homicide, and it wouldn’t be the last time she would tell him to wait. He usually had someone he could call somewhere and get strings pulled and people pushed around. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to be done about a line of dead bodies.
“All right,” Wilkes said, giving in. He wasn’t done with this yet, but as far as she needed to be concerned, he was. “One last thing. I need to know how to pursue this investig ation. Was our guy here possibly the victim of homicide?”
Tanaka stared at Wilkes, feeling sorry for the man. “Look . . . officially, I can’t tell you anything just yet. Off the record, the door and windows were locked, so how did someone get out of here? Then again, it appears there was some sort of violent spasm by the victim before he died. Was that from contact with another person? I have no idea. There are no obvious markings or lacerations on the body an ywhere to show signs of violent trauma. So who’s to say? For everything that says this is a homicide there’s something that says it isn’t. Have I ever seen anything like this before to suggest one way or the other, homicide versus accident? No, I haven’t. But my gut, based on other crime scenes, would say this is.”
“Thank you.” Wilkes smiled sarcastically. “That will do just beautifully for me for now. Contact me as soon as you know anything definitive.”
“Will do, Detective.”
“You get all that down, Boy Scout?” Wilkes asked Parks as he walked by the man and out of the room.
Parks shrugged at Tanaka who rolled her eyes and went back to her body.
Thirty minutes later she finished her inspection of the body and backed off to make room for the members of Wilkes’s team. Detective Cal Ramirez was a family man with a pockmarked face and beady eyes who always had a joke ready to be told. The third man in Wilkes’s team was Detective Lewis Hayward, who had been with the depar tment for almost two years, though, at forty-five, he was far from its youngest member.
Hayward relayed that he had been going door-to-door to interview Ian Harris’s neighbors, checking for signs of an ything out of the ordinary, from suspicious people lurking around the building to vehicles that didn’t belong, which along that area of Beverly and Western wasn’t all that uncommon. An hour later he had come to the conclusion that while Ian Harris may have been a dick from time to time, most of his neighbors knew little about him.
No one appeared to be holding any grudges.
No one appeared to wish him any ill will.
Overall, most people didn’t know him.
“All right,” Wilkes said, addressing his two men in the front room of Ian Harris’s loft. The forensic people had finished with the scene, having lifted numerous fingerprints and other hairs and fibers, all labeled and ready to be taken back to the lab to be analyzed. There were several glasses of half-drunken booze and a brown-paper-wrapped package that was empty of whatever it had contained. Hopefully they would get lucky with the fingerprints that were all over the box.
Unfortunately, he had to wait for the autopsy results b efore he could give any definitive direction to the case, but until then they would hit all of the usual channels. Family. Friends. Neighbors. Business associates. The works.
“Tomorrow, I want you two to hit up the vic’s work space. Hayward, you’re better with computers than Ramirez or me. I know he was a freelance photographer, but get a hold of his agent and manager if he has one. See if he has any shows in any galleries. Assignments he may have been working on. See if he’s pissed anyone off lately or if he’s behind on anything. There’re a few photos around the place that make it look like he might have been hanging with the paparazzi lately, and we know how loved they are. Then, if you can, go over his financials and see if there’s anything outstanding there. I want to know if he was in any sort of trouble. I’ll be notifying the
“All right,” Wilkes said, giving in. He wasn’t done with this yet, but as far as she needed to be concerned, he was. “One last thing. I need to know how to pursue this investig ation. Was our guy here possibly the victim of homicide?”
Tanaka stared at Wilkes, feeling sorry for the man. “Look . . . officially, I can’t tell you anything just yet. Off the record, the door and windows were locked, so how did someone get out of here? Then again, it appears there was some sort of violent spasm by the victim before he died. Was that from contact with another person? I have no idea. There are no obvious markings or lacerations on the body an ywhere to show signs of violent trauma. So who’s to say? For everything that says this is a homicide there’s something that says it isn’t. Have I ever seen anything like this before to suggest one way or the other, homicide versus accident? No, I haven’t. But my gut, based on other crime scenes, would say this is.”
“Thank you.” Wilkes smiled sarcastically. “That will do just beautifully for me for now. Contact me as soon as you know anything definitive.”
“Will do, Detective.”
“You get all that down, Boy Scout?” Wilkes asked Parks as he walked by the man and out of the room.
Parks shrugged at Tanaka who rolled her eyes and went back to her body.
Thirty minutes later she finished her inspection of the body and backed off to make room for the members of Wilkes’s team. Detective Cal Ramirez was a family man with a pockmarked face and beady eyes who always had a joke ready to be told. The third man in Wilkes’s team was Detective Lewis Hayward, who had been with the depar tment for almost two years, though, at forty-five, he was far from its youngest member.
Hayward relayed that he had been going door-to-door to interview Ian Harris’s neighbors, checking for signs of an ything out of the ordinary, from suspicious people lurking around the building to vehicles that didn’t belong, which along that area of Beverly and Western wasn’t all that uncommon. An hour later he had come to the conclusion that while Ian Harris may have been a dick from time to time, most of his neighbors knew little about him.
No one appeared to be holding any grudges.
No one appeared to wish him any ill will.
Overall, most people didn’t know him.
“All right,” Wilkes said, addressing his two men in the front room of Ian Harris’s loft. The forensic people had finished with the scene, having lifted numerous fingerprints and other hairs and fibers, all labeled and ready to be taken back to the lab to be analyzed. There were several glasses of half-drunken booze and a brown-paper-wrapped package that was empty of whatever it had contained. Hopefully they would get lucky with the fingerprints that were all over the box.
Unfortunately, he had to wait for the autopsy results b efore he could give any definitive direction to the case, but until then they would hit all of the usual channels. Family. Friends. Neighbors. Business associates. The works.
“Tomorrow, I want you two to hit up the vic’s work space. Hayward, you’re better with computers than Ramirez or me. I know he was a freelance photographer, but get a hold of his agent and manager if he has one. See if he has any shows in any galleries. Assignments he may have been working on. See if he’s pissed anyone off lately or if he’s behind on anything. There’re a few photos around the place that make it look like he might have been hanging with the paparazzi lately, and we know how loved they are. Then, if you can, go over his financials and see if there’s anything outstanding there. I want to know if he was in any sort of trouble. I’ll be notifying the
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