“You said he got the cash about eleven years ago. You sure it was eleven years?”
“Yes. Because I remember it was the time of my mom’s sixtieth birthday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about all this before?”
She stared into the ashtray. “Two reasons. I don’t want the IRS on my ass, seizing the place for Pete’s back taxes. And I want Lindsay to remember her father as a good cop. If you start digging into the source of that cash, I’m afraid of what you’ll come up with.”
“I appreciate you leveling with me,” I said. “I’ll keep the IRS out of the investigation. And whatever I find out, I’ll keep it as private as I can.”
She sniffled and then blew her nose on a napkin. “I got a final question for you?”
“Yeah.”
“What happens to the five thousand?”
“It’s in evidence now. I don’t think Pete left a will, so it’ll probably go to your daughter.”
I walked to the door. Sandy waved feebly, without standing up, then dropped her head and covered her eyes with her palms.
• • •
The first thing I wanted to do was determine who Relovich’s partner was eleven years ago at Hollywood Division. A girlfriend or wife may not know a cop’s deepest secrets, but there was a good chance his partner had some insight.
When I returned to the squad room in the afternoon, I called Records and Identification and gave the clerk Relovich’s serial number, and requested all of his arrest reports from the year he bought the house and, just to be safe, the previous year as well.
“
Every
one?” the clerk asked wearily.
“Every one for those two years,” I said.
She found eighty-seven reports—all chronicled on microfiche—which I spent the next few hours studying. Fortunately, it appeared that Relovich had only one partner during that time—Avery Mitchell, a patrolman about ten years older than Relovich. Scanning the pages of the LAPD’s Alpha roster—the list of active duty personnel—I could not find Mitchell, so I knew he had retired.
I then called Regina Williamson, a Department of Pensions clerk who owed me a favor. “Regina, I need an address and phone number for a retired cop by the name of Avery Mitchell.”
“You know, I’d do anything for you, Ash, but they’re really tightening up on us here. So as much as I’d like to give you the info right now, you’ve got to follow LAPD regulations. The request’s got to be in writing, on LAPD letterhead, and signed by your commanding officer.”
“If I do that, I won’t get the address for a week. I don’t want to waste a week.”
“But they don’t want us to make any exceptions,” she said in a plaintive tone.
“I did some rule bending for
you
.” Her teenage son had been busted driving a stolen car, and I called the arresting officer and the deputy DA, who agreed not to push too hard on the case. The judge gave her son probation.
“I know, I know,” she said. “I truly appreciate what you did. But this new regime is a bitch and they want us—”
“Regina,” I interrupted, “I gotta have that information today. I wouldn’t press you if it wasn’t important.”
After about ten seconds of silence, she whispered, “Mitchell, common spelling?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Ten minutes later she called back with the information I needed. Avery Mitchell had retired a decade ago to a small town in Idaho. I called him immediately.
A man with a raspy voice and a cigarette cough answered.
“Avery Mitchell?” I said.
“Don’t live here anymore.”
“Any idea where he lives?”
“Don’t live anywhere. Man’s dead,” he said in a monotone. “I just rent his house.”
“When did he die?”
“And who’re
you
?”
“Detective Ash Levine with the LAPD. I wanted to talk to him about some old cases.”
“He died about two months ago.”
“How?”
“Maybe heart attack. Probably had one when he found out
you
were looking for him,” the man said sarcastically.
“Who do you rent the house from now?”
“Mitchell’s son.”
The man gave me the address where he sent the rent check.
Avery Mitchell Jr. lived in one of the last bungalow courts in Hollywood, a 1920s-style complex with a dozen small cottages encircling an oval of grass. A palm swayed in the center, the top of the trunk swathed in dead, desiccated fronds that looked like the tawny matted mane of a lion.
As I walked to the door, I felt weary and disheartened by the investigation.
I rang the bell several times and banged on the door, but Mitchell didn’t answer, which accentuated my melancholy mood.
I returned early the next morning. Mitchell answered the door wearing
a pair of tattered boxer shorts and wiping the sleep out of his eyes. He had a lip ring and an eyebrow was pierced with a slender silver rod. Both biceps were covered with bands of swirling tattoos.
