Hard Bite (11 page)

"Gone for good."

"Call Joe, he'll pick us up."

"My cell phone is soaked."

Mateo feels his pants pocket. "Mine too. Let's find a payphone."

"I don't got the number. All the numbers are in the cell. You remember anybody's number?"

"Nope. The bus then."

"We can't take the bus til we dry off."

"C'mon let's start walkin.'"

Morning in Malibu is a thing of beauty. Although Malibu surf is more famous, the canyons are no less spectacular. They range from green and rolling to slate-sharded and treacherous. Deep canyons of oak, bay laurel and sycamore tower over an understory of ferns, berries and flowers. Blue-green dudlyas cling to rock ledges, purple lupines cuddle tail grass and rare Humboldt lilies nod by wooded streams. There are many secret, sheltered places here, and in one of these, a dead body rots.

Doug knows the canyons as Region One, part of LASD jurisdiction. He's reminded of this in the squad room when the Captain motions him over. "Coltson, I got a ticket here says you're ready to ride the shorthaul cable."

"What did you say, sir?"

"Tuna Canyon. Fire department's already there with a chopper. They'll rappel you down on a harness to view the body. Looks to them like a female, twenties possibly, by the looks of clothing left on her. Been stabbed."

"How'd they find her?"

"A busload of tourists. One of them had zoom binoculars. Spotted a ladies' handbag down there next to something black and green and oozing. The 911 went to Fire first, then they called us."

***

The fire trucks are parked at odd angles, fire personnel in black and white coats flap up and down the narrow roadside. A chopper thwup-thwupps overhead. Doug's feet crunch dry soil at the edge of the road as he surveys steep canyon walls peppered with loose slate, ready to break free under the slightest weight. Doug stops and adjusts his hat—helps him think better. The Cap was right, hiking down to the body is out of the question.

Patrol is already down there with the yellow tape. Doug prays the Fire guys haven't tramped through the area too much, screwing up his evidence.

"Hey Coltson, good to see you." The Fire Captain strides up, thrusting out his hand. He claps Doug on the shoulder and pulls him forward in a bear-hug. Doug pounds him appreciatively on the back. Still squeezing like a boa constrictor the Fire Cap says, "Need a lift?" As if reading Doug's mind he adds, "Yeah, we tried to stay outta there till you came."

Doug returns his open smile. "'Preciate it. Sure I'll take a lift. Beats jumpin'."

"We called in first notification to the coroner."

"Thanks. I'll call in a second when it's time."

"Roger that. Let's get ya in the harness."

***

The cable twirls him in a gentle, circular descent as the scent of woods and sun-warmed earth rises and wafts pleasantly into his nostrils. From this aerial view, the body lies face down, feet and arms at unnatural angles. Like a bad fall banged her up. Her clothes are in shreds, one foot still wearing a glittery, platform sandal, the other bare.

Doug looks up at the chopper, gives a thumbs-up and the pilot touches him to earth, well-away from the body. Doug unhooks himself and raises both arms to the pilot signaling he's free. Walks in a wide perimeter, as insects rise underfoot. Doug catches a flash of something brightly colored in the tall grasses. It's a purse, wide open, lining shredded, most likely the work of birds and rodents who make off with fibers to line their nests. Scattered nearby is a pocketbook, a mesh bag full of makeup and a dozen other objects that occupy young women. It looks like the handbag remained closed throughout its trajectory until impact, where it burst open and let go of its contents. Doug can see a driver's license through the plastic window of the pocketbook. He picks his way toward it and peers down. Sherryl Lynn Hastings.

Doug leaves the purse where it is and turns to the body. She doesn't look anything like her driver's license photo, or the photos in her wallet. Animals have eaten her smiling face, so there is just a skull, empty eye sockets and teeth. Her long, blonde hair, which still looks healthy and shiny in the sun, is beginning to separate from the skull, as her scalp shrinks. Stab wounds are evident.

He's not looking forward to notifying the family on this one. The sun feels like it's getting stronger. Doug loosens his tie and swipes at a fly.

Observation satisfied, Doug pulls out his cell phone. Miraculously, there's enough signal to put through a call. Overhead, an ME and an LASD photographer are lined up for the short-haul cable. They come one by one, twirling down. The first figure is so small and slight, Doug recognizes her right away. That, and the medical tote dangling, give away that it's Claire, the young ME who worked with him on the dog-kill case. He walks over to meet her, shouting over the racket of the chopper.

"Hello Doc. Nice to see you."

"Same here." She fumbles with her harness.

"First cable ride?"

"Other than a tour of San Francisco, yes, this is my first." She gets the hooks unsnapped and gives him a grin.

An involuntary belly-laugh escapes Doug. "You're okay, Miss Claire. Like to take a look at what we got here?"

She follows him through the tall grasses, insects taking flight before their feet. They watch in silence as the photographer works, taking in the hideously decomposed corpse, bloated and blistered.

Claire pulls a small recorder from her pocket and speaks into it quietly. "Classic example of autolusis, breakdown of cells and organs from aseptic chemical process caused by intracellular enzymes." She clicks it off."What do you think so far?"

"Looks like a stab and dump, at first glance."

"The stabbing happened elsewhere and then she got dumped off the cliff?"

"Maybe. But, if she was already dead, why would anybody bother to throw the purse down with her?"

"There's no sign of a struggle down here?"

"No footprints, no blood spatter. Looks like she's still right where she landed."

"The autopsy will say more."

