Chapter 31
Chapter
31
“Close to here” translated to a twelve-minute drive that began by traveling south of the station then switching to a westward swoop that led us just below the Santa Monica Freeway.
The neighborhood was the usual mix of original bungalows, many of them embraced by old, lush landscaping, and boxy, newer two-story houses bullying the lots they sat on and deprived of vegetation.
Milo’s unmarked arrived the same time as Sean’s.
As we walked to him, he said, “See? Hop, skip. Maybe that’s part of it, too. What you just said about craving attention. Shoot someone this close to the station, it’s an F-U to the cops.”
I said, “Could be.”
“Or…”
“He was hired to get rid of another victim who just happens to live here.”
—
Emmanuel Rosales’s house was one of the older ones, not dissimilar from Walt Swanson’s residence in Simi Valley but painted walrus gray with white trim. Ornate New Orleans–style ironwork graced a two-post outdoor frame that announced a front door set several feet back. The door was shut and sealed, the property taped off. A brown Honda Civic sat in the driveway.
Four black-and-whites and one crime lab van but no one from the Coroner’s. Come and gone or hadn’t arrived. A few neighbors stared from behind the tape.
Four uniforms stood around. Milo beckoned one over. A. J. Beam. “Where’s your sergeant?”
“In back.”
“Have you canvassed?”
“Waiting for you, sir.”
“I’m here, so let’s do it.” Milo eyed the neighbors. “Start with the gawkers. Curious people are a treasured resource.”
Beam said, “I’m doing it by myself, sir?”
Milo took in the scene. Four black-and-whites had transported eight officers, meaning four in front, four in back.
“Three of you,” he said, “leave one officer to guard the tape.”
“Yes, sir.” Beam jogged off and began conferencing.
Milo turned to Sean. “Anything out here look interesting?”
“Not to me.”
“That makes two of us. Alex?”
I held up three fingers.
Milo loped up the gray house’s driveway and we followed, heading for sadness.
—
The late Emmanuel Rosales’s backyard was tidy but modest, not much more than precisely clipped grass running to redwood fencing that had grayed and some outdoor furniture with floral plastic cushions and redwood frames. The chair that had absorbed the bullet was I.D.’d by a yellow plastic evidence marker. Not necessary; it stood ten or so feet behind the humped-up tarp lying on the grass. The house’s rear door was open but taped.
The three of us booted and gloved and walked past four uniforms. A sergeant joined us. S. Lincoln.
She said, “Hi, Milo, what do you need?”
Milo said, “Glad it’s you, Shirl. Be great if you mobilized to the max for the canvass. I got three in front to start, could use three more. Leave one officer to keep watch over this. Could be you, or you can door-knock, your choice.”
“Sure,” she said. “We were waiting for you in order to mobilize. We after the basics? See, hear, smell anything?”
“Exactly.”
“What are the canvass parameters?”
“See what you can cover in a couple of hours and let me know.” He pointed to the open rear door. “You gained entry?”
Shirl Lincoln said, “With a DB in plain sight, we felt we had to clear it. Easy access, the door was unlocked, makes sense when you’re taking out the garbage.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Once we cleared it, we didn’t stick around, figured the techies needed to do their thing first.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She left.
Milo turned to Sean. “Given all that, not sure we need a victim’s warrant but let’s be careful and get one.”
Sean moved a few feet away and talked to his phone.
He came back, nodding, and we headed toward the tarp. Positioned just inside an open redwood rear gate. Surrounded by its own rectangle of crime scene tape. One tech standing by waiting. G. E. Soames.
He said, “Hey, Lieutenant.”
Milo saluted. “Grant. Can we get closer?”
“Sure, this was just to keep it pristine until we photo’d and took samples of the blood.” Soames twanged the tape like it was a harp string, then produced a pocketknife and cut it.
“Lots of blood,” he said, “must’ve hit a big vessel.” He pointed to red-brown splotches on the grass, shifted to pointing out speckles on planks of the gate and a few fence boards. Finally, the chair, pocked by a hole through which tufts of stuffing protruded.
Milo said, “Where’s the bullet?”
“My partner took it, along with scrapings, et cetera. I’m here in case you or the C.I. need anything else.”
Milo said, “Where’s the C.I.?”
“On the way,” said Grant Soames. Drawing back the tarp, he receded several steps.
Emmanuel Rosales lay on his back in blood dried to tackiness. Open eyes, open mouth with a clear view of gold on molars. The neck wound was discreetly vicious. Identical to what I’d seen on Paul O’Brien’s corpse.
Rosales was midsized, with thick gray hair cut short and an equally bushy mustache. He’d fallen on his back, but his eyeglasses had remained in place. Round, gold-framed glasses that looped around the ears and fit tight. I imagined them lending him a scholarly mien as he tried to influence adolescents.
His barley-colored sweatshirt read Berkeley in maroon letters arranged in an arc. Below that, 1868, set in a horizontal oval. Below that, California.
The lettering was a creepy color match to the blood that stained the fabric then trailed down to generic black sweatpants where it had settled as chocolate glaze.
The glasses hadn’t budged but the shirt had ridden up on impact, exposing a band of abdomen fuzzed with white hair. Purpled by blood. White New Balance walking shoes on Rosales’s feet were similarly stained.
Sean said, “Poor guy. You go to take out the garbage.”
The three of us got down and examined the neck wound.
Sean said, “Right of center, just like the others.”
Milo said, “Calculating bastard, we need to stop this.”
He stood, rubbed his face, like washing without water. “Okay, time to learn more about him. Sean, how ’bout you run him through the usual while I go inside. Your eyes are better with the small print.”
