A World the Color of Salt Read online

  DEDICATION

  J. Gary Brazelton

  1947–1990

  •Professor of Administration of Justice

  •Recipient of the Medal of Valor

  •Simi Valley Police Officer

  Through Gary’s personal commitment, integrity, humor, energy, and caring, we who were privileged to know him are vastly enriched. It is in this spirit and to his memory that I dedicate this book.

  EPIGRAPH

  “And may you never be dispossessed, forced to wander a world the color of salt with no young music in it.”

  —RICHARD HUGO, from “Places and Ways to Live,” in What Thou Lovest Well, Remains American

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER

  1

  First they shot him in the mouth. His tongue split down the middle like a barbecued hot dog. That was from the .22. Of course, we didn’t know that until the autopsy. Usually with stop-and-robs it’s a quick, “Hand me the money”—“No, I won’t”—BOOM! And it’s done. But there was something different here. Because first they shot Jerry Dwyer in the mouth, and then they went back for a bigger gun.

  What was it Jerry did or said that made them so vicious? The boy was a cool head, would have laughed it off if he could. Would have thought, because he was trained to, Give them the frigging money, let them book; then call Dad, who knows all about that insurance stuff. Go on to the party and find some way to make the story funny. But Jerry Dwyer wasn’t going to the party that night, or any other night.

  They say about cops that there are cops’ eyes, and your eyes. I could say the same about this work too. I’m a criminalist, job title Forensic Specialist, for the Orange County, California, sheriff-coroner’s office. I work out of the crime lab in Santa Ana, about an hour’s drive from L.A. What I do is collect, protect, analyze, and store evidence. A copper can have a guy cold—dead bang, as they say—and miss out sending the dirtbag to the gray-bar hotel if the evidence is not rightly collected, analyzed, and secured, and we at the lab help him and the DA do it.

  I’ve been doing this work for more than five years, seven if you count cop work in Oakland. Friends call me Smokey. I’m female, five-five, bland blonde, the right weight. And I was pretty untouchable before this. I could do babies and not cry.

  But this case got to me. The blasts of blood. The hopeless trail to the back of the store, where Jerry Dwyer ran to get away from his killers. The awful skid marks, like experiments in new paint.

  Before the murder, I would stop at Dwyer’s Kwik Stop on my way to work and grab a coffee and a doughnut, and with a couple of turns, be on the freeway heading for the lab.

  He was a big kid, Jerry was. Twenty years old. Two-hundred-nineteen, six-one, blond/blue. He worked in his father’s store two hours in the morning, then attended Saddleback College for computer classes till noon, and returned to the store afterward to work some more until his evening auto-shop class. How could you help but like a kid who worked like that? Here in Orange County it’s real easy for kids to have a free ride, affluent even when they don’t think so. Not Jerry. He knew, maybe from first eye on the world, that this wealth was an accident. While other people were counting on lottery tickets or their parents’ various insurance policies, he’d say, You got to have a plan, man. He’d say yuppie scum were everywhere building/buying/busting, and someday it was all going to come down, and they’re going to be looking stupid at each other like they all wet their pants the same day. Now Jerry’s stretched out on a steel tray in the coroner’s cooler, and my eyes tear up about four times a day.

  Joe London Sanders was investigative team leader this time, and in better hands we could not have been. Team leaders are rotated. I’d been off having one of those surgeries you don’t like to talk about; but before that, I’d led most of the investigations for several months.

  Things had already begun to change for me. At thirty-two the fire shouldn’t have been out. But the number of crimes was increasing almost exponentially, it seemed, and I admit the work does it to you. You go in wanting to fight the good fight, wanting to make a tiny ripple of difference. Before long you think everything counts the same, all murders are equal, everyone has to die sometime. Then a Jerry Dwyer wakes you up.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Billy Katchaturian was standing around waiting for the blood to dry. By four-thirty the deputy coroner had come and gone and the techs were about ready to remove the body. Billy had taken preliminaries already, the panoramas and then the thorough pictures showing every relationship to every piece of evidence, but he always shot black-and-whites afterward. Forty-five minutes or so after being spilled, blood begins to coagulate, forming deeper contrasts. An hour later, it decoagulates again, gets pink and uninteresting, Billy says. Black-and-whites look sharper, though the coloreds are what the prosecutors depend on for jury influence. I never knew what he did with the black-and-whites.

  He was standing, all six-three of him, at the east end of the store, over by the ice-cream machine, looking at I don’t know what.

  Jerry’s father, Mr. Dwyer, had painted the outside of his store eggshell white and added a blue awning. The magazine rack was the first thing you’d see on entering, the girlie mags in blinder racks on the bottom, covering everything but the titles, the sports mags and gossip rags in the top row. In the back of the room by the ice-cream machine were the counter and cash register, and off to the side was a little alcove where Mr. Dwyer or Jerry had sat when there were no customers. The cold cases were on the right. Some of the food racks ran across the store, horizontal to the north-running aisle that led to the counter, the aisle the killers had taken.

