Walkers (15 page)

Hovde nodded his understanding and stood back to watch while Breedlove peeled away the sheet.

The body was a big man, thick through the waist and powerfully muscled at the chest and shoulders. The Y-shaped autopsy incision across the chest and abdomen had been closed and stitched together. All these details Hovde took in on his second and third impressions. All he could look at when the sheet was stripped away was the man's head. It was battered and crushed like a rotten melon. The face was all askew. All traces of blood had been washed away, and the splintered skull was clearly visible through the lacerated scalp. The brain, Hovde could see, must have bulged through half a dozen fissures before it was removed for the autopsy.

"No need to ask the cause of death on this one," he said.

Breedlove eyed him cagily. "You think not? Would you like to make a little bet?"

Hovde recalled the pathologist's words over the phone:
"The guy seems to have died twice."
He said, "Tell me about it."

"They brought him in about midnight last night. Apparent homicide. When I came in this morning I didn't like the looks of the body at all. And I don't mean the head."

"What
do
you mean?" Hovde prompted.

"The condition of the corpse didn't jibe with the time of death on the report. I don't know why nobody else picked up on it. They probably never looked past the busted-open skull."

"I can understand that," Hovde put in.

"Right away I saw there were signs of postmortem decomposition that wouldn't have been evident until a body was dead at least twenty-four hours. Want me to run over them for you?"

"I know the signs of putrefaction on a dead body." Hovde said.

"Okay. His identity was established through papers he was carrying—driver's license, credit cards, and that stuff. We verified it by checking his fingerprints with the DMV. When we knew there were no close relatives, I cut into him."

Breedlove paused to probe at a molar with the toothpick.

"Kermit, will you get on with it?"

"Sure, sure. When I got inside I found the gastrointestinal evidence and the degree of blood-cell breakdown confirmed what I thought when i first saw him. The guy died some time Friday, and not Sunday night. I don't care how many witnesses there were. Then I remembered the similar case of the crazy woman driver in Westwood, and it occurred to me that the name of the girl in the house was the same as the one the woman almost ran over. Your patient. So I gave you a call."

"I'm glad you did," Hovde said. He gazed down at the dead man with the long, roughly sewn scar running down the middle of his trunk. "If the blows to the head didn't kill this man, what did?"

"Suffocation."

"You're serious?"

"Serious as the Pope. You can see that the face, what's left of it, still has the dusky plum celor associated with asphyxiation. The organs I took out were cyanotic and congested. There were small hemorrhages in the thymus, lungs, pericardium, and pleura. Internal bruising of the larynx suggests to me that he choked on something he swallowed."

"No foreign material in the laryngeal aperture?"

"Not when I opened him, but I'll guarantee something was in there and cut off his air long enough to kill him."

"On Friday."

"No later."

"Do you have the police report handy?"

Dr. Breedlove strolled back to the desk and shuffled through the papers scattered haphazardly across the top. He came up with a carbon copy of the typed police report and handed it to Hovde.

Slipping on his reading glasses, Hovde skimmed through the information in the blocks at the top of the sheet. He confirmed that the apparent homicide did indeed occur at an address on Beachwood Drive occupied by Joana Raitt. He read quickly through the narrative description, then stopped suddenly.

"Glen Early," he said aloud.

"What's that?" said Breedlove.

"The 'assailant' here, the one who delivered the blows to the head, I know him. He lives in the same

apartment complex that I do."

"Some coincidence."

"Not really," said Hovde, more to himself than to the pathologist. "No coincidence at all."

He quickly finished reading the report, then went back and read it again more thoroughly.

When he had finished, Hovde laid the report flat on one of the unoccupied autopsy tables and thought about it. This new attack on Joana, following the woman in the car last Thursday, plus the accident in the swimming pool and Joana's weird story, added up to a conclusion he did not like, but one he could no longer deny. Whatever was going on here was beyond the scope of medicine, or any other of the natural sciences. There was only one possible conclusion. Walking dead people were trying to kill Joana Raitt.