Sean smiled. “So far.”
“I used to say that.”
—
Emmanuel Rosales had been a good housekeeper but his house gave off an apathetic bachelor vibe. Brown leather furniture was oriented toward a sixty-five-inch flat-screen. An undersized fridge in an undersized kitchen with bare counters hosted soda, beer, ketchup, mustard, mayo, hot sauce. The freezer was stacked with TV dinners, pre-cooked sausage, and a single barbecued chicken.
Perpendicular to the screen, a bookcase pretending to be wood was stacked with one shelf of spy thrillers, the rest given over to textbooks on math, physics, and chemistry. College and high school levels.
A single bathroom was situated midway between two bedrooms. In the medicine cabinet were OTC cold remedies, decongestants, antacids. In the cabinet below, a twelve-pack of toilet paper shared space with two large bottles of mint-flavored mouthwash. The same green liquid had been poured into a small apothecary jar that sat atop the counter. A drinking glass held toothpaste and floss.
The smaller bedroom didn’t take long to search. Nothing but a recumbent bike and a treadmill, both facing another big screen. In the closet, an old, deflated soccer ball, a portable rotary fan, and VHS tapes neatly stacked.
Nothing with which to play the tapes. Milo examined them. More spy stuff, action blockbusters, comedies.
Milo said, “Probably lives by himself but so far, no porn. Maybe he keeps it where he sleeps.”
The larger bedroom—generous relatively but not actually—was set up with a single closet and king-sized bed that left scant passage on one side, barely enough room for a pecan-finish rococo nightstand on the other. On the stand was a plaster-based lamp—off-white, corrugated, resembling an oversized larva—sunglasses, reading glasses, a set of keys, and a tissue box.
In a top drawer a laptop and a cellphone. Milo removed them and set them on the bed.
A six-drawer dresser facing the bed matched the stand in style and color. In the center, an identical lamp. Flanking the lamp on both sides were four photos in standing frames.
Emmanuel Rosales, at least a decade ago, his lush hair black and longer, his mustache a drooping Zapata, standing next to an older couple, each no taller than five-three.
Then Rosales, in his twenties, bearded and grinning, wearing a cap and gown. UC Berkeley insignia on the bottom of the frame.
The third shot featured a broadly smiling Rosales already graying, with a slightly younger couple and five children. Two boys, three girls, my guess, eight to fourteen.
Clear resemblance between Rosales and the man. The woman was petite and blond.
I said, “Bachelor uncle.”
Milo said, “I know the drill.”
Photo four was a full-color shot of gorgeous mountains and sky. Probably the Grand Tetons in Wyoming. Likely clipped from a calendar.
Milo went through the dresser drawers. Boxer shorts folded neatly, socks rolled meticulously, T-shirts, sweats, and polo shirts arrayed precisely.
Under the shirts, a framed Cal diploma proclaimed that Emmanuel Garcia Rosales had graduated thirty-three years ago cum laude with a bachelor’s degree in physics. Below that, in a legal-sized manila envelope, was a California state teacher’s certificate issued two years after the diploma.
The closet was small, with a single aluminum rack from which hung a blue suit and a gray suit, both from Men’s Wearhouse, a couple of pairs of slacks, and three pairs of jeans pressed with precise creases. A folding ironing board was propped against a wall; a steam iron sat on the floor, its cord coiled into a meticulous circle.
On a shelf above the hanging garments were two boxes. Milo opened them eagerly.
Unused pairs of white New Balance walking shoes.
He felt around the shelf, said, “Not even dust,” and turned to me. “What are we talking about, Nowhere Man?”
We left and just reached the back door as Sean approached.
“He doesn’t seem to ever have been married, Loot, and he’s got no record, not even a parking ticket. I was able to access the basics of his employment records. He began teaching in some tough schools—Dorsey, Fremont, Jefferson—transferred to Hamilton three years ago, retired last year. On his pension docs, he lists a contact number in North Hollywood. Francisco and Laura Rosales.”
Milo said, “Brother and sister-in-law, there’s a photo of them inside.”
Sean said, “Anything interesting inside?”
“Feel free to check it out yourself, kid, but unless he’s got something stashed under the floorboards, nadissimo. We’re talking someone who lived a very spare life. I left his phone and his laptop on the bed for you to take.”
I said, “Maybe an outwardly spare life. But an honors degree in physics plus science and math books on the shelf say he could’ve been someone whose headspace was taken up by abstractions. Which wouldn’t necessarily go over with a class full of teens.”
Milo said, “Mr. Brain trying to convince the savages the beauty of ergs and joules? Yeah, I can see that leading to problems. So maybe ol’ Buck was actually onto something and he gave the wrong kid an F.”
Sean said, “He hasn’t worked for a year, Loot. Don’t see someone waiting around that long.”
Milo said, “Someone sure didn’t like him. Let’s see if any teacher ratings are still online—you know the web, infinite dirt.”
The three of us worked our phones. We each came up with the same thing. Half a dozen ratings, between five and seven years ago, all by students in magnet programs. Mostly five stars, a few fours.
Sean said, “Looks like he taught the smart ones.”
Milo said, “Maybe one’s too smart for his own good.”
He clapped Sean on the shoulder. “Here’s proof I’m benevolent, kid. Besides the phone and the computer, you get to go to Hamilton and see what you can learn from the administration. I’ll do the fun job.”
“Notification.”
Milo exhaled. “Nothing like it. Though if Dr. D. doesn’t mind, I’ll have some sensitive psychological backup.”
I said, “I’m relegated to third person?”
“Hey, that’s how royalty’s addressed. Is Your Highness up for a drive to North Hollywood?”