Alan Russell - Burning Man

I nodded and then turned my eyes back to the victim. I had been viewing him from the side before, but now I was looking straight ahead. Two supports had been nailed into the tree, a foot rest and a seat rest. Because the victim was only elevated a few feet off the ground, we were almost eye to eye, or should have been. There was a gaping hole where his right eye was missing.

Gump noticed my reaction. “You didn’t know he was shot?”

I shook my head.

“It was close range,” he said, “probably a nine millimeter. It looks as if it happened right over there.”

Two techs were working the area where he pointed, and lots of evidence bags were already filled. The ground was wet; in places you could see the russet stains of blood. There was a swath of wild mustard that had been crushed, showing the path along which the body had been dragged over to the tree. I was glad the victim was already dead before being crucified, or at least it appeared that was the case. He hadn’t suffered slow torture. If the victim was already dead, though, why had the murderer gone to the trouble of staging the man’s death?

“Got anything on the victim?” I asked.

“Everything’s already been tagged and bagged,” Gump said. “He was wearing one of those runner’s belts with compartments where we found a driver’s license. Meet Paul Klein.”

I looked at the victim, studied the shirt, and said, “BHHS?”

“As in Beverly Hills 90210,” Gump said. “According to his ASB card, which was also in the belt, he was a senior at Beverly Hills High School.”

“What else do we know about him?”

“He drives a late model BMW. It was ticketed yesterday for being left in the park after it closed. The Parks and Recreation worker that found him said that Klein is a regular in these parts. Apparently, he runs up here most days.”

“Running might not have been the only thing he was doing,” the other detective said.

“Martinez,” he added, tilting his head slightly by way of introduction.

“Gideon,” I said. “And what else might he have been doing?”

“Dealing or using or both,” Martinez said. “We found a stash of pills in his belt. He was holding a baggie filled with X and OC.”

“X” was Ecstasy; in this instance, “OC” was OxyContin and not Orange County.

“He also had a gold money clip with almost four hundred dollars, and an American Express Card. In case you’re wondering, it was only a Platinum card, not a Centurion.”

“Times are tough even in Beverly Hills,” Gump said.

Sirius decided to get into the conversation. His staccato bark sounded like “Rough!”

Gump and Martinez thought that was funny, but I knew Sirius was trying to tell me something. I followed his gaze. He was staring out over the Sunset Strip off into the distance. I couldn’t see anything, but became aware of a noise, a whop, whop, whop that was drawing closer.

“Shit,” I said. “It’s a helicopter.”

I grabbed some of the plastic wrapping covering the ground and ran over to the crucifixion tree. For just a moment I hesitated, staring into the bloodied face of Paul Klein. Then I threw the plastic wrap over him before adding my sports coat as a covering. The plastic wrapping would help prevent any contamination to the crime scene.

Martinez and Gump came up behind me, while overhead the helicopter circled the area trying to get the best footage possible. Before long I knew that the sky would be filled with other prying birds.

“I’ll call in and get us some tarps ASAP,” I said.

When the media becomes too invasive, sometimes it’s necessary to work behind curtains.

“Forget the tarps,” Gump said, “just get me an RPG.”

All morning and into the afternoon I worked the scene. It’s often the small details that make or break a homicide case, so it is a painstakingly slow process. The homicide scene was curtained off, but that didn’t stop the helicopters from hovering. Occasionally the wind blew open the curtain, and the voyeurs did their peeping. Klein’s body had also been shrouded, but the outline of what was there was only too visible.

Gump and Martinez were still working the scene when I left to go interview Michelle Klein. It was the one part of the investigation they were happy to hand off to me. They would just as soon not be the ones looking into the eyes of a mother who had just lost her son.

The name of the victim had not yet been released to the press, which meant I wouldn’t have to fight through a media gauntlet to talk to the mother. The Klein house was located north of Sunset Boulevard, in the hills that were Beverly Hills. Despite its name, most of Beverly Hills is actually flat, but the northern part of town is hilly and more exclusive.

I knew the media was lined up and waiting on Fuller Avenue, so I avoided it by driving the long way out and exiting the park on Mulholland. I didn’t want to advertise my connection to the Klein case; the investigation was already enough of a three-ring circus without bringing in the spectacle of my history with Ellis Haines, the serial killer who had somehow obtained cult status since Sirius and I had captured him.

The January sun was already on the run, even though it was only three thirty. My stomach had been complaining for hours, so I stopped for subs. I went with an Italian on wheat with all the veggies; Sirius had turkey breast and roast beef on whole grain. When we’re not on a case, he gets kibble with chicken breast and steamed broccoli, which is probably why he likes eating out more than I do. In the backseat he made quick work of his sub.

I chewed a little more thoughtfully and also chewed over the questions that needed asking. There was a lot I wanted to know about Paul Klein. Given the chance, I like to rehearse field interviews in my mind, but whenever I thought about Klein I kept seeing him nailed to a tree. The more I tried to will that image from my mind, the more it stuck. Sometimes things should stick, so I reached for the right music to be pensive by. Billie Holiday was perfect for that, and I found the CD track I was looking for. There have been plenty of protest songs written, but none as powerful as “Strange Fruit.”

I listened to Miss Holiday’s lament about the strange, bloody fruit that southern trees bear. My coat’s lining was spotted with Paul Klein’s blood, so I would have to leave it in the car before interviewing his mother. Holiday’s song was about a lynching in the south. Klein hadn’t been lynched, but he had been crucified. Someone had nailed him to a tree after he was dead.

Strange fruit indeed, I thought. I listened while Holiday emoted about bulging eyes. One of Klein’s eyes was missing from having been shot. It was that hollow that had kept drawing my stares. I would have to travel through that dark cave to find answers. The song and the case were bitter fruit to contemplate.

Another of Holiday’s classics, “God Bless the Child,” began to play. She seemed to be summing up my cases and my thoughts. I had started the day with baby Rose, and I’d probably end it in fire.

Into the hills of Beverly I drove. There weren’t any gated communities, but it was a community of high and imposing gates, and you couldn’t even see most of the houses from the road. Good fences might make for good neighbors, but they make for bad rubbernecking. A lot of the houses I passed by were known by fanciful names that predated the current owners, many of them associated with old-time Hollywood. Every day, tour buses make the rounds of the area, pointing out the past and present homes of stars, and recounting scandals and murders that happened in this domain of the wealthy. For a small city, Beverly Hills has had more than its share of notorious murders: Bugsy Siegel was gunned down in an alleged mob hit; Johnny Stompanato was stabbed to death by Lana Turner’s daughter when he was allegedly assaulting the actress. Ron Levin was shot in his Beverly Hills apartment, an apparent victim of the Billionaire Boys Club, and Jose and Kitty Menendez were victims of their own two sons, who used a twelve-gauge shotgun on their parents in an attempt to get an early $35 million inheritance. The thick hedges and high fences that surrounded the pricey Beverly Hills homes hadn’t managed to keep away trouble.