Jonathan Kellerman - Monster

Martinez touched his crucifix.

"When's Beatty's autopsy scheduled?" said Milo.

"Hard to say. It's the usual backlog. Why?"

"It might be related to something. So you're saying Beatty must have been pretty juiced."

"To smell that strong? Sure. My guess would be way over the limit. He probably got blasted, wandered onto the tracks, lay down for a nap, and boom." Martinez smiled. "So, could I be a detective?"

"Why bother?" said Milo. "Your job's more fun."

Martinez chuckled. "Those tracks-they really should do something about them, no fence, no guardrail when they get close to the train yard. I grew up around there, used to play on the tracks, but they weren't running trains back then. You remember last month? The little kid who wandered on, walking home from school? Not far from where Beatty got hit. That kid, we didn't get anything recognizable on him. They should put a fence up, or something… So, anything else?"

"I'd like to look at Beatty."

"Really? How come?"

"I want to think of him as a person."

Martinez's thumb and forefinger closed around the bottom of the crucifix. "A person, huh? Well, maybe looking at him isn't the right way to do that, you know?"

Milo said, "Humor me."

Martinez walked over to a locker, slid the drawer out silently, drew back white sheeting.

The face was gray, surprisingly intact except for a thatch of lacerations on the left cheek. Ash gray, because in life Ellroy Beatty had been black. White lint of kinky beard stubble, maybe four, five days' worth. Untrimmed mass of gray hair. The eyes were open, dull, dry, the lips caked with pinkish crust. That vacant look common to all dead faces. No matter what your IQ in life, when the soul flies, you look stupid.

Below the neck was empty space. Clean decapitation except for a few fringes of trachea and jugular, meaty muscle fibers protruding. Two feet down the table was a white-wrapped package that Martinez needlessly explained was "the lower extremities."

Milo stared at the ashen chunk that had once borne the consciousness of Ellroy Beatty. Not blinking, not moving. I wondered how many times he'd been down here.

Just as Martinez said, "Okay?" the door opened and a man strode in. He wore scrubs, a hairnet, paper slippers, a loose mask around his neck. About Beatty's age, tall, stoop-shouldered with a deeply tanned face and a thick black beard.

He glanced at us, read the index card in his right hand, and headed for one of the steel lockers, two rows away.

Then he saw Ellroy Beatty's head and flushed with anger. "What the hell's going on here?"

Martinez said, "Some kind of problem, Dr. Friedman?"

"I'd sure as hell say so. Who cut up my D.B.?"

"Your D.B.?" said Martinez.

"That's what I said. Are you deaf, Albert?" Friedman turned to Milo. "And who the hell are you?"

"LAPD."

"I thought Willis Hooks was on this one."

"No," said Milo. "Hooks is Central. This is a Newton case, the detective's Robert Aguilar."

"What?" said Friedman, jabbing the card. "The paperwork says Central, Hooks. How long have you been doing this, Mr. Aguilar?"

Milo said, "I'm Sturgis, Doctor. West L.A."

Friedman blinked. "What the hell-" He stepped closer to Ellroy Beatty's head. "Let me tell you, Detective, someone's in deep dirt. I had this D.B. scheduled for a post and someone cut his goddamn head off! And what's he doing in that drawer when he's supposed to be over here?" Friedman waved the card.

"No one moved him, Dr. Friedman," said Martinez. "He got put here right away. And no one cut him, this is the-"

Bullshit, Albert! Bullshit on toast-bullets don't sever your damn head! Bullets don't-"

"This is D.B. Beatty," said Martinez. "The one who was hit by a-"

"I know who he is, Albert!" Another wave of the card. "Beatty, Leroy. Gunshot wound to the head, brought in last night-"

"Beatty, Ellroy," said Martinez.

"Leroy, Albert. Says so right here." The card was thrust at Martinez's face. "Case number 971132; Time of Delivery: three-sixteen A.M."

Martinez rolled up some of the sheeting covering Beatty's legs. Pulling out a toe tag, he read, "Ellroy Beatty, hit by a train. TOD three-forty-two A.M., case number 971135."

Friedman looked down at the head. Then the card. Then the numbers on the steel drawers. He yanked one open.

Inside was an intact body, naked, gray.

Exact same gray as Ellroy Beatty.

Same face.

All four of us stared.

I looked from corpse to corpse. Minor discrepancies materialized: Leroy Beatty had slightly less hair on top than Ellroy, but more on the bottom. A full white beard. No scratches on his face, but a keloid scar puckered the right jawline, probably an old knife wound.

The neat, blackened hole in his forehead looked too innocuous to have killed him. The impact had caused facial distortion-swelling around the nose, puffiness under the eyes. Bloodred eyeballs, as if he'd stared too long into the fires of hell.

Friedman's head was swiveling now, too.

"Twins," said Martinez. "Brother Ellroy, meet Brother Leroy."

Friedman turned on him. "Don't joke, Albert. What the hell's going on?"

"Good question," said Milo.

It took two hours to put it all together. Dr. Friedman left long before then, muttering about having to work with incompetents.

I sat with Milo in a morgue conference room. Detective Robert Aguilar from Newton showed up first. Young, good-looking, with a sleek black pompadour, he wore a gray pinstriped suit tailored to his trim frame. Manicured nails. He spoke very crisply, a little too fast, tried to come across light-hearted but couldn't pull it off. Milo'd told me he was new to the division, a Detective I. For all I knew, this was his first case.

Last to arrive was Willis Hooks from Central. I'd met him when he worked Southwest. A series of killings of handicapped people that had given me a glimpse of a cowardly new world.

Hooks was in his early forties, black, five-nine, heavy, with a clean head, bulldog jowls, and a thick, drooping mustache. His navy blazer had that baggy, too-long look you sometimes see with big-chested men. His shoes were dusty.

"Milo," he said, sitting down. "Dr. Delaware. Fate keeps putting us in the same room."

Aguilar watched and listened, trying, I guessed, to gauge Hooks's mood. To know with whom to align himself.

"Fate or just plain bad luck, Willis," said Milo.

Hooks laughed hoarsely and spread pudgy fingers on the table.

Milo said, "Willis, this is Robert Aguilar."

"Newton Division," said Aguilar.

"Charmed," said Hooks. "Yours is the train?"

"Yup," said Aguilar. "Ellroy Lincoln Beatty, male black, fifty-two."

"Mine's Leroy Washington Beatty, male black, fifty-two. Think they could be distantly related?"

Before Aguilar could answer, Hooks winked and said, "Mine went down around three A.M., give or take."

"Mine, too," said Aguilar.

"How 'bout that?" Hooks turned to Milo. "It appears someone's got it in for the Beatty family. Maybe we should find out if they've got any other siblings. Maybe there's some more Beatty 187's all over town-hell, this could be a Beatty Holocaust. If not, least we should do is warn them."

Aguilar frowned. Taking out a gold Cross pen, he began writing in his pad.

Hooks said, "Got some ideas, Detective?"

Aguilar looked up. His lips were tight. "Just charting the data flow."

Hooks pursed his lips and his mustache bristled. "Well, that's good. So tell me, Detective Sturgis. What's your connection to the Bobbsey twins?"

"You're not going to believe this," said Milo.

We left the morgue at twelve-thirty P.M. Mission Road was alive with pedestrians. The air smelled like fried chicken.

"Grease," said Milo. "Yum. Lunch?"

"Not in the mood," I said.