The Murder Book Read Free Page A

vintage: Two sprawled gape-mouthed bodies — men — lying on a wooden plank floor, angled at forty degrees from each other. Dark stains spread beneath the corpses, tinted deep brown by age. Both victims wore baggy pants with generous cuffs, plaid shirts, lace-up work boots. Extravagant holes dotted the soles of the man on the left. A shot glass lay on its side near the elbow of the second, clear liquid pooling near the rim.
    Hollywood, Vermont Ave. Both shot by “friend” in dispute over money.
    I turned the page to a photo that appeared less antique — black-and-white images on glossy paper, close-up of a couple in a car. The woman’s position concealed her face: stretched across the man’s chest and sheathed by a mass of platinum blond curls. Polka-dot dress, short sleeves, soft arms. Her companion’s head rested against the top of the car seat, stared up at the dome light. A black blood-stream trickled from his mouth, separated into rivulets when it reached his lapel, dribbled down his necktie. Skinny necktie, dark with a pattern of tumbling dice. That and the width of the lapel said the fifties.
    Silver Lake, near the reservoir, adulterers, he shot her, then put the gun in his mouth.
    Page 4: pale, naked flesh atop the rumpled covers of a Murphy bed. The thin mattress took up most of the floor space of a dim, wretched closet of a room. Undergarments lay crumpled at the foot. A young face stiffened by rigor, lividity pools at the shins, black-thatched crotch advertised by splayed legs, panty hose gathered to midcalf. I knew sexual positioning when I saw it so the caption was no surprise.
    Wilshire, Kenmore St., Rape-murder. Seventeen-year-old Mexican girl, strangled by boyfriend.
    Page 5: Central, Pico near Grand, 89 y.o. lady crossing street, purse snatch turned to head-injury homicide.
    Page 6: Southwest, Slauson Ave. Negro gambler beaten to death over craps game.
    The first color photo showed up on page ten: Red blood on sand-colored linoleum, the green-gray pallor that marked escape of the soul. A fat, middle-aged man sat slumped amid piles of cigarettes and candy, his sky-blue shirt smeared purple. Propped near his left hand was a sawed-off baseball bat with a leather thong threaded through the handle.
    Wilshire, Washington Blvd. near La Brea, liquor store owner shot in holdup. Tried to fight back.
    I flipped faster.
    Venice, Ozone Avenue, woman artist attacked by neighbor’s dog. Three years of arguments.
    . …Bank robbery, Jefferson and Figueroa. Teller resisted, shot six times.
    . …Strong-arm street robbery, Broadway and Fifth. One bullet to the head. Suspect stuck around, discovered still going through victim’s pockets.
    . …Echo Park, woman stabbed by husband in kitchen. Bad soup.
    Page after page of the same cruel artistry and matter-of-fact prose.
    Why had this been sent to me?
    That brought to mind an old cartoon:
Why not?
    I thumbed through the rest of the album, not focusing on the images, just searching for some personal message.
    Finding only the inert flesh of strangers.
    Forty-three deaths, in all.
    At the rear, a black end page with another centered legend, similar stick-on gold letters:
    THE END
     
CHAPTER 4
     
    I hadn’t talked to my best friend in a while, and that was fine with me.
After giving the D.A. my statement on Lauren Teague’s murder, I’d had my fill of the criminal justice system, was happy to stay out of the loop until trial time. A wealthy defendant and a squadron of paid dissemblers meant that would be years away, not months. Milo had remained chained to the details, so I had a good excuse for keeping my distance: The guy was swamped, give him space.
    The real reason was, I didn’t feel like talking to him, or anyone. For years, I’d preached the benefits of self-expression but
my
tonic since childhood had been isolation. The pattern had been set early by all those bowel-churning nights huddled in the basement, hands over ears, humming “Yankee Doodle” in order