"Do your thing, and I'll run a check on her ID and see what comes up."

Doug pulls out his cell and buzzes the Bureau. Finds out Sherryl Lynn Hastings was reported missing three days ago, though she hasn't been seen in six. Her car was found untouched, locked and parked at the beach in Santa Monica. Family back in Idaho waited a few days for her to show up, in case she had flown somewhere last minute for an acting audition. Calls to her cell phone went to voicemail and it lost power or was turned off, because no signal could be traced to a location. An extensive search of the beach revealed nothing, and no one had seen her sunbathing or at any of the concession stands that day.

"Want me to contact Idaho, Cap?" Doug adds.

"I'll do it," the Captain answers. "I'll have 'em notify the family too."

"Tell them I'll be in touch for an interview."

From the corner of his eye, Doug sees Claire putting on a putrefaction mask. Technically, that means there's going to be lots of cadaverine and mercaptides released as the body is readied for transport. Realistically, it means things are about to get smelly and gruesome. Getting Miss Hastings on the helicopter litter basket isn't going to be pretty.

Doug returns his attention to the cell phone. "Looks like she's ready to go here, Captain."

***

Winding down Tuna Canyon road behind the coroner van, sun flashes and plays along the hills and ravines. Doug tries to stay focused on the facts at hand and not give way to the dread tugging at his mind. An actress. An aspiring actress. An aspiring actress new in town. Anything less than ten years is new in town. It takes that long to learn the ropes, first in LA and then the way California works. As everybody else in the rest of America knows, nothing in California works quite the way it does in the rest of the country—from legal marijuana to sanctuary cities that protect gangsters and murderers just as well as it does plain law-abiding folks. Yes, in this cop's opinion, Cali marches to a very different set of bongos.

The seascape of Malibu unfolds, blue as a supermodel's eye, just beyond the signal light at Pacific Coast Highway. Doug takes a left and tries to enjoy the view for a few moments. "Take a mental break whenever you can," his wife always urges him. He knows it's good advice—that a moment of respite lets the mind come back to a subject and see things in a fresh light. Unfortunately, fresh light doesn't always mean "good." He hopes Sherryl Lynn isn't in the percentage of actress-hopefuls who take a wrong turn out of necessity and end up "working in the Valley." "Working in the Valley" is a code phrase for the porn industry, a billion dollar cottage industry nestled in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. From experience, Doug knows that a murder investigation into the life of a young actress sometimes turns up secrets that everybody involved would rather not know. Girls who seem as wholesome as a peck of Idaho apples can lead high-risk lives after sunset. He really hopes for the family's sake, that this isn't so.

The coroner van is already signaling at the Main exit off the 5. A few blocks of humps and bumps, and they make a right into the Department of Coroner. Claire continues around the block, where a team waits to take Sherryl Lynn to her new resting place. Doug parks and goes to sign in.

Downstairs, autopsy bins and tables have just been cleaned. Doug gives a quiet prayer of thanks. Walk into the autopsy chambers of LADC at the wrong time and it could be confused with the abbatoir at a sausage factory, in spite of the small, neat sign attached to a cupboard that reads:

Good housekeeping is everyone's responsibility.

Please keep the area clean.

Today so far, things are relatively quiet. He grabs a mask and puts it over his nose and mouth. Sherryl Lynn is still clothed. Claire collects small samples of hair and materials with a pair of tweezers, depositing each sample into small glass jars. She cuts the remaining clothes away from the body and performs a quick series of swabs that will reveal, after analysis, if Miss Hastings was raped or sexual assault was involved. Snapping the lid closed on the swab receptacles, it's time for a close look at Sherryl's arms and hands. "No defense wounds," she says abstractly, moving on to the nearest stab wounds. "Maggots." Taking a fine scalpel, she opens one of the entrance areas and gives no indication of the smell releasing from the opening. Doug reflexively tucks his tie inside his shirt. The room may have been clean when they started, but when probing begins on a body in decomp, it doesn't stay that way for long. No telling what will spray across the room.

"I'm changing my mind about the stabbing," Claire announces, without lifting her eyes.

"Huh, why?"

"You know how raccoons have those long claws?"

"Uh huh..."
Where is she going with this
?

"I've seen this before. They like to make entry wounds in a cadaver and then come back later to scoop maggots out of the site." Claire smiles at Doug's wretched expression.

"Sort of like takeout for coons?"

"Possums do it too. They come back again and again to the body." She probes at another festering wound. "That's what it looks like to me. Anyway, I'll test the materials on her clothing, check the wound sites and wait for the coroner."

"If she wasn't stabbed, what killed her?"

"Most likely the fall. If toxicology comes back clean and internal injuries are consistent with a fall, then that's what most likely happened."

Doug scratches his chin. "Could've been an accident? She sure wasn't robbed. But how did she get up there? Her car was parked in Santa Monica."

"Let me know what you find. Right now, we're going to start cutting."

"I'm leaving. I'll call the bureau and notify the family that it's not been deemed a homicide." He moves to go, then pauses. "You know, Doctor Claire, the first time I came to an autopsy, an ME came by and says to me, 'Don't worry, Doug, around here you won't have to lift a finger.' The guy reaches out and picks a severed thumb off my shoulder. A real severed thumb. Somebody put it there as a joke. That was my welcome around here."

Claire's eyes twinkle. "Keepin' it light for you, Detective. That's the way we play it 'round here." One of the vials with hair in it is still in her hand. She shakes it at him. "Thanks for keeping a sense of humor."