"Peculiar set of circumstances, isn't it?" said Dr. Breedlove.

"Peculiar, to say the least," Hovde agreed. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Do? What do you mean do about it?"

"Jesus, Kermit, you've got findings here to show that this man, as you put it to me on the telephone, died twice. Same thing with the woman driver last week. Aren't you going to take this to the Board?"

"Hell no. I don't want any part of it."

"How can you say that? This could be one of the biggest medical stories of our time."

"Yeah, and it could be a great big can of worms. Leave me out."

"That's a hell of an attitude."

"Maybe so, but that's the way I feel." The pathologist pretended to get busy with some of the papers on his desk, but when Hovde continued to stare at him he turned back with a sigh of resignation. "Look, Warren, I could take this to the Board, sure. 'Excuse me,' I say, 'I've got a couple of people on ice downstairs who appear to have been walking around and doing things for quite some time after they were dead. Then they died again and were brought in here, and I thought I'd mention it.'

"I see two possible reactions from the Board. One, they fall all over each other laughing, or, two, they schedule me for a rubber room and one of those jackets that buckle in the back. No, make that three possibilities. They might listen to me, believe every word, then tell me to forget it if I want to keep my job here. Don't make waves."

Hovde started to argue, but he realized that what Breedlove said was essentially true. It was an outlandish story to lay on anyone cold. And the Board of Directors of the West Los Angeles Receiving Hospital were not the most open-minded of bodies. They put great store in not making waves.

"You could take the story to somebody else," he said. "The newspapers. Television."

Breedlove took the toothpick out of his mouth and spoke seriously. "Warren, I am happy doing what I am doing. Chief Pathologist right here at West L.A. is it for me. I have a nice home and a nice wife and a nice quiet life away from the hospital. I want to continue. I do not want to be a media star."

"All I'm suggesting is that you report what you've found here," Hovde said mildly.

"Can you imagine what Eyewitness News would do with this story? Or the
Herald-Examiner
? Or, God help us, the
National Enquirer
?"

"You've got a point," Hovde admitted.

"I do my job, and I do it well," Breedlove said. "I put my findings in my reports, I pass my reports on through channels. If anybody up the line wants to make something out of them, they're welcome to the whole stinking mess. Do
you
want to make something out of it?"

"No," Hovde said slowly. "I guess I don't."

There was a short, uncomfortable silence between the two doctors.

"Warren, can I make a suggestion?" Breedlove said.

"Go ahead."

"This friend of yours, this patient, Joana Raitt..."

"Yes?"

"I'd tell her to be damned careful walking past cemeteries."

Hovde regarded the pathologist for a long moment and saw that he was serious. "I'll do that," he said.

He scanned the police report one more time and saw that the case had been assigned to Detective Sergeant Dan Olivares. Hovde knew the name. He had worked with the policeman the year before on a series of grisly rape-murders in the Venice area. The two men had got along well.

He handed the report back to Breedlove. "Thanks for calling me on this, Kermit. Let me know if..." He did not know how to finish the sentence.

"If I get another one?" Breedlove supplied. "I'll be happy to."

Horde left him there with the corpse and took the elevator back upstairs. He was grateful for the rush of warm air that met him when he stepped out into the hallway. At one of the nurses' stations he used the telephone to call the Police Building in downtown Los Angeles. He asked for Sergeant Olivares in Homicide. The instrument buzzed once and a pleasant baritone answered.

"Olivares."

"Dan, this is Warren Horde."

"Good to hear from you, Doctor. How are you?"

"Fine, fine. Dan, there's a case you're working on that I'd like to talk to you about."

"What case?"

"Edward Frankovich, homicide victim Sunday night in Hollywood."

"Oh, yeah, that was a messy one. I've got the sheet in front of me now. Was he a patient of yours?"

"No, but the girl is. The one who lives in the house where it happened."

There was a rustle of paper on the other end of the line.

"Joana Raitt," said Olivares.

"Yes, that's the girl."

