Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

No loan from Aaron Fox, the Bureau had its own toy chest.

Lindstrom said, “This one we call the electric thong.”

“Ouch,” said Milo.

“Not necessarily.”

At seven fourteen, Carlo Scoppio left the gym looking tired, slightly flushed.

Before he reached his truck, a young woman in a peach hoodie walked up to him, smiling but conspicuously nervous.

“Excuse me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think I’m lost. Is this a bad neighborhood?”

“It can be. Where are you from?”

“ Tempe. That’s Arizona. I was supposed to meet someone at Hollywood and Vine. Is that close to here?”

Derisive laughter. “Not exactly.”

“You’re kidding.”

‘You’re pretty far from there-do you have a car?”

“I took the bus. From Union Station. They said get off at Jefferson then transfer to the… I forget. So it’s nasty around here?”

“I wouldn’t be out here alone after dark.”

“Oh, man… can you point me toward Hollywood?”

Laughter. “I can point-it’s that way. North. But you can’t walk it.”

“Is there a bus?”

“No idea-what the-”

Carlo Scoppio stiffened as Milo and six other large men ran toward him shouting. Gayle Lindstrom had her cuffs out, told him he was under arrest. Scoppio swatted the cuffs, made contact with Lindstrom’s forearm, threw her off-balance.

A bass chorus of commands filled the strip mall as Scoppio dropped his gym bag, assumed a pugilist stance. Fists up, ridiculously quaint.

“Policepolicepolice putyour hands where they can be seen hands up yourhands hands up!”

Scoppio blinked. Raised one hand.

Dropped the other to the waistband of his hoodie, reached in, brought out something long-barreled and shiny.

The choir switched hymns: “Gungungungungun!” Scoppio straight-armed his weapon. Milo aimed his Glock.

Same instincts as a few days ago at Moghul, where’d he’d taken years off Officer Randy Thorpe’s life expectancy.

Thorpe had been smart.

Scoppio squinted. His finger whitened.

Milo fired.

So did everyone else.

Dr. Clarice Jernigan said, “This autopsy was fun.”

“Real hoot,” said Milo.

The pathologist’s office at the crypt could have been anywhere.

No specimens swimming in formaldehyde, no morbid humor. Potted Peruvian lilies and cactus sat atop a low, white bookshelf, along with cheerful family photos. Jernigan and five healthy-looking kids and a husband who looked like a banker.

She said, “I mean fun from an intellectual puzzle perspective. Your Mr. Scoppio had twenty-eight bullets in him from five different firearms, with at least four wounds theoretically fatal. I don’t need to pinpoint which one did him in, because frankly, who gives a damn, he’s a sieve. But if I was writing this up for Journal of Forensic Science , I’d tag the frontal head wound. Big-caliber bullet, went straight through the cortex and dipped down into the brain stem.”

“Three five-seven?”

Nod. “Yours?”

“Mine’s nine-millimeter.”

“Like two other shooters. No rifle fire. How come? Fugitive guys always bring assault rifles.”

“The officer didn’t have a clear shot.”

“Shootout at the O.K. Mall… well, if your nine-millimeter impacted anywhere above the rib cage, you can award yourself honorable mention. If you got him in the legs?” Shrug.

Milo didn’t fill in the blank.

Jernigan said, “In terms of why he faced off against such heavy firepower, that’s Dr. Delaware ’s bailiwick.” To me: “I’m comfortable with suicide by cop. How about you?”

I said, “Works for me.”

“I’m going to write that his inherent psychiatric issues were helped along by amphetamine intoxication, ’cause we want to lay everything at this bastard’s feet, make sure no ACLU types start bitching and moaning.”

Milo said, “He was tweaking big-time?”

“I’m surprised he didn’t jump out of his skin, Lieutenant. Anyway, I don’t see a problem, hopefully the pencil-pushers won’t, either.”

“I’ll find out soon enough. Meeting with the chief in an hour.”

“That should be fun.” She walked us to the door. Milo said, “Thanks, Doc.”

“Thank you. For what you did on Bobby. Bobby was a great kid. I know I’m supposed to be objective but when I found out the bastard ambushed him, I allowed myself a little pleasure when I peeled his damn face off his damn skull. And by the way, I remember my pledge about autopsies. Long as you don’t push it.”

Milo drove to the chief’s office and I returned home.

Detouring, I drove past the lot on Borodi. All the embers gone, bulldozed clean and level, surrounded by a new, substantial fence. Doyle Bryczinski sat in his car by the curb. He seemed to be snoozing, but as I drove by, he waved.

I backed up. “Back on the job, huh?”

“Company finally got their act together,” he said. “Realized they better have me every day, all day. Sometimes they give me a double. When Mom doesn’t need me, I’m here.”

“Keep up the good work.”

He saluted. “Only way I know how.”

Milo didn’t phone after the meeting with the chief and I wondered if it had gone badly.

Probably on his way to Southwest Division. Maybe that rib joint was still operative and he’d dive into seven courses of trans-fat bliss.

He dropped in the following morning, wearing a puce aloha shirt, baggy brown pants, desert boots. I’d been working on custody reports, Blanche curled on my lap.

She bounced off, smiled up at him.

He said, “I gotta bend? Next time get a Great Dane,” but patted her head far longer than mere courtesy called for.

I said, “Vacation or wishful thinking?”

“Two weeks of sun and fun, Rick managed to finagle some time, we’re headed for the Big Island tomorrow morning.”

“Think of me at the luau.”

“What I think of at a luau is more luau.”

He walked to the kitchen, took a half pint of orange juice out of the fridge, put on glasses and read the expiration date. “A week past, I’m doing you a favor.” He upended the carton, guzzled.

Blanche watched, fascinated. His eating habits have never stopped puzzling her.

I said, “Two weeks. No Southwest gig?”

Crushing and tossing the empty carton, he took out a plate of cold roast beef, brought it to the table. “Change of plans.”

“Gunrunners off the radar?”

“Still on the radar but I won’t be watching the screen.”

“Chief’s happy.”

“Not a relevent concept for him. What I did was bring up the fact that I’d closed Backer and Doreen well before his deadline, in addition to preventing a potential arson disaster by nabbing Helga. But that I wasn’t happy, because of two skeletons in a Prius. Yeah, it was Van Nuys’ case but I’d checked and Van Nuys wasn’t working it, no one was, and I thought that was a crying shame. I also informed him that when I drove out to Van Nuys Airport a few nights ago, Hangar 13A was totally cleared. No jet, no cars, no gazillion dollars’ worth of gold and furs and diamonds and art. No accounting of the skeletons ever being taken to the crypt and the FAA had no record of the jet ever taking off. Not to mention the absence of a single letter of press ink. His Exaltedness’s response was his brand of empathy.”

“I know what you’re going through?”

“‘Don’t bitch, Sturgis, we’re both victims of the politicians and the diplomats, they’re all Ivy League faggots compensating for short dicks-and don’t get touchy about “faggot,” I’m talking generically.’ Then he ushers me out of his office, informs me I need to concentrate on West L.A., not stick my nose in any other sectors’ cases. I say, ‘Can I take that to mean Southwest as well as Van Nuys, sir?’ He says, ‘Don’t make me explicate, Sturgis. It saps my prostate.’”