the Pallbearers (2010) (11 page)

The rest of us headed over to Oakcrest in the Valley. Vicki had arranged for the new autopsy to take place at just after noon and led the way in her Toyota Camry.

Oakcrest Pathology and Medical Group was located on the west end of Thousand Oaks. The area was filled with newly built commercial structures, strip malls, and modern office plazas. Oakcrest was in a new three-story, mirrored-glass building.

The director, Lester Shoe, was a bald guv in a suit who had a prominent eagle's beak. He seemed particularly fond of Vicki and gave us what she said was a killer price for a complete reautopsy.

The service included forensic photography; preservation of toxic samples; and a gross, as well as a microscopic, examination, complete with an immediate written report detailing the top-line findings. A full medical document would follow two to four weeks later. The price for all of this was normally five thousand dollars. Vicki had arranged it for three.

Sabas and Jack arrived at a few minutes past noon and reported that the Oakcrest van had picked up Walt's casket from Forest Lawn and the body was on its way. Then Vicki started passing the hat, collecting personal checks to pay the pathology group.

I wrote mine for five hundred dollars, tore it off, and handed it to her.

"That wasn't so hard, was it, Shane?"

I didn't know if she was talking about my writing the check or the fact that we'd managed to save Walt's body for this second autopsy.

The Oakcrest van with Walts remains arrived at the medical group at a little past one. Technicians in lab coats took delivery of the body and whisked it off to an autopsy theater. I called Alexa and told her what was going on.

"You see, things are looking up," she told me.

"These people seem very professional. Lots of white coats and everything, but I'm not expecting them to find much," I said. "I know how thorough the L
. A
. medical examiners are. T he chance that they missed something is pretty slim."

"But at least you'll know you did everything possible."

The Hawaii trip lay quietly between the lines of this conversation. It still wasn't too late to go. Neither of us wanted to hope that the Oakcrest pathologists would find nothing so we could jet happily off to paradise, because that would confirm the loss of Walt's life
-
insurance check and be crippling to Diamond and Huntington House. On the other hand, some part of me, the selfish part that Walt had always scrupulously looked past, wanted this to be over.

We spent the next few hours sitting in the sterile waiting room of the pathology group, looking at bad art and miniature ficus trees. Jack Straw sat quietly opposite me, cycle boots up on the table.

I had watched him write his check for five hundred dollars as if it were nothing, tearing if off, flipping it casually on the table. Where did this guy get five hundred in spare cash? He was an ex
-
con grease monkey changing piston rings at a cycle shop in Long Beach. He was less than a month out of Soledad, yet money seemed to be no problem.

Vicki Lavicki was pacing. Sabas Vargas was on the cell phone rearranging his court calendar for the next two days, talking to one of the teardrop office chicas.

Diamond was out in the hall, standing alone, looking out the third-story window. Her face was sad as she watched leaves blow off the trees in the parking lot, propelled by a stiff wind. God knows what she was thinking.

Seriana and I sat opposite each other. Her face was impassive as usual, stoic. Once when I held her gaze, I thought for a moment I saw her wink.

Around four o'clock, the chief pathologist, Dr. William Hovt, and his assistant came out.

"Are we all here?" Dr. Hovt asked.

Til get Diamond," Seriana said, and went to retrieve her from the hall.

Finally, we were all standing together, formed in a half circle around the Oakcrest doctors. Our expressions were guarded.

"Most everything we found lines up exactly with the L
. A
. coroner's findings," Dr. Hoyt began.

"Most everything?" Diamond asked.

"Except for one thing. The L
. A
. coroner didn't open the deceased's lungs, probably because there was no reason to. We decided to take that extra step and found aspirated blood inside both lower lobes."

"Is that important?" Seriana asked.

"Yes. You see, the shotgun blast took out your friend's entire brain stem before it obliterated the left side of his skull. In the instant the shotgun was fired, the brain stem was destroyed."

"How's that important?" Jack asked.

"The brain stem controls the breathing reflex. Without a brain stem, you can't inhale."

I immediately knew where this was heading. This was the mistake we'd been looking for. I wasn't going to be heading off to Hawaii.

"I don't understand," Seriana said.

"Aspirated blood is blood that has been inhaled from the mouth, down the trachea into the lungs," Dr. Hoyt explained. "With his brain stem gone, your friend couldn't have inhaled that blood after the shotgun blast. He had to have inhaled it before."

Seriana and Sabas started to nod. Diamond, Vicki, and Jack were still lost.

"What Dr. Hoyt is saying," I explained, "is that Walt had blood in his mouth and inhaled it before his brain stem was blown away. The only reason he would have blood in his mouth is if he'd been beaten in the face before he died. The shotgun blast covered up the signs of that beating."

"That means Pop was murdered," jack said.

We all stood there, not quite knowing how to react.

"So what the fuck do we do now?" petite Ms. Lavicki finally asked.

Chapter
19

It was 5:00 P
. M
., and I was back in my car on tlic cell to Alexa as I headed out of the Valley.

'That means Huntington House will get Walts life insurance." Alexa said after I told her what had just happened.

'They can certainly use it." But what I was thinking was how Alexa had embraced this from the beginning and had not put any of her own disappointment about losing our vacation 011 me. Sometimes this woman takes my breath away.

"I'd like you to rig this homicide so it ends up 011 my desk," I told her. "I know it's technically not a high-profile case and shouldn't go to Homicide Special, but there's gotta be some privilege we can claim to get it over there so Sally and I can work it."

uOkav, but the reassignment has to come through channels. First the coroner needs to change his death finding and a homicide number needs to be assigned. Once that happens, I'll talk to Jeb an
d h
ave him put in for it," referring to Captain Jeb Calloway, my boss at Homicide Special.