"It says here her boyfriend, Glen Early, was the one who did Frankovich in."

"Yes, I know Glen too," said Horde.

"I wouldn't worry about, him, if that's why you called. I don't think he's in any trouble. We've got an apartment house full of witnesses ready to swear he acted in defense of his life and the girl's. This Frankovich was clearly freaked out. I make him a psycho or a doper.''

"I'm glad to hear GIen's in the clear," Hovde said,"but that's not all I wanted to talk to you about."

"Do you have some information?" Suddenly the official tone of the policeman was in Olivares' voice.

"I'm not sure. Can we get together?"

"Early and the girl are due down here in a little while to enter their statements on the record. Would you like to sit in?"

"I would, if you don't mind."

"Come on down. I'll have a visitor's badge waiting for you with the guard downstairs."

Dr. Hovde hung up the phone and walked slowly down the antiseptic corridor and out of the hospital. There was no backing out now, he was in this business with both feet, whether he wanted to be or not. Walking down the steps outside the building, he thought about how simple his life had been just a week ago. All he had to worry about then was sore throats, broken bones, and his impending divorce.

The good old days, he thought sourly, and climbed into his car.

The Los Angeles Police Building was part of the new municipal complex that flanked the old familiar City Hall. The room assigned to Sergeant Olivares for his interview with Joana Raitt and Glen Early was on the twelfth floor. It was furnished with a short conference table and half a dozen padded vinyl chairs. A window overlooked the Civic Center Mall, where flags of the fifty states hung limp on their poles. The walls of the room were beige, the carpet a dull brown. The only suggestion of personality in the room were the ashtrays, which advertised the Dunes Hotel in Las Vegas.

Sergeant Olivares sat on one side of the table, with Joana and Glen across from him. The sergeant was a compact man with smooth black hair, a neat moustache, and wide spaces between his teeth. At the far end of the table sat Warren Hovde, with his chair angled away from the others to show that he had no official role in the proceedings.

Both Glen and Joana looked nervous and glanced frequently at each other for reassurance. Joana smoked rapidly, while Glen chewed at a hangnail on his thumb. Olivares kept the questioning in a quiet, conversational tone. He assured them repeatedly that there would not likely be any charges arising from the death of Edward Frankovich.

"What I'd like," said Olivares, "is for each of you just to tell in your own words what happened last night, from the time you first saw Frankovich outside the house until the police arrived. If it's all right with

you I'll record your statements on the machine here, but if you prefer I can call in a stenographer."

"I have no objection to the tape," Joana said. Glen nodded his agreement.

"You'll both have a chance to see the transcript and sign it," Olivares said, He depressed the RECORD lever on the cassette machine and sat back to let first Joana, then Glen tell their stories of the violent events of Sunday night.

Dr. Hovde sat quietly and listened as the young people spoke. Their voices were low. Their eyes reflected the horror of the experience. Hovde could not suppress a shudder as he reflected on what he knew about the dead man that they did not.

When Joana and Glen had finished their stories, Sergeant Olivares snapped off the cassette recorcler. From the floor at his feet he brought up an attaché case. He zipped it open and pulled out an eight-by-ten photograph. It was obviously a blow-up of a black-and-white snapshot. It showed a big smiling man standing self-consciously next to a palm tree. The man wore a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans. There was nothing about him that would draw a second glance in a crowd.

"Do you recognize this man?" Olivares asked.

Joana and Glen studied the photograph briefiy, then looked at each other.

"That's him," Joana said. "That's the man. But he looked different last night."

"Different in what way?"

"He wasn't smiling, for one thing," Joana said. "He had kind of a....dazed expression."

"And his face was darker than it is in the picture," Glen added. "Almost purple."

"But you have no doubt this is the man who broke in and attacked you?"

"No doubt," Joana said.

"I'm not likely to forget that face," said Glen.

The detective nodded. "Joana, I want you to look at the photograph again and try to remember if you have ever seen this man before he came to your door Sunday night."