Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

I said, “It’s called criminal burnout. Otherwise known as too pooped to pop.”

Small nod.

“Mr. Moskow, how old would you say this man was?”

“Only saw him for a few seconds.” Moskow’s face screwed up and his beard bristled. “Mostly I was looking at his arm.” He raised his own limb, mimed a downward thrust. “I thought he was hitting her with his hand, ran out to confront him. By the time I got there, he was walking back to his car and I saw the blood under Mrs. Mancusi. Spreading… a flood… I’ve never seen anything like it…” He shuddered.

“In terms of his age-”

“Oh, yeah, sorry… Seventy? Sixty-five? Seventy-five? I really can’t say, all I know is he moved like an old guy. No limp or anything like that, just stiff. Like his body was all bound up.”

“Slow.”

He thought. “He didn’t run, but he wasn’t halting. All I really saw was his back. Heading for his car. I guess I’d call it a medium pace. Normal walking. Like he’d just delivered a package or something. And he didn’t look back. I’m screaming at him and it’s like I’m not there. Bastard doesn’t even bother to turn, just keeps going, gets in the car, drives off. That’s what gets me. How normal he acted.”

“Business as usual.”

He played with a loose thread at the sweatshirt’s neckline.

I said, “So you never saw his face.”

“Nope. It was crazy. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, hoping someone will come out, but no one did.” He looked up the block. “Ghost town. Pure L.A.”

“What did you scream at him?”

“Who remembers… probably something like ‘Stop, you asshole!’” Moskow plinked the hem of his sweatshirt with a thumbnail. “Mrs. Mancusi’s lying there, covered in blood, and this bastard is sauntering away like nothing happened. I started after him, which in retrospect was idiotic. But you don’t think. Then I saw the knife and stopped in my tracks.”

Moisture collected at the bottom of his eyes.

“How’d you see the knife?”

“He wiped it on the front of his pants. Above the knee. Casually, like it was a natural thing to do.”

“Then what?” I said.

“Then he pocketed it and got into his car and drove off. The whole thing took seconds.”

“The car was idling.”

“I don’t remember him starting it up, so probably. Don’t remember any engine noise at all but maybe I was blocking it out. That particular model’s pretty quiet.”

“Which way did he drive?”

He pointed south. “Right past my house.”

I knew the neighborhood from my grad student days at the U., had roamed these same streets searching for shortcuts home to my dismal little single on Overland. “It’s a bit of a maze. All those dead ends.”

Moskow stiffened. “You’re thinking he’s from around here?”

“No, but he may have planned his escape route.”

“Well, I’ve never seen him in the neighborhood. Same for the car. This isn’t exactly S600 territory.”

“Not a lot of Benzes?”

“Plenty of Benzes, but not 600s.”

“You’re into cars.”

“I’ve owned a few junkers that I fixed up.” He managed a half smile. “Owned a DeLorean. That was an experience. So what are we talking about, some old Mafioso?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Big black car, execution-style killing, guy that age. What came to mind is maybe he’s an old goombah hit man who didn’t burn out.”

He pulled the thread loose, rubbed it between forefinger and thumb. “That stupid cap.”

“Would there be any reason for Mrs. Mancusi to be involved with an old Mafioso?”

“Wouldn’t have thought so. Then again, who’d imagine this?”

“How well did you know her?”

“Not well at all. She was quiet, seemed nice enough. We’d say hi, good-bye, that’s about it.”

“Any social life?”

“Just that guy I told the lieutenant about.”

“How often was he here?”

“Maybe every month, that why I assumed he was her son. Could’ve been more often, it’s not like I kept my eyes fixed on her house.”

“Anything more you can say about him?”

“Forties, blond, sloppy-looking. Now that I think about it, I never actually saw them together. He’d knock on the door and she’d let him in. When he left, she never walked him out.”

“Was walking hard for her?”

“On the contrary, hale and healthy.”

“Anything else you can tell me about the blond guy?”

“Kind of thickset, when I say sloppy I mean he didn’t seem to care about his appearance.”

“Any idea what his name is?”

“Never heard her call him anything. Like I said, never saw them actually together. He never looked happy to be here, so maybe there was tension between them. And the last time he visited, a month or so ago, he stayed outside, talking to Mrs. Mancusi through the open door. I assume it was her, because no one else lives there. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but from the looks of it they could’ve been arguing. Then he did this.”

Slapping a hand on one hip, he bent one leg and grimaced.

“It was a little… theatrical, know what I mean? It seemed funny, a grown man who wasn’t particularly gay looking, vamping like that. It struck me as an odd thing to do. Especially when you’re talking to your mother. If she is his mother.”

“You think they could’ve been arguing.”

“Look, I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble,” said Moskow, “and it’s nothing I’d swear to. Just my impression.”

“Because of his body language.”

“The way he positioned himself – he looked a little…”

“Aggressive?”

“More like defensive,” said Moskow. “Like Mrs. Mancusi told him something he didn’t want to hear.”

“Mafia hit because her name was Mancusi?” said Milo.

We were in Café Moghul, around the corner from the station. The restaurant’s owners view him as a human rottweiler and are all too happy to create personal buffets. I watched him make his way through plates of lamb curry, tandoori lobster, spicy okra, lentils and rice. A pitcher of iced clove tea sat at his elbow.

After all that blood in Ella Mancusi’s driveway, the mental pictures I’d drawn of the murder, it was all I could do to pour myself a glass.

I said, “Moskow didn’t say so but that was probably part of it. But maybe he’s on to something. The setup – knowing when she came out to get her paper, leaving the car idling, planning the escape route – smells of pro. So does the killer’s demeanor: brutally methodical, no hurried escape.”

“Grampa bad guy,” he said. “Doing her in broad daylight and giving himself less than three hours to get the car cleaned up and back in place is professional? Not to mention driving it back to Beverly Hills in full view?”

“Where’s the rent-a-car lot?”

“Alden Drive near Foothill.”

“B.H. industrial zone,” I said. “Pretty quiet on Sunday morning.”

“It’s also five minutes from the B.H. Police Department.”

“But a black Mercedes wouldn’t attract anyone’s attention. Neither would a car entering the lot. Any blood in the Benz?”

“At first glance, no. Let’s see what the lab turns up.”

“He wiped the knife on the front of his pants, careful not to make a mess. Two and a half hours was enough time to clean the car before he returned it. Maybe he’s got a safe place, somewhere between the crime scene and the drop-off.”

“That’s half the Westside,” he said. “Think I’m gonna get some media coverage on this one. Geriatric knife man, how many of those can there be?” Forking lobster, chewing, swallowing. “Nervy knife man, doing it in broad daylight.”