  Trudy Kunitz stood ahead of me midway into the store facing the counter, glancing down at her sketches, back up to the points of reference, checking to see if she got them right. When her glasses slipped down on her nose, she pushed them up with the top of her tablet but kept her eyes locked on the wall behind the counter anyway, and didn’t see me.

  I moved out of Billy’s line of sight. Billy didn’t like me at all. Or hardly at all. It gets complicated. Our history goes back to when I was an FNG—fucking new guy—and he thought he could run me down the alley. I knew when I walked in that day five years ago that Billy Katchaturian, with his hunched shoulders and soulful eyes, took one look at me and said, Unh-hnn, fresh meat.

  But I was older than I looked. I’d already spent two years on the Oakland force and a hell-length of time with a husband who was dying and d
idn’t have a right to, didn’t have the right to get zapped in the liver by a hepatitis B bug and leave me when we hadn’t even worn out our deep welcomes yet.

  So from day one, Billy K. was over me like a shark on a minnow, leaning over, leaning close, leaning on, and I’d look at him and say, “Whatcha doin’, Billy?” and then, “I’m old enough to be your mama,” even though I wasn’t. One time he said, “It’s ‘cause I’ve got dark skin, isn’t it?” Well, Billy’s looking better to me as he ages, but not that good and never will, and let’s say it’s got nothin’ to do with skin color.

  Avoiding him, I followed the inside perimeter tape on the floor down an aisle away from the avenue of escape. Someone would already have done a grid search, mentally dividing the room into squares or, better, cubes, and then searching for evidence top to bottom in a methodical fashion. Still, as I moved down the aisle, I surveyed left and right searching for something different from the way the store looked every morning at a quarter to seven, when I normally came in.

  I heard Billy’s voice. “Welcome back, Smokes,” he said. He’d moved to the ratty black office chair in the tiny alcove near the start of the cold-drink case. That was where Jerry Dwyer’s dad sat to do the bills. I’d be stirring sugar in the coffee and glancing at magazine headlines along the rack, and Jerry’s dad would give me a wink or a tight nod-and-smile and then bore back down on the checkbook. Now the chair was pitched back against the wall, Billy’s legs grasshoppered up, one hand resting on the eight-hundred-dollar camera lens that protruded nose-up in his lap. It didn’t seem right for Billy to be in that chair. Now Billy, grinning at me, saying, “Smokey, lovely as ever,” in his ain’t-I-a-dude voice.

  I’m polite. He knows I’ll close my eyes and sigh, and I do; even smile as if to say, I’m glad you’re still Billy, Billy. What I said was, “Joe S. still here?”

  It took him a second to answer because he had to get done shaking his head, telling me how rude. “He’s here. In the fridge,” he said, nodding behind him.

  There was no going through the doorway to the back—too much blood. Let the coroner’s guys mess it up. I wondered where Mr. Dwyer was, if he’d seen the blood. Not good.

  At the southwest end, I could see the floor behind the counter without stepping over the tape. Two very big blasts of blood hit the beige tile between the middle of the counter and the door to the back room. They formed an odd pattern. What went on here?

  The smell of nitrocellulose, gunpowder, was still in the air. Mix that with spilled body fluids, and if you could taste a smell, it was like a tooth you sucked on telling you you better see a dentist. It wasn’t decomp yet and it wasn’t that strong, but I still felt queasy. I told myself it was because I’d been away too long.

  Trying for a better vantage point, I leaned against the stacked rolls of paper towels to see the white door that led to the storage area in the back where the cooler would be. Heavy spatter marked the door near the hinge side. The spatter had lots of spines, almost like somebody tossed shakers of paint. The bold blasts on the floor and the wall were not arterial spurt. The elegant theory of arterial spurts—elegant, that’s what Joe Sanders calls it—is linked to the rhythm of the heart, the spurt forming patterns in weaker and weaker parallel arcs across a wall, say, if it were coming from a victim’s neck. But this spatter was not so linear, and it was higher than neck-high, even Jerry’s, who was football-player-sized. I’d seen this kind of spatter pattern before—where? Lots of force. To the right of the middle of the door were smeary handprints where Jerry had jammed on the door as he fled.

  I leaned in. Close up, the discrete drops looked like Pac-Man ghosts—Winkies, Inkies, Blinkies, and Clydes—tipped on their sides. That is, wavy on the east, showing they planed in westward, from the direction Jerry would’ve come. Then some dripping down, red exclamation points like tadpoles heading north. I remembered then: esophageal varices. Our Physical Fluid prof had shown us the slides, told us how alcoholics sometimes burst the arteries in their throats, leaving so much blood it looks as if a crime’s been committed. And in a way, it has.

  In the back of the room there was more mess, and I could see Joe Sanders framed in the far rear door, talking to an officer, probably the patrol cop. Trudy Kunitz glided by in the back now too, measuring the room with a metal tape that zinged as she flipped it to lay it flat. Trudy is good at her job, reliable. Our department mostly works like good music. Few people fuck up. I lost sight of her as she drifted behind a stack of boxes, and I went back out the front door and around.