"I'm sorry about Hawaii, but I owe this to Walt. I can't let anybody else do it."

"I understand, babe. You don't have to apologize. What are you doing now? You want to meet me for an early dinner someplace?"

"I gotta go back to Harbor Division. I promised the two primaries who handled the original squeal I'd keep them in the pipeline. I want to do it in person."

"How about we meet at the Tiki Hut again around eight? Mai Tais on me."

"Book it."

Kovacevich and Cole were not happy with me, but they weren't exactly pissed off either. They were somewhere in between. Mostly they were just frustrated and angry at the events that had produced their mistake. We were standing in their detective's cubicle on the second floor of the new precinct house in Harbor City. I watched as each of them reviewed the top sheet on the Oakcrest Pathology and Medical Group's autopsy report.

Cole was frowning. "How the fuck did our ME miss this?" he growled.

"It happens. On the surface it looked like suicide. They were moving fast."

After rereading the top sheet for about the third time, Kovacevich finally looked up. "Good work, Scully. It makes me and Cole look like donkeys, but at least a righteous homicide didn't get lost."

"Listen. So this stays in channels and to keep your record clean, I think it would be best for you to be the ones to take this report back to the L
. A
. coroner. Tell him the private autopsy was ordered by Huntington House because they were the beneficiaries of Walt's life insurance. Talk to Ray Tsu over at North Mission Road. He already knows I'm looking into this and he's a friend. He'll smooth it over."

"Thanks," Cole said.

"The ME's office is gonna want to do another autopsy and establish their own result," I continued. "I've already arranged to have Walt s remains made ready to ship. You should call over to Oakcrest and have them send him back over to Mission Road."

"I can't believe our chop shop missed this," Kovacevich said, frowning again at the report in her hand.

"
I
got lucky, and I had an advantage that the rest of you didn't." They waited to hear me out. "I knew the guy. I was pretty sure he'd never commit suicide."

They didn't react to that, just stood there frowning.

"By the way, I'm in the process of getting the case moved to my homicide table, so if you could e-mail the file over to me at the Glass House I'd appreciate it."

We all exchanged cards, and then I closed my briefcase and prepared to leave.

"This Walter Dix guy was a close friend?" Cole asked.

"He raised me from the time I was six."

"You sure you're the one to be working on it?" he continued. "You get too close to something you can make different kinds of mistakes. It's also out of department policy for a detective to work a case where he's emotionally involved."

"We're not related so there's no policy issue. He just ran the group home where I was placed as a kid. Besides, that rule never made sense to me. Who better to work it than somebody who cares? With me, this case never goes cold."

When I walked out, they were still holding Walt's new autopsy finding, rereading it and shaking their heads.

Good homicide cops hate making mistakes. This murder had just missed going over the falls where it would have been lost forever, and they were both pissed off about it.

Chapter
20

I was in a deep funk and angry with myself as I left Harbor Division. I couldn't get past this festering guilt. I was marinating in dangerous self-analysis even though I knew that was no wav to work a case.

Suicides are intensely personal. A man at odds with himself looks into his own abyss, not telling anyone about the devastation he feels, pretending to most around him that everything is okay. Usually only his wife or close friends will see evidence of it. Then suddenly and without warning he ends it. Since almost nobody saw it coming, nobody is really in a position to stop it but the victim or the immediate family.

I could almost deal with Walt's death being a suicide. Almost. I could sort of absolve myself from blame if he died by his own hand. After all, he hadn't reached out to me. He hadn't asked for my help, even though I'd not been around to give it.

Murder, on the other hand, was a whole different situation. In a murder, there's a perp. A dark presence who seeks to harm. There's usually a motive. Motives are often transparent, even to bystanders. If you're paying attention, a murder should not be a surprise event.

A good friend, especially if he's a cop, should see it coming. There might have been prior threats of harm, which would have caused behavior modifications in Walt that I could have spotted, asked about, and evaluated. Method, motive, and opportunity are the three pillars of all homicide investigations. I live by those words. I should have known something was wrong, and that's why I was so angry.

I was furious for having been absent without cause from Walt's life. Had I been there, I could have made Pop confide in me. I could have stopped this from happening.

I parked my car at the valet in front of the Tiki Hut, got out, and dragged my guilt-ridden ass through an entrance lit with flaming torches, gave my name to the maTtre d', and was led through a half
-
empty restaurant, out to the deck that sat right on the ocean sand, only three blocks from my house. Alexa was seated under an outdoor heater. She had a surprise guest.

My son, Chooch, rose to hug me as I approached the table. I kissed Alexa and, as we sat down, I thought, this is just right. These are the two people I want to be with.

"I thought you could never miss training table during spring ball," I said to my handsome, six-foot-four, half-Hispanic son.

"They let me out because I had to go over and see a doc in West L
. A
. for deep ultrasound," he explained.

"How's the hammie?"

"It's a bitch. Hamstrings take forever. Fortunately, this one didn't get pulled too bad. If I'm careful and don't reinjure it I should be back on the field in six to eight days." He was smiling, trying to keep it upbeat even though I knew he was panicked about losing position and dropping down on the depth chart. Coach Pete Carroll runs an open program, so everybody always has a chance to move up. Football at USC is a lot of fun, but its also a tough, competitive hustle.