When I identified myself and said I wanted to talk about Avery Mitchell Senior, I was surprised at the son’s gracious manner. “Come on inside,” he said. “I’m going to make some coffee. I’ll bring you a cup.”
I looked around the small living room. The overstuffed gingham sofa was flanked by bone-colored end tables with pale pink lamps atop doilies. Opposite the sofa were a crochet throw rug with a floral pattern and a powder blue leatherette easy chair. An amateurish oil painting of an ocean sunset hung on a wall. The décor, I thought, seemed more appropriate for one of my elderly aunts than a tattooed, pierced Hollywood hipster.
When Mitchell returned with two cups of coffee, he noticed me checking out the room. “I rented it furnished.”
“I didn’t think it was your style.”
Mitchell handed me a cup and we sat on the sofa.
“Sorry for waking you,” I said.
“I usually don’t sleep this late. I’m a prop boy on
That Thing of Ours
. It’s a new cable show. We’re filming on the street at night now. Got to be back out there later this afternoon. Ever see the show?”
“I don’t have much time for TV.”
“It’s a crime family dramedy. Kind of a cross between
The Sopranos
and
The Brady Bunch
. I got my dad to watch it once.”
“What did he think of it?”
Mitchell nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll quote him for you: ‘Biggest pile of horseshit I’ve ever seen. Never in all my years on the street have I seen anything resembling the crap you’re showing.’ Right then I knew the show would be a monster hit.”
We both laughed.
“You have a card?” Mitchell asked.
I handed the card to him and Mitchell studied it for a moment. “So why’s the LAPD interested in my father? Especially the downtown boys from Felony Special. My dad left the department a long time ago.”
“Just some old cases I’m checking out that your dad might have investigated.”
He lightly touched his lip ring and eyebrow rod, and stuck out his
tongue, revealing a silver stud. “Even though I walk the walk and look the look, I got nothing against cops. Believe it or not, I was even an Explorer Scout at the Hollywood station when I was in high school.”
“You’ve taken a different career path.”
“Yeah. My dad walked out on my mom, my sister, and me when I was in high school. Moved in with his girlfriend. So I guess I did a one-eighty on him.”
“Where’s your mom live?”
He sipped his coffee. “She died two years ago. Breast cancer.”
“How’d your dad die?”
“Suicide.”
I jerked my head back. I had been trained to stay poker faced during interviews, but I was so surprised I reacted without thinking. Embarrassed, I took a quick sip of coffee. “The guy who rents his house in Idaho said he thought it was a heart attack.”
“He was probably pulling your chain. They don’t like cops up there snooping around.”
“How’d he do it?”
Mitchell swallowed hard. “The tried and true cop way. He ate his gun.”
“Had he been depressed?”
“It was impossible to tell with him. He was always kind of sour and cynical. Typical retired cop, right?”
I shrugged. “Were you close?”
“Not really.”
“How often did you talk?”
“He called me every month or so. And whenever he was forced to come down to L.A. to take care of some business, he’d take me to breakfast.” He smiled sadly at the memory. “He always threatened to yank out my studs and rings with a pair of pliers.”
“How often did he visit?”
“As rarely as possible—a couple times a year.”
“Why’d he retire?”
“‘Cause he hated L.A. He called it the cesspool of California. He loved the mountains. Fished every day.”
“Any close friends or girlfriends up there?”
“Not really. That cunt he dumped my mom for eventually dumped
him. Had some drinking partners at the local tavern. But I don’t think they knew him too well. Nobody knew him too well.”
“When he was still a cop, do you remember him, at any time, coming into a lot of money?”
Mitchell canted his head and studied me with a dubious expression. “Hey, what’s this all about?”
“Your dad’s gone, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s like I said: I’m tracking down some old cases and I thought you might be able to help out.”
“If we’d been closer, maybe I could.”
“Do you have his personal items, things from the house?”
He walked across the room and opened a closet. Inside were two fishing poles, a shotgun, a Finnish deer hunting rifle with a satin-walnut stock, and a Plexiglas shadow box with his father’s first service revolver—a .38-caliber, six-shot, Smith & Wesson—his badge, and a few unit patches. “This is what I kept. My sister’s got the rest.”