  At the side of the building, a yellow crime-scene ribbon formed an inner perimeter within the larger outer one that extended into the parking lot. I noticed that one end of the ribbon nearest the building drooped to the asphalt near the ladies’ room, but it didn’t register then. The men’s had masking tape on the door across the door frame. This meant someone closed the men’s off for later checking, maybe because it was hot-hot, requiring further inspection.

  Paper cups and taco wrappers from next door were piled against the wire fence in back. Behind the fence, eucalyptus trees caught the last rays of the sun and glowed red where the bark had split into stretched triangles, evidence of the Australian long-horn eucalyptus borer that’s been feasting on thirsty trees from San Diego to Santa Barbara since 1984.

  In the back of the store, standing near the door, Joe S. He saw me coming and motioned me forward. He had on the good suit. I thought he must be going somewhere this evening, speaking to some group or other. Maroon tie and a rich brown jacket, pale pink shirt, and shoes shined as though they’d never walked in murder.

  When I was halfway to him, Joe said, “Sign the Order of Entry?”

  “Are you giving me a bad time?” I smiled a whit.

  He smiled back the same whit and said, “Just asking.”

  “I had a belly-cut, not a lobotomy, you tub.”

  Joe turned his head to answer somebody, then stepped just inside. When I reached him in the doorway I should have brushed by quickly, should not have let my clothes electrify, the field get set between us. I had hoped it all went sleepy-bye with the rest of my consciousness in the hospital, but no. One look in those pink-blues and I was gone again. “How you doing, Joe?” I said.

  All of a sudden he got shy, all business. I moved ahead of him into the back room. With the light the way it was, his hair seemed grayer since I last saw him. Joe’s a fit forty-eight, proud of his waist, and that’s why when I get the chance I have to mention the slight convexity just above the place he likely takes the measure. The better to hug, if he only knew. Looking over my head, he told me, “Point of attack was up front.” Then, “You knew him,” said not like a question.

  “I stop here for doughnuts on the way to work, is all. Once I went to a party with him and his friends, but it was too young a crowd for me. But yeah, he was great, Joe. A great kid. This is a rotten thing.”

  He looked at me, listening to this, sorry to hear that from me. They’re not all great, the victims.

  He said, “Were you here this morning?”

  “No.”

  “You okay?”

  “You mean should I be back at work?”

  “Should you?”

  “Thanks a whole fuckin’ lot.” We’d stepped inside. He was too close now, standing so near I could smell his after-shave, but he wasn’t looking at me.

  He said, “I wouldn’t ask if you didn’t know him. Sometimes it makes a difference. You know that.”

  “Well, it doesn’t,” I said. Subject over. “Jerry Dwyer was a friendly, talkative, open kid. He knew his customers’ names and could remember what doughnuts they liked.” Joe shook his head.

  My gaze went to the back of the room and took in the back side of the white enamel door. The only blood there was along the door’s edge. Off to the left, nearer the cooler, is where I knew the body would be. I stood there looking frontward maybe thirty feet away, Joe quiet behind me, and the question no one ever has an answer for must have spelled itself on
my back, because Joe placed his hand on my shoulder for a moment and then moved away: Why this one?

  Dull fluorescent lights cast a filmy gray coat over everything. Crates of S & W foodstuff and cases of motor oil built verticals everywhere. The corner to my right was clogged with an old pinball machine, four boxes of Friskies cat food stacked on top. High windows along the wall let in the waning November light—Joe S. was going to have to shut the scene down pretty soon, safe the area with a guard, come back tomorrow. Fluorescent is good but not like daylight. Always there is a war with yourself in a homicide. If you’re serious about justice, you must take whatever time is required to investigate thoroughly. But the more time you take, the more possibility the scene could be compromised—authorized people coming in and out, unauthorized people trespassing the scene. Not the least of the worries is budget and manpower, extending an investigation too long. We all knew this, but it was seldom mentioned.

  While I stood there not really wanting to go forward to the cooler entryway, off Joe’s left an anemic-looking young man with zits, government-issue black horned-rims, and milky hair placed his elbow up on a case of cans, the better to study his notes. This had to be a rookie.

  Joe said, “Hey!”

  “Sir?”

  “Your shirt on the box.”

  The rook stared, his neck turning rosy.

  “Dust,” Joe said. “Did your shirt disturb the dust?”

  The rookie turned to look. “I . . . I don’t think so, sir. I don’t see anything.”

  Joe’s voice was slow, fair, not overbearing. “Take your flashlight,” he said. “Hold the beam across the top of the box. Make sure there are no prior disturbances, no finger or palm prints.” Joe glanced back at me. Actually, we all have sympathy for rooks; we were all there once.

  “Yes, sir,” the rookie said, and struggled with the flashlight attached to his belt.

  Joe took me by the elbow and turned me toward the door. He said, “Do you think it’s too late to go into real estate?”