claire looks expectantly at the coroner.

"The death certificate could state 'blood loss through animal bite on the neck,' or I could just put down 'undetermined' if we want to wait for toxicology. What's your call, Doug?"

"There's no reason to believe drinking or drugs was involved. No bottles, no drug paraphernalia, the guy was a regular working man. For all we know, he stopped at the park to take a leak in the bushes before hitting the freeway and ran into trouble. All that cash in the car sort of bothers me, but the brother says they're often paid in cash. No foul play determined... so we're done here?"

The coroner draws a conclusive breath, but Claire interjects. "There's just one... it's kind of..."

The coroner cocks an eyebrow.

"If this guy's a bricklayer, why does he have such smooth hands?"

All eyes on the fine, uncalloused hands of Hector Stamos. The image of Ramon Stamos flashes into Doug's mind, the man's physique hardened by manual labor. He wishes his partner were here. Leone was excellent at connecting the dots on this kind of thing.

The coroner jumps in. "You're not the only one who wears gloves at work." He looks to Doug for support. "Right detective?"

Doug's about to answer in the affirmative when the hair rises on his scalp for the second inexplicable time that day.
What the
— "Let's wait for toxicology," he answers, and in his mind, he thinks it sounds lame.

"Undetermined, then," the coroner replies curtly. "Until Toxicology. We'll be in touch."

***

Doug pulls the Charger up in front of his Los Alamitos ranch-style, turns the windows down, stops the engine. The serene night air wafts in with a hint of night- blooming jasmine. It's one of his favorite things about Los Angeles—the night air in jasmine season, growing everywhere, as common as dandelions in the north, and when it's in bloom the nights are perfumed. In his business, it helps defuse the noxious whiff of death.

Warm glow in the windows signifies Tabby and the kids are all there, probably playing a game, or singing along with Rockband on the Wii. It doesn't matter so long as they're all involved, doing something as a family. Shrieks of laughter escape the house. Doug almost sighs. He knows how corny and impossible the thought is but… if they could only make it last forever.

Another lungful of jasmine and it's time to go in. First, he calls inside the house. Tabby has the cordless right beside her. "Hi Doug." In the background. "Daddy! Is that Daddy? DADDY'S HOME!"

"Have you eaten?"

"No."

"I made lasagna."

"With the parmesan and your mother's meat sauce?"

"Is there any other way?"

"Hope not. I'm coming in through the garage."

I'm coming in through the garage
is code language between them to let Tabby know he's just come from the coroner, and wants to shower and change before greeting them. He never allows his wife or kids to embrace him with the smell of death clinging. The cleansing ritual is to sit outside for a while, breathing the clear night air. First, he cleans his mind of the dark things humanity has wrought that day. Then, he takes a shower, puts on clean clothes, and checks his attitude, before joining his family.

He blows a kiss into the phone. "See you inside, baby."

***

A night patrolman drives through Hawaiian Gardens slowly, with the windows down. The rain has long-since dissipated, the sun is down, and the streets are quiet. Even the trash lies motionless. Every patrolman in the vicinity has been looking for dogs that tore out one man's throat and half-devoured another barely twelve hours earlier. So far, no trace. Suddenly, the distant crash of trash bins down an alley. The officer slows at the curb, flicks his industrial strength flashlight on and pulls his weapon for good measure.

He recalls the full briefing earlier in the day where the Captain instructed them not to take any risks but keep the dogs alive if at all possible—not just for identification but also to preserve DNA evidence that might still cling to their fur. However, if the dogs appeared aggressive and there was no other option, the order was shoot to kill.

The officer walks deliberately down the alley, pausing as another crash sounds, until he catches two pairs of red eyes in his high beam. Two pits are going through the garbage. One trails a noose from its neck. The dogs snarl in harmony at the officer and he doesn't think long about the right course of action.

Blam, blam. Blam, blam.

Two taps apiece.

Evidence be damned.

The toe tag reads "H. Stamos." To Mr. Burnham's unsentimental, career-mortician's eye, the deceased looks like any other young SoCal male of Hispanic descent. At this man's age, though, cause of death is usually a bullet wound, not a torn carotid artery. Nothing a little Naturo Plasto Wax can't hide. After 30 years in the death business, Burnham has to admit, whoever tore the carotid was neat. Neat and unerringly accurate.

Hardly a drop left to drain
the wizened undertaker thinks to himself, as he crosses the bright-white room, turns off the overhead UV sterilization lights and switches on an overhead bank of full-spectrum fluorescents—excellent for working with non-thermogenic cosmetics.

Mr. Burnham spritzes a silicone-based solution over the young man's face and neck, all the way to the collar bones. Sponging over the smooth, unwrinkled skin, he marvels at the refreshing lack of tattoos or piercings—until the intercom buzzes. It's the receptionist upstairs.

"Mrs. Stamos, line one."

Putting a cloth over his hand, he picks up the wall extension. "Good morning Mrs.—"

"Caskets. Your website shows the brushed copper."

"First may I offer my—"

She makes a throaty noise and plows ahead. "It's in stock? You have it right there?"

Good English. Faint Mexican accent.

"Why yes."

"I want to know—"

"The almond velvet inside is hand upholstered, artisan finished."

"Stop interrupting before you know my question. I want to expedite this."

Mr. Burnham bites his lips. She's talking high-end. "Of course," he murmurs. "… the public viewing, funeral, the service..."

"No. Nothing like that. He needs to fly to Mexico."

"A Burial-Transit permit will—"

"Good. Do it."

"—have costs attached. He lets words dangle. Delicacies of mourning aside, no funeral home can afford to squander talk time on a low-budget customer. If she hiccups here, best to move her onto the fabric-covered pressboard. Or worse, cremation.

"Take down this number," she retorts.

"Pardon Señora?"

"Just take down what I want and put it on the card." She rattles off a list of numbers including expiration date and CRV. "Start with the copper casket and bronze vault. I'll call back on his clothing." She hangs up.

Frowning, Mr. Burnham consults a list of phone numbers for merchant credit card inquiries. An operator picks up. "Burnham and Sons," he tells her. "I have a telephone order. Opening charges are twenty thousand dollars." He repeats Mrs. Stamos' numbers.

The customer-service operator clicks away at a keyboard. "That's a no-limit card, Mr. Burnham. Should I put it through?"

Burnham glances at the young man lying peacefully beside the Porti-Boy embalming unit. He might look ordinary, but his connections aren't. "Yes, please. Put it through."

***

A few hours later Maria Stamos arrives. In her early forties. she is expensively dressed in a black Carolina Herrera suit and four-inch heels. A Latin version of the classic ice queen.
Killer body, shame about the face
flits through Burnham's mind. It's not that she isn't pretty, it's the expression—he's seen kinder faces on feral cats.