Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

Or maybe not. A gay cop was no longer the official impossibility it had been when he’d joined the force, but he’d broken ground during colder times and would never fit in.

His door was open and he was reading a preliminary investigation report. His black hair needed a trim, cowlicks reigning, the white sideburns he called his skunk stripes bushing and trailing a half inch below his earlobes.

A spruce-green sport coat hung from the back of his chair and puddled onto the floor. His short-sleeved white shirt looked defeated, his skinny yellow tie could’ve passed for a mustard stain. Gray cords and tan desert boots topped off the ensemble. The unshielded ceiling bulb was vaguely pink and graced his acne-pitted cheeks with a phony sunburn.

He hooked a thumb at the spare chair and I unfolded it and sat. He handed me the prelim and some crime scene photos.

The report was the usual detached affair, recorded on the scene by Detective I S. J. Binchy. Sean was a former bass player in a ska band turned born-again Christian, a compliant kid who Milo sometimes enlisted for grunt work.

Nice kid, decent speller. The only new thing I learned was that a freeway cleanup crew had found the body at four-fourteen a.m.

The first photo was a frontal of the corpse, lying on its back, face up, as the coroner’s photographer click-clicked from above.

Night-bleached face, hard to make out details. A close-up shot showed the gaping mouth and half-closed eyes I’d seen so many times before. Hollowness behind the irises. The right cheek was slightly convex, but it wasn’t the distortion you’d see with a small-caliber bullet dancing around in the head.

A pair of lateral views revealed a dark, star-shaped entry wound, surrounded by a black halo of powder, just in front of the left ear, and a ragged exit, much larger and slightly higher on the right temple, that showcased bone and red-meat muscle and the oatmeal of brain matter.

I said, “Through-and-through shot.”

“Coroner thinks contact shot, or just short of contact, full metal jacket, no larger than a thirty-eight, no supplementary load.”

His voice was remote. Keeping his distance from this victim.

The next photo was a close-up. “What about these cheek abrasions?”

“He was found lying on his face, maybe he got dragged a bit during the dump. No defense wounds or tissue under his nails or any other signs of struggle. No major blood at the scene, so he was shot somewhere else.”

“He’s big,” I said. “So if there was no struggle, he was probably taken by surprise.”

“I’d ask if you recognize him, but we just got word from AFIS. The prints confirm it’s Duchay.”

I reviewed the pictures, tried to look past damage and death. Rand Duchay’s boyhood facial structure had been transformed by puberty into something longer and harder. His hair was darker than I remembered but that could’ve been the lighting. In life, he’d been a slow kid, with slack features. Death hadn’t changed that, but death has a way of blunting everyone around the edges. Would I have recognized him if we’d passed on the street?

I said, “Any fix on when it happened?”

“You know how T.O.D. is, mostly guesswork. Best guess is sometime between nine p.m. and one a.m.”

Nine was well after I’d gotten home from Duchay’s no-show. Maybe he had changed his mind about the meeting. Or had his mind changed.

I said, “Did you just happen to find out, or did you go looking for him?”

Milo stretched his long legs as far as the room allowed. “After you called I decided to do a little research on Duchay, found out he’d been released three days ago. Four years early, good behavior.” Flaring nostrils said what he thought about that.

“I learned who he’d been released to, which took some doing. Called, got no answer, decided a thrill-killer ambling around the Westside didn’t appeal to my sense of order. I left Sean a message to check prowler reports and attempted burglaries for the last three days. Then I took a drive up Westwood and hit some side streets.”

He worked his tongue inside his cheek. “I was thinking I’d finish up at your place, you’d fix me a sandwich, I’d wish you bon voyage. Then Sean calls back, he’s at the coroner, a case came in last night that looked like a whodunit and the crime scene guys missed something but the crypt attendant found it when she undressed the body. Little scrap of paper in the victim’s pocket. Sean was pretty sure he recognized your number, but wanted to confirm.”

“Sean’s got a good memory,” I said.

“Sean’s coming along.”

“You’re working the case with him?”

“He’s working it with me.”

As we left, Sean Binchy stepped out of the detectives’ room and hailed us. He’s red-headed and freckled, in his late twenties, as tall as Milo, many pounds lighter. Sean favors four-button suits, bright blue shirts, somber ties, and Doc Martens. Old tattoos are hidden by long sleeves. Short, neat hair replaces the dreads of his music days.

“Hi, Dr. Delaware,” he said cheerfully. “Looks like you’re involved in this one.”

Milo said, “Sean, Dr. Delaware’s scheduled to fly to New York tomorrow morning. I don’t see any reason that should change.”

“Sure, no prob- uh, Loot, I finally got through to the folks Duchay was staying with and they had no idea he’d gone into the city to meet with Dr. Delaware. He told them he was going looking for a job.”

“Where?”

“Construction site,” said Binchy. “There’s an apartment development going up not far from where they live and Duchay went to speak with the supervisor.”

“On Saturday?”

“Guess the site’s open.”

“Verify that, Sean.”

“You bet.”

“What time did he leave for this alleged meeting?” said Milo.

“Five p.m.”

“Guy takes a short walk at five, doesn’t come home all night, and they’re not concerned?”

“They were concerned,” said Binchy. “At seven p.m., they called Van Nuys Division to report him missing, but since he was an adult and not enough time had passed, it wasn’t filed as an official M.P.”

“A convicted murderer wandering around didn’t bother anyone?”

“I don’t know if they mentioned that to Van Nuys.”

“Find out if they did, Sean.”

“Yes, sir.”

I said, “Who was he living with?”

“Some people who take in troubled kids,” said Binchy.

“Duchay was an adult,” said Milo.

“Then it’s troubled people, Loot. They’re ministers, or something.”

“The Daneys?” I said.

“You know them?”

“They were involved with Rand’s case years ago.”

“Back when he killed that little girl,” said Binchy. No rancor in his voice. Every time I’d seen him, his demeanor had been exactly the same: pleasant, unruffled, uncluttered with self-doubt. Maybe still waters did run deep. Or God on your side was the ultimate soul balm.

“Involved how?” said Milo.

“Spiritual advisers,” I said. “They were seminary students.”

Binchy said, “Everyone could use some of that.”

“Didn’t seem to help Duchay,” said Milo.

“Not in this world.” Binchy smiled briefly.

I said, “Both of them were murdered.”

“Both of who, Doc?”

“Rand and Troy Turner.”

“Didn’t know about Turner,” said Milo. “When did that happen?”

“A month after he was in custody.”

“So we’re talking eight years in between. What happened to him?”

I described Troy’s ambush of a Vato Loco, the gang-vengeance theory, the way he’d been hung in the utility closet. “Don’t know if it was ever solved.”