Anatomy of a Crossword (33 page)

Rosco wasn't certain what the actor's intentions were, so he answered with the truth, albeit hesitatingly. “We don't have any kids, so I'm somewhat less discriminating than you. It's in the closet out of sight hanging behind some old overcoats. When I travel, I put it in a gun vault.”

“And if someone pointed a gun at you in jest,” Dan continued in the same provoked tone, “what would you do?”

“I'd step out of the way, and ask the person to point it elsewhere. You never know when they're loaded.”

“Now we're getting somewhere … And when you were in training to be a police officer, and an armed fellow officer approached you during an exercise, did you take his or her word that their weapon wasn't loaded?”

Finally recognizing Millray's argument, Rosco responded with a measured. “No … I always checked it out myself. That was policy at NPD.”

“So, do I look like an idiot to you and everyone else connected with
Anatomy?”

“You mean you had already examined the pistol?” Sara asked. “Prior to Mr. Hofren firing it during your death scene?”

“That's right, Mrs. Briephs. I took it from the prop table, and checked out all six chambers, and then personally handed the gun to Andy. And from that point on, I kept the weapon in my sight.”

“Except for the moment when Don Schruko walked away with it to give it
his
safety check.” Belle interjected.

Dan Millray shook his head. “In retrospect, I should have reexamined the pistol after Don returned with it, but I thought,
Why? What could be wrong with him making a second safety check?”

“I don't mind admitting this,” Belle said with a sigh, “but I'm very, very confused. How did live ammunition get into the gun between the time you gave it to Andy and when Schruko checked it? Unless Andy put it there?”

“Not Andy,” Dan countered swiftly. “First of all, I've known Andy Hofren since we were at UCLA. We're good friends, and we work together on a regular basis. Second, he would have had to load the pistol right in front of the entire cast and crew. He never left the set.”

“So …” Rosco said, thinking out loud, “… the bullets Schruko handed to Dean Ivald were never in the pistol, at all?”

“I know,” Dan admitted, shaking his head. “It makes no sense.”

The four sat quietly for several long minutes. Finally, Millray said, “I, for one, would like to have some answers.”

“I think it's time I spoke with our key grip,” Rosco suggested. “Have you mentioned this to him?”

“No,” Millray answered. “Andy explained the scenario, and my first reaction was to come to you.”

“Schruko told me that the reason he checked the pistol was because he noticed the seal on the box of blanks hadn't been broken, and he was concerned that the gun hadn't been loaded. Is that information consistent with what you saw on the prop table?”

Millray gave this question some thought, then shook his head. “I don't remember seeing a box of blanks. That's not to say it wasn't there, either sealed or unsealed … I just didn't pay any attention to that detail. I was focused on the pistol, removing all six blanks from the cylinder, double-checking them, and then reloading them.”

Rosco leaned against the couch's back. “So the pistol was already loaded with blanks. Do you think it arrived that way from the rental company in Inglewood?”

“I doubt it. Even the paper wad in a blank can be dangerous if pointed at close range. I would guess they'd deliver an empty gun and a box of blanks with the seal intact, as Schruko said.”

“Then logic would indicate that if the weapon had been loaded with the blanks, the seal on the box must have been broken.”

Dan Millray reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to Rosco. “Here's Don Schruko's home phone number. I'd like to hear his side of this story, and something tells me that you might be better at getting answers than I am.”

CHAPTER 38

“So, what's up?” Don Schruko called out as he approached Rosco. The two men were at the far end of the Redondo Beach Sportfishing Pier where Rosco been been waiting for the key grip for a little over ten minutes. At Schruko's back, a number of fishermen had lines dangling in the water, parents and kids were out enjoying the warm afternoon air, and there was even a beat cop ambling slowly along the weather-worn wooden planks. It was an inviting, picture-perfect scene, full of comfort and homey tranquility, and Rosco was grateful Schruko had chosen it for their meeting. Or, he would have been, if his mind weren't so overwhelmingly distracted by his conversation with Dan Millray. In Rosco's opinion the key grip had some serious explaining to do.

