Jairo drove. They parked under a no stopping sign and Jairo flipped an LAPD ON DUTY sign on the dash.
The house was a trim little Craftsman cottage, nestled within rose trellises, and a profusion of fuchsia and red Bougainvillea.
Dusty fan palmettos draped over the cracked sidewalk. A narrow veranda held a couple of rusting lawn chairs. Flimsy looking lace curtains were drawn, concealing the dark interior.
The house had a stillness about it. Even before he rapped firmly on the flaking wooden door, David knew the house was empty.
Jairo moved down the veranda, peering in through the curtained window. David followed and shaded his eyes while he tried to see inside, but he couldn’t penetrate the gloomy interior.
Finally he straightened and met Jairo’s gaze.
“What now?” Jairo asked.
“Track down the owner. He may or may not have heard about his tenant. Or he can lead us to the property manager.”
“Always hated being the bearer of bad news.” Jairo’s easy grin belied that statement.
“When you find him, you can tell him.”
80 P.A. Brown
“I can—sure boss. Whatever you say.”
They returned to the Northeast Station. David called the forensic pathologist and relayed the news about the tattoo.
Fenton promised to go back and examine the original Griffith park corpse more closely. Then he added, “The anthropologist has scheduled his autopsy for this afternoon. You want to be present?”
“We’ll be there.”
David got home in time to miss a call from Chris saying he’d got in okay and would call again. Then he and Sergeant went out for a long run, burning off despair and unwanted desires, before collapsing in front of the TV to watch an insipid comedy.
That night he dreamed of Jairo, and woke in a sweat to sticky sheets, and deeper depression.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tuesday, 3:20 PM, County Coroner’s Office, North Mission Road, East Los Angeles
Same smell of corruption and formaldehyde, same harsh buzzing lights. Every autopsy table was occupied. White, sterile walls closed in on them.
The denuded skeleton wrapped in the comforter was wheeled out and gently transferred to the autopsy table. The forensic anthropologist, Antoine Galt, introduced himself.
There were no bone saws, or collection pails to hold samples, no scales to weigh organs. There would be no tox screens. A sample of hair had been recovered; it was already at the DNA lab waiting to be tested. The thick covering was carefully removed, its contents examined and collected. David studied what looked like several bits of plant debris and watched Galt bag each one and label them.
“Looks like several different types of vegetation. I’m no gardener, so I can’t say what kind. They’ll be sent off to a forensic botanist.”
“Might be some kind of bedding plant. Nothing like what we found at the burial site.”
“With any luck it can help pinpoint a secondary site,” Galt said.
David and Jairo stood side by side, opposite Galt, a stoop-shouldered man who looked like he spent his life bending over an autopsy table, peering down at the dead. The bones were first photographed, then X-rayed. A scanning electron microscope stood on the sidelines, in case anything like tool marks showed up and needed closer examination.
“This is most unusual,” he said in a dry, pedantic voice.
82 P.A. Brown
David leaned forward. Jairo did the same and their shoulders brushed together. “What is?”
“This woman has four gold inlay molars. Upper and lower arches.”
“And that’s three for three. Is there some new fad I haven’t heard of?” David mused, staring down at the earth-stained skull that grinned up at him. “I’ve heard of pimps getting gold grills, but women? Since when?”
“They real gold?” Jairo asked. “Or just an overlay?”
“Who would put real gold in their mouth?”
“I’ll let you know,” Galt said. He moved off. “Cranial sutures fused, so she’s not an adolescent. Auricular surface and pubic
The house was a trim little Craftsman cottage, nestled within rose trellises, and a profusion of fuchsia and red Bougainvillea.
Dusty fan palmettos draped over the cracked sidewalk. A narrow veranda held a couple of rusting lawn chairs. Flimsy looking lace curtains were drawn, concealing the dark interior.
The house had a stillness about it. Even before he rapped firmly on the flaking wooden door, David knew the house was empty.
Jairo moved down the veranda, peering in through the curtained window. David followed and shaded his eyes while he tried to see inside, but he couldn’t penetrate the gloomy interior.
Finally he straightened and met Jairo’s gaze.
“What now?” Jairo asked.
“Track down the owner. He may or may not have heard about his tenant. Or he can lead us to the property manager.”
“Always hated being the bearer of bad news.” Jairo’s easy grin belied that statement.
“When you find him, you can tell him.”
80 P.A. Brown
“I can—sure boss. Whatever you say.”
They returned to the Northeast Station. David called the forensic pathologist and relayed the news about the tattoo.
Fenton promised to go back and examine the original Griffith park corpse more closely. Then he added, “The anthropologist has scheduled his autopsy for this afternoon. You want to be present?”
“We’ll be there.”
David got home in time to miss a call from Chris saying he’d got in okay and would call again. Then he and Sergeant went out for a long run, burning off despair and unwanted desires, before collapsing in front of the TV to watch an insipid comedy.
That night he dreamed of Jairo, and woke in a sweat to sticky sheets, and deeper depression.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tuesday, 3:20 PM, County Coroner’s Office, North Mission Road, East Los Angeles
Same smell of corruption and formaldehyde, same harsh buzzing lights. Every autopsy table was occupied. White, sterile walls closed in on them.
The denuded skeleton wrapped in the comforter was wheeled out and gently transferred to the autopsy table. The forensic anthropologist, Antoine Galt, introduced himself.
There were no bone saws, or collection pails to hold samples, no scales to weigh organs. There would be no tox screens. A sample of hair had been recovered; it was already at the DNA lab waiting to be tested. The thick covering was carefully removed, its contents examined and collected. David studied what looked like several bits of plant debris and watched Galt bag each one and label them.
“Looks like several different types of vegetation. I’m no gardener, so I can’t say what kind. They’ll be sent off to a forensic botanist.”
“Might be some kind of bedding plant. Nothing like what we found at the burial site.”
“With any luck it can help pinpoint a secondary site,” Galt said.
David and Jairo stood side by side, opposite Galt, a stoop-shouldered man who looked like he spent his life bending over an autopsy table, peering down at the dead. The bones were first photographed, then X-rayed. A scanning electron microscope stood on the sidelines, in case anything like tool marks showed up and needed closer examination.
“This is most unusual,” he said in a dry, pedantic voice.
82 P.A. Brown
David leaned forward. Jairo did the same and their shoulders brushed together. “What is?”
“This woman has four gold inlay molars. Upper and lower arches.”
“And that’s three for three. Is there some new fad I haven’t heard of?” David mused, staring down at the earth-stained skull that grinned up at him. “I’ve heard of pimps getting gold grills, but women? Since when?”
“They real gold?” Jairo asked. “Or just an overlay?”
“Who would put real gold in their mouth?”
“I’ll let you know,” Galt said. He moved off. “Cranial sutures fused, so she’s not an adolescent. Auricular surface and pubic
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