Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

Parker said, “Let’s go see Nort Layman and Dr. Ashida. They’re working late at the morgue.”

Dr. Nort lived at the morgue. Dr. Nort lived for his work.

Corpse gurneys flanked clothes racks. Formaldehyde bottles lined bookshelves. A cot and booze cabinet covered one wall. A charred box lolled on an autopsy table. A skeleton was jammed within.

Parker played emcee. The drift was meet your new colleague. She’s credentialed. She’s qualified. She swapped her Navy commission for a crime-lab gig.

Dr. Nort blushed. Dr. Ashida bowed Oriental. They stood by the table. The box deterred small talk.

Dr. Nort said, “These damn mud slides dislodged this box on the Griffith Park golf course. Our late friend here was stabbed, shot, and put to rest. We’re trying to determine the source of the fire and when it occurred.”

Joan studied a dirt clod jammed under the rib cage. She saw desiccated roots and granular ash.

“The box has been suspended in dirt for a very long time. I would posit that the killer or killers dumped the man in the box with that dirt mound stuck to his upper posterior, while he was still clothed. Those rags rotted off the cadaver, and the passage of time was accelerated by the application of the quicklime that remains visible on those cloth fragments. I think the box has been covered by heavily rooted soil for close to ten years.”

Ashida said, “A fatal brush fire in ’33 most likely caused that charring.”

Joan examined the box. “Look at the flame pattern. The box was surely buried on a hillside, and the flames leapt irregularly and scorched through to dry, freshly excavated dirt, at some point in time before the seeding that produced grass on that hillside. I would conclude that the box was buried immediately before the 1933 fire that Dr. Ashida mentioned, or at the time of the fire itself.”

Dr. Nort gawked. Ashida half-grinned. Joan tickled the dead man’s chin.

“Run molecular-compound tests on the charred wood, and check the grain markings against the photographic records kept at local lumberyards. You might be able to match the grain to a presold lot.”

Parker weaved a tad. Joan caught his booze breath. She reached in his pants pocket and tossed him a lozenge. Ashida slack-jawed the move.

Man Camera. Attach your reverse lens. Become the object you observe. Deploy this Hans Maslick technique.

Maslick the Mystic. At one with nature and the material world. Organic specimens and objects live. You must assume their perspective.

Ashida rigged a microscope and dialed it in tight. He examined old dirt particles. He saw Miss Conville’s stripped roots.

He one-upped Miss Conville then. He added ionized water and bonded the particles. He dialed down and caught petrified ash. It theoretically confirmed the nine-year-old-fire assessment.

Maslick propounded time-travel theories. Place yourself in immediate context. You were there and you saw it. You observed and/or committed the crime.

He was alone. He beat the day-shift chemists in. He savored early-morning work. Juxtaposition. Bright lab lights and a black sky outside.

He time-traveled. He buckled into his time machine. It’s 10/3/33 now. It’s that very hot day.

He was at Belmont High. He was watching Bucky Bleichert toss a football. He indulged daydreams. Bucky needs a postpractice shower. You can kibitz and throw him a towel.

He watched Bucky dry off. A radio blared: BIG GRIFFITH PARK BLAZE!!! They got in Bucky’s car and drove over. Fire trucks stopped them short at Riverside Drive.

Ashida shut his eyes. It shuttered his Man Camera. He placed himself in Griffith Park. It’s still that very hot day.

Mineral Canyon. Dry dirt and scrub. It’s undeveloped. There’s no par-3 golf course yet.

The dead man. The killer or killers. The pine box, stashed. A hillside hole, at least partially dug.

Spontaneous blaze or covert arson. One gunshot. One stab wound. A hasty burial as the flames spread.

Thirty-four dead. The killer or killers might have survived. The killer or killers might have perished.

Ashida opened his eyes. His time machine lurched. His recollection lurched in sync.

He read Maslick in high school. He invented his own Man Camera. It was a trip-wire photo device. He shamefully deployed it. He snapped pictures of Bucky in the Belmont High locker room.

He updated the device. He deployed it at a robbery scene late last year. The forensic application backfired.

Dudley coveted the device. Dudley broke into his apartment and covertly studied it. He found the picture stash. Dudley ran the Watanabe job. Dudley blackmailed him and co-opted him to the Werewolf frame.

Ashida rubbed his eyes and cracked a window. Cold air rushed in. He felt wind-deflected rain.

Thad Brown put two detectives on the boxed-dead-man job. It was perfunctory. Here’s a postscript: Elmer Jackson’s brother died in that fire.

A radio blared down the hallway. Sid Hudgens blared his a.m. Herald piece.

Chinatown torture snuff. Jap-hater Eddie Leng. Fifth Column Japs on Chinatown rampage?

Ashida shut the door and muzzled the Sidster. Miss Conville was due. She seemed competent. Dr. Nort and Captain Parker were dazzled. Parker quashed Manslaughter Two and got Miss Conville a job. She knew she killed four Mexicans. Parker quashed her knowledge of the dead kids in the trunk. Lustful men and corrupt women. It was ghastly business.

The phone rang. The noise startled him. Ashida snatched the call.

“Crime lab. Dr. Ashida speaking.”

Dudley said, “Good morning, lad. It has been entirely too long.”

Today’s B-Squad roust sheet. It’s all J-town and nearby. There’s three likely Tojoites.

The squad pen was drafty. The day-watch guys honked their snouts and skimmed their roust summaries. Elmer unwrapped a cigar and crib-noted his sheet.

Yanigahara, Willy J. Age 47/tavern employee. Rat-off by: Agent Ed Satterlee. Noted Chink-hater. Spotted at bund rallies. Has white girlfriend.

Yamazaki, Robert/AKA “Bad Bobby.” Age 34/railroad employee. On Federal rat list. Deutsches Haus habitué. Has Negro girlfriend. Frequents jazz clubs and tokes maryjane.

Matsura, Donald L. Age 41/metallurgist/gold broker/imports samurai swords. Rat-off by: Agent Ed Satterlee. Has Jap Navy KAs. Wears zoot suits. Has Mexican girlfriend.

Per above suspects:

No wants/no warrants/no parole holds. Inventory domiciles and transport to Lincoln Heights Jail. Today’s B-Squad pair off: Kapek, Jackson, Rice.

Elmer lit his cigar. He got unlucky today. Kapek and Rice gored his gourd. Lee Blanchard got A-Squad/Lunceford and Moss. He notched the relative luck.

The boss took the lectern. Noted nosebleed Lew Collier. The squad humps straddled chairs and snapped to.

Collier said, “Go easy on your confiscations. The lab’s overloaded. Inventory the flops and tape-seal them. This squadroom is not a pawnshop. Don’t bring stuff in, thinking you can hock it later on.”

Lunceford said, “No tickee, no washee.”

Kapek said, “That’s what you call a mixed metaphor. The Chinks say that, not the Japs.”

Blanchard pulled his cheeks taut. He did the squint-eyed Chinaman — always good for laughs.

Ha-has rose and subsided. Elmer said, “What about plain old stealing, boss? You might direct your answer to Kapek and Rice.”

Kapek sput-sputtered. Spit bubbles popped.

Rice said, “Jackson’s a Bolshevik.”

Lunceford said, “He’s a Jap-lover, you mean.”

Blanchard said, “How come we’re not rousting the dagos and the Krauts?”