It had taken almost an hour for Rosco to navigate the drive south to Redondo. He'd passed through communities he'd only read about or seen on postcards, and had repeatedly found himself wishing that he and Belle were vacationing rather than working. Venice Beach, Marina del Rey, El Segundo, Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach, and finally, Redondo. It would have been fun to visit each one, stroll the boardwalk, sip iced cappuccinos, watch the antics of inline skaters, open-air weight lifters, sleight-of-hand artists, the guy who supposedly juggled activated chainsaws.

Instead, he'd dutifully arrived in Redondo, parked the Mustang on Catalina Avenue, and walked to the International Boardwalk, determinedly bypassing its carnival-bright restaurants and anything-goes beach-gear shops, as well as the heady array of expensive watercraft bobbing peaceably in their slips.

“You wanted to see me?” Schruko asked again. He smiled, although it seemed to Rosco that the expression was less than amicable. The flip-side to the seemingly helpful and affable
Angelino
had bubbled to the surface.

“I'm going to level with you, Don. I've been pulling double duty on the
Anatomy
set … Debra Marcollo's attorney had asked me to do a little snooping around while I was ostensibly watching out for Mrs. Briephs.”

“Yeah? So?”

“So … I've just had an interesting conversation with Dan Millray. He swears up and down that the pistol used in his death scene was filled with blanks from the very beginning. He told me he would never have allowed another actor to point a weapon at him without making certain it was clean.”

Schruko shrugged. “Performers don't handle props until rehearsal starts or film is rolling. That's why we have unions.”

“Maybe they're not
supposed
to, but Millray insisted he checked that pistol over and over again, and personally handed it to Andy Hofren, and then continued to monitor it until the moment you handled it, which is the only time he lost sight of it.”

The key grip regarded Rosco. Gone completely was the genial, almost toadying, demeanor he habitually wore when working in the studio. “What can I say, buddy? All I know are the union rules. If Millray says different, that's his la-de-da.” Schruko frowned. “Besides, what's this got to do with Debra Marcollo?”

“I was hoping maybe you could help me on that situation, too.”

“What makes you think that?”

Rosco studied Schruko while his peripheral vision maintained a steady observance of the other inhabitants of the pier. The key grip was a big man, as Rosco was newly assessing; and his posture and stance appeared to be undergoing a metamorphosis. Aggression now seemed to mingle with latent rage.

“Well, one of the facts I picked up from Marcollo's attorney who got the information directly from LAPD, is that six .38 caliber bullets went missing from the house where she purportedly murdered Chick Darlessen … Next, we have six .38 slugs mysteriously appearing on the
Anatomy
set, which just as oddly disappear—”

Schruko shrugged his broad shoulders again. “All I can tell you about is what I pulled out of the prop pistol.”

“Which Dan Millray refutes,” Rosco stated. The key grip's ain't-got-nuthin-to-do-with-me attitude was beginning to wear thin. “Come on, Schruko. Let's quit playing games, here. You didn't
discover
live ammunition. You
planted
it. Which leads me to assume you had a motive for calling attention to the shells … Because,
if
they are the same bullets involved in Darlessen's death …
if
they came from the box of shells left in the Malibu house—and I'm going under the assumption that they are—
then
my guess is that you're into some type of extortion racket. Or worse yet, you personally took them from Darlessen's home, which clearly places you at the scene of the crime.”

Schruko didn't respond, but he stared hard at Rosco. What he was thinking was impossible to determine. Reflexively, Rosco took a step or two farther away from the pier's iron railing. When dealing with suspected criminals it didn't make a lot of sense to put yourself in harm's way.

“Is that the deal, here?” Rosco continued. “You're sending a message to the killer indicating that you're aware of his or her identity?”

Again, Schruko didn't reply.

“That's a dangerous position to put yourself in, my friend: blackmailing a murderer
… if
, in fact, you didn't kill Darlessen yourself.”

Rosco watched Schruko's mouth move, and his face tangle into a line of panicky knots. “I don't know anything about six .38 slugs missing from the crime scene,” he said.

