Robert Crais: Chasing Darkness

The woman shouted up, “What is it?”

They saw a man seated in a ragged club chair, wearing baggy plaid shorts and a thin blue T-shirt. He was barefoot, allowing Beakman to see that half the right foot was missing. The scarring suggested the injury to his foot occurred a long time ago, but he had a more recent injury.

Beakman followed Trenchard into the house for a closer look. The remains of the man’s head lolled backwards, where blood and brain matter had drained onto the club chair and his shoulders. His right hand rested on his lap, limply cupping a black pistol. A single black hole had been punched beneath his chin. Dried blood the color of black cherries was crusted over his face and neck and the chair.

Trenchard said, “That’s a damn bad foot.”

“Suicide?”

“Duh. I’ll call. We can’t leave this guy until they get someone here to secure the scene.”

“What about the fire?”

“Fuck the fire. They gotta get someone up here to wait for the CI. I don’t want us to get stuck with this stink.”

Trenchard swatted futilely at the flies and ducked like a boxer slipping a punch as he moved for the door. Beakman, fascinated, circled the dead man.

Trenchard said, “Don’t touch anything. We gotta treat it like a crime scene.”

“I’m just looking.”

A photo album lay open between the dead man’s feet as if it had fallen from his lap. Careful not to step in the dried blood, Beakman moved closer to see. A single picture was centered on the open page, one of those Polaroid pictures that develop themselves. The plastic over the picture was speckled with blood.

The flies suddenly seemed louder to Beakman, as loud now as the helicopters fighting the flames.

“Trench, come here-”

Trenchard came over, then stooped for a closer look.

“Holy Mother.”

The Polaroid showed a female Caucasian with what appeared to be an extension cord wrapped around her neck. The picture had been taken at night, with the woman sprawled on her back at the base of a trash bin. Her tongue protruded thickly from her mouth, and her eyes bulged, but they were unfocused and sightless.

Beakman heard himself whispering.

“You think it’s real? A real woman, really dead?”

“Dunno.”

“Maybe it’s from a movie. You know, staged?”

Trenchard opened his knife, then used the point to turn the page. Beakman grew scared. He might have been only a reserve officer, but he knew better than to disturb the scene.

“We’re not supposed to touch anything.”

“We’re not. Shut up.”

Trenchard turned to the next page, then the next. Beakman felt numb but excited, knowing he was seeing a darkness so terrible that few people would ever imagine it, let alone face it. These pictures were portraits of evil. The mind that had conceived of these things and taken these pictures and hidden them in this album had entered a nightmare world. It had left humanity behind. Beakman would have stories for his kids when he returned to school, but this story would not be among them.

“They’re real, aren’t they? These women were murdered.”

“I dunno.”

“They look real. He fucking killed them.”

“Stop it.”

Trenchard lifted the album with his knife so they could see the cover. It showed a beautiful sunset beach with gentle waves and a couple leaving footprints in the sand. Embossed in flowing script was a legend: My Happy Memories.

Trenchard lowered the cover.

“Let’s get away from these flies.”

They left the album as they had found it, and sought comfort in the smoky air.

OUR OFFICE was a good place to be that morning. There was only the tocking of the Pinocchio clock, the scratch of my pen, and the hiss of the air conditioner fighting a terrible heat. Fire season had arrived, when fires erupted across the Southland like pimples on adolescent skin.

Joe Pike was waiting for me to finish the paperwork. He stood at the French doors that open onto my balcony, staring across the city toward the ocean. He had not spoken nor moved in more than twenty minutes, which was nothing for Pike. He often went soundless for days. We were going to work out at Ray Depente’s gym in South-Central Los Angeles when I finished the grind.

The first call came at nine forty-two.

A male voice said, “Are you Elvis Cole?”

“That’s right. How can I help you?”

“You’re a dead man.”

I killed the call and went back to work. When you do what I do, you get calls from schizophrenics, escapees from Area 51, and people claiming to know who killed the Black Dahlia and Princess Diana.

Pike said, “Who was it?”

“Some guy told me I was a dead man.”

Pike said, “Smoke.”

I glanced up from the work.

“Where?”

“ Malibu, looks like. Maybe Topanga.”

Then Pike turned toward the door, and everything that had been normal about that ordinary morning changed.

“Listen-”

A stocky man with a short haircut and wilted tan sport coat shoved through the door like he lived in Fallujah. He flashed a badge as if he expected me to dive under my desk.

“Welcome to hell, shitbird.”

A woman in a blue business suit with a shoulder bag slung on her arm came in behind him. The heat had played hell with her hair, but that didn’t stop her from showing a silver-and-gold detective shield.

“Connie Bastilla, LAPD. This is Charlie Crimmens. Are you Elvis Cole?”

I studied Pike.

“Did he really call me a shitbird?”

Crimmens tipped his badge toward me, then Pike, but talked to the woman.

“This one’s Cole. This one’s gotta be his bun boy, Pike.”

Pike faced Charlie. Pike was six-one, a bit over two, and was suited up in a sleeveless grey sweatshirt and government-issue sunglasses. When he crossed his arms, the bright red arrows inked into his deltoids rippled.

I spoke slowly.

“Did you make an appointment?”

Crimmens said, “Answer her, shitbird.”

I am a professional investigator. I am licensed by the state of California and run a professional business. Police officers did not barge into my office. They also did not call me a shitbird. I stood, and gave Crimmens my best professional smile.

“Say it again I’ll shove that badge up your ass.”

Bastilla took a seat in one of the two director’s chairs facing my desk.

“Take it easy. We have some questions about a case you once worked.”

I stared at Crimmens.

“You want to arrest me, get to it. You want to talk to me, knock on my door and ask for permission. You think I’m kidding about the badge, try it out.”

Pike said, “Go ahead, Crimmens. Give it a try.”

Crimmens smirked as he draped himself over the file cabinet. He studied Pike for a moment, then smirked some more.

Bastilla said, “Do you recall a man named Lionel Byrd?”

“I didn’t offer you a seat.”

“C’mon, you know Lionel Byrd or not?”

Charlie said, “He knows him. Jesus.”

Something about Crimmens was familiar, though I couldn’t place him. Most of the Hollywood Bureau detectives were friends of mine, but these two were blanks.

“You aren’t out of Hollywood.”

Bastilla put her card on my desk.

“Homicide Special. Charlie’s attached out of Rampart. We’re part of a task force investigating a series of homicides. Now, c’mon. Lionel Byrd.”

I had to think.

“We’re talking about a criminal case?”

“Three years ago, Byrd was bound over for the murder of a twenty-eight-year-old prostitute named Yvonne Bennett, a crime he confessed to. You produced a witness and a security tape that supposedly cleared him of the crime. His attorney was J. Alan Levy, of Barshop, Barshop & Alter. We getting warmer here?”