“Your sister nearby?”
“Yeah. Mid-Wilshire.”
“What does she do?”
“She teaches third grade.”
At the door, we shook hands. “You can be proud of your dad; people always told me he was a good cop,” I said, although I had never heard of Avery Mitchell until a few hours ago.
“Thanks for saying it, but let’s get real. He wasn’t a good father. He wasn’t a good husband. And I doubt if he was a good cop. But I know one thing he was good at.”
“What’s that?”
“He was an awesome fisherman.”
I returned to the squad room and immediately called the sheriff from the rural, sparsely populated county where Mitchell had lived. He agreed to fax the autopsy report.
“I’d also like to talk to the coroner,” I said.
The sheriff laughed. “Don’t have no coroner up here. This isn’t Los Angle-ese,” he said, a hint of derision in his voice.
“So who conducted the autopsy?”
“Our local surgeon. If he thinks the death is suspicious, he sends
the body over to the medical center in the next county where they got a full-time pathologist.”
“Did he think this was suspicious?”
“This was a straight suicide. It was as clear as day.”
“When was your last murder?” I asked.
“Three years ago.”
“I’d like to talk to the surgeon.”
“He’s on a pig hunting trip. You can catch him next week when he gets back.”
“Did Mitchell leave a note?”
“No note. But the gun was right next to him.”
“Did you print the gun?”
“Of course we printed the gun,” the sheriff said. “We may be in the mountains, but this is the mountains of Idaho, not Afghanistan. Mitchell’s prints—and no one else’s—were all over the gun, you suspicious son of a gun.”
“Did you test his hands for gunshot residue?”
“No need to,” the sheriff said defensively. “The suicide was obvious. And just out of curiosity, why you so interested in this guy?”
“This is just a standard follow-up.”
The sheriff laughed. “Serves me right for thinkin’ I could get a straight answer out of one of you Los Angle-ese boys.”
Five minutes later, the sheriff faxed the autopsy report to the squad room, and I spread it out on my desk.
Cause of death: penetrating gunshot wound to medulla oblongata. Mode of death: suicide. Entry: one-eighth inch above center of uvula. Stippling and sooting to back of the larynx and tongue. Direction: front to back. Projectile: copper jacketed lead .32-caliber bullet, flattened nose. Exit: none; recovered from medulla oblongata; massive hemorrhage. Trajectory: level. Associated injury from fall after gunshot: left external ear contusion; left lateral neck ecchymosis; left parietal scalp contusion, abrasion.
I understood the surgeon’s hypothesis: Mitchell committed suicide by sticking a .32-caliber pistol in his mouth and pulling the trigger. The
bullet rattled around in his skull and lodged in the base of the brainstem. Mitchell fell to the ground, bruising his ear, neck, and head.
The surgeon might know more about anatomy and medicine than me, but he probably had conducted only a handful of suicide and homicide autopsies. I’d viewed hundreds and had read thousands of autopsy reports. I trusted my own conclusion, which was diametrically opposed to the doctor’s.
I didn’t believe Mitchell committed suicide for one elemental reason: the trajectory of the bullet was level. I lifted my thumb and dropped my extended forefinger on the bottom row of my teeth, as if I was placing a gun inside my mouth. The trajectory was upward at about a thirty-degree angle. It was highly unlikely that anyone sticking a gun in his own mouth would drop the barrel so low that it was level and he could blow off the tissue below the epiglottis. And it was highly unlikely, I believed, that the injuries to Mitchell’s ear, neck, and skull resulted from a fall after the gunshot. I simply could not envision Mitchell suffering significant contusions in three different places from a bounce off the floor.
It was clear to me that Mitchell had been struck several times with a blunt object. When he was dazed or unconscious, the killer stuck the barrel in Mitchell’s mouth—to simulate suicide—pulled the trigger, and then rolled the dead man’s fingers on the pistol butt.
What were the odds that Relovich and Mitchell had been killed within months of each other? I’d pursued the obvious leads, now was time to go after the longshots. I knew that whoever broke into the house and killed Relovich and stole his laptop was probably wearing latex gloves, since no prints had been found—other than Relovich’s and a few police officers. It looked like a professional job.