For a long moment, Rosco didn't respond; then he finally asked, “You're telling me that the live ammunition you planted on the
Anatomy
set wasn't removed from Chick's beach house?”

“I don't know anything about bullets missing from the murder site,” Schruko reiterated. “Nothing. Nada.”

Rosco thought. “But you admit you introduced six live shells onto the
Anatomy
set?”

The key grip's response to this query was to abruptly shift his focus toward the water and the distant greenish-blue line of the horizon.

“Which you then proceeded to ‘find' and present to Dean Ivald?” Throughout this line of questioning, Rosco had noted the changing emotions racing across Schruko's face. “Is Ivald involved in Darlessen's death?”

“The bullets have nothing to do with Chick!” The words exploded from Schruko's mouth; his eyes swiveled back to glare at Rosco. “I'm telling you, I don't know anything about Darlessen or his murder!”

“If you and Ivald aren't involved,” Rosco continued calmly, “what about Lew Groslir or someone else working on
Anatomy?”

“Aren't you listening to me, Polycrates? The damn bullets have no connection to Chick!”

Rosco didn't reply. Instead, he continued staring at Schruko. He had a hunch the man had information he wanted to share, and he was right.

“Look … it's just a situation that got out of control, that's all.” Schruko's words died off, but Rosco made no move to speak. “I mean, how was I to know what kind of weapon killed Darlessen? Don't you see, when it came time for Millray's death scene … and Andy Hofren got so fired up about his expertise with weapons … Look, Polycrates, all I wanted was a little respect around the set. Is that so hard to understand? No one was going to get hurt. How could they? The real bullets never went anywhere near the pistol … They never even got close to it.”

“Respect?” Rosco asked cynically.

“Why not?” Schruko all but shouted. “Actors, producers, directors—they treat the grips like furniture. Like nothing. I wanted those self-centered prima donnas to realize that I was important. I was the man—a piece of glue that held the entire production together, and that if any of the grips weren't on the ball, if I let my guys slip up just a little, then the entire cast would be up a creek. I wanted some respect for me, and my guys … And we weren't getting it. Not from the actors. Not from Ivald or Groslir. Not from anyone.”

“But Groslir and Ivald kept the incident under wraps, so you had to leak the story yourself. Is that how it played out?”

“Yeah … Well, I only had to tell Miso Lane; that's sorta like placing an ad in the
Los Angeles Times
.” Schruko turned and squared off against Rosco. “Look, no one got hurt. Where's the harm? Stuff like this happens on sets all the time. It's casual but under control, like the stunt Millray pulled when Hofren shot him. I don't see anyone giving him the third degree. Look, Polycrates, it gives them all something to talk about next time they go to some trendy dive and ‘do lunch.'”

“And Don Schruko comes off as the hero who saved the day?”

Don shrugged. “Sorta.”

“And the piece of equipment that fell on Nan DeDero? Who saved the day there? Or did someone miss their cue?”

“No comment.”

“No comment—that's cute, real cute.” Rosco shook his head and looked south toward the long breakwater. For the second time in one day, he was in danger of losing his temper. Schruko had run him around in circles, and he felt like pitching the man head first into the Pacific Ocean. If the key grip hadn't been so heavy, Rosco just might have done it. Instead, he returned his steely gaze to the grip's face. “So this is all just a big game with you? Hollywood high jinks. Stack the deck for kicks. It's just one more TV-Land fix, is that it?”

Schruko's head snapped toward Rosco's. There seemed to be a genuine sense of dread in his eyes. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

“Just what I said. There's no honesty in any of this, is there? Just fun and games.”

“Yeah, but what did you mean by ‘fix'?”

Rosco shook his head incredulously. “What do you think I meant? You're an adult. Figure it out.”

Schruko squinted, his lips were white and tight. He didn't speak for several weighty moments. “But how did you find out about it?” he finally muttered in a strangled tone.

Rosco remained silent as Schruko raised his voice and repeated himself. The words all but quivered with anxiety. “How did you find out about it? The fix? Who told you? Where'd you get that?”