Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As I was leaving, I wondered what time Bobbie was killed. I got into the SUV and turned the heat up to high. Then I sat there doing math in my head. Don’t laugh, it’s possible.
Melanie was seen at Roberta’s around one in the morning.
If she was the killer, she’d have to have carried the body to her car, and then driven to the winery and dumped it.
If Hal were the killer, his alibi went until sometime between four and five.
He could have killed her at five and then gotten the body over to Three Friends by five-thirty.
My obsessive viewing of CSI had taught me that time of death was determined by body temperature.
At some point after I left the crime scene, the medical examiner showed up and stuck a thermometer directly into Roberta’s liver (gross, I know), and took her internal temperature.
So if Roberta was killed around one in the morning and her temperature was taken at, say, ten o’clock, that was nine hours. But, if she was killed at five-thirty or six, that would be only two or two and a half hours.
Leaving a body out in the cold would drop its temperature quickly.
Normal body temperature is 98.6, round that up to a hundred.
If the body loses four degrees per hour, the body’s temperature would be around fifty-five degrees if Melanie was the killer.
On the other hand, if Hal was the killer the body’s temperature would be closer to eighty-five.
Wait, was that right? I ran the numbers in my head again. Yup, that was right. So…did Detective Lehmann already have the autopsy report? Did he know Roberta’s time of death? Is that why he hadn’t already arrested Melanie? Was Roberta killed much later than Melanie’s visit?
I got out my flip phone and called Ham. When he answered it was obvious he was outside again. I couldn’t help but ask, “Why are you always outside? It’s winter?”
“I’ve got this workman’s comp case, and the guy keeps coming to the park. It’s kind of a cruising spot. I’ve watched him pick up a couple guys. Usually, he gets a blow job in his car.”
“Is this the same guy who was doing triple axels?”
“I have more than one case.”
“Are they always outside?”
Actually, when I thought about it, the case he’d given me had led to my being outside a lot more than I wanted to be.
Ignoring me, he said, “I need to catch him doing something strenuous. Getting a blow job doesn’t cut it.”
“Maybe he’s really injured.”
“Yeah, that happens. Not often, but it happens. What are you calling about?”
“When do you think we’ll get the autopsy for Roberta LaCross?”
“Possibly never. We’ll have to wait for Melanie to be arrested and arraigned. Discovery should happen shortly after that. It doesn’t always though, and a medical examiner can always hold the report pending review.”
“Is there a way to find out now?”
“We’d need a member of the family to request it.”
I thought about that. We’d have to pay Hal… and he was kind of a suspect. Maybe Buford would ask? Or another Campbell?
“Why are you so curious?” Ham asked.
I explained my theory about time of death.
In the middle of my explanation I got another call, but I let it go to voicemail.
When I was done, Ham said, “You’re probably right that the time of death excludes Melanie.
Lehmann is probably looking for some kind of evidence that she came back later.
Do you have any idea what direction their investigation is taking? ”
“I think they’re mainly harassing me.”
“How did things go with Bernie Schaub?”
I told him everything that had happened that morning. Apparently, they’d already talked because he said, “When you finish that report he asked for, make sure to email me a copy. Okay?”
That was annoying. I’d carefully avoided mentioning the report. Now it seemed like I might actually have to write it. Crap. The last thing I wanted this job to be about was writing reports.
I said goodbye, then checked my messages. Opal, sounding desperate. When I called back, I’d barely said hello when she said, “Denny is missing.”
“Yeah, well, drug addicts do that.”
I could have offered up myself as proof but decided not to.
She really didn’t need to know I’d fallen off the map once for four days.
I might have gone to Vegas or maybe a poker club in Gardena, that part is fuzzy.
Anyway, I was trying to pay attention to the conversation, but mostly what she was saying was, “Carl is frantic.” “Carl is terrified.” “Carl is heartbroken.”
“How long has Denny been gone?”
“Two days.”
“Look, he’s probably off partying and having sex with someone and will be for another day or so.”
Denny and I had vastly different tastes in drugs. I liked the kind that offered bliss and a long nap. He preferred the ones that compelled you to have so much sex you rubbed off patches of skin in your nether regions.
“He’ll come back when he’s ready,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “Or when he runs out of drugs.”
“Can you go to a meeting? Someone there might know where Denny is.”
“It’s not Thursday.”
“There are other people in the world besides gays.”
“Yes, far too many.”
“You have to help, Henry.”
For the life of me I couldn’t figure out why I had to help. We were frenemies at best. That implied I didn’t owe her a thing.
“Fine. I’ve got an idea. I’ll call you back.”
I clicked off wondering what was wrong with me? Why had I agreed to help her? This was not going to end well.
I drove to the Turley HIV clinic, which was located in a small brick building a block or so from the HealthWeb Hospital, which was previously…
Okay, you get the picture. I almost couldn’t find it.
It sat next to one of the overflow parking lots for the hospital, which was also where they kept their overflow snow.
Next to the tiny building was a two-story mountain of dirty snow.
I drove around looking for a parking space that didn’t have a meter and then walked the four blocks to the clinic.
Of course, the place was empty. Sexually transmitted diseases seemed more a summer thing.
You might be bored enough to contract them in the winter, but no one would notice them until summertime.
Todd sat at a desk in one corner. There was a plaque with his full name: TODDY MILNER. I kept running into him, so maybe I should make an effort to remember his name. Nah, whatever. He looked up and saw me.
“Hello. Nice to see you. Are you here for an HIV test?”
“No. God no. I might as well be a nun. Pickings up here are pretty slim.”
“I don’t know that I agree with that. You might have to dig a little deeper than you would in Los Angeles. Maybe don’t be so picky.”
What a thing to say to a person. I prided myself on my pickiness. I mean, fine, I’ll admit that when I was in search of Oxy I wasn’t always picky. But sober, sober I was very picky.
“Actually, I came to see you.”
“Oh, that’s great! You considered my offer? I’m off in about forty-five minutes. We could have a cup of coffee and talk about what it means to have a sponsor.”
“Oh no, no that’s not what I meant. Not at all.” I stared at his confused face for a moment, then rushed forward, “I’m friends with Opal who works at Pastiche.”
“I know Opal.”
“Well, she’s friends with Carl, who’s friends… well, he has a thing for Denny.”
“Yes, I’m familiar.”
“Great. Denny is missing and Carl is freaking out, which means Opal is freaking out and she’s calling me to help find Denny. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“Okay. Hmmm… You remember the anonymous part, right?”
“So he has been coming to meetings,” I guessed. I mean, there wouldn’t be anything to keep anonymous if he wasn’t, right? That was great. I had a least one thing to tell Opal.
Toddy seemed to be thinking the situation over. Then he asked, “How long has he been missing?”
“A couple of days.”
“There’s a chat room on AOL. M-4-M-P-N-P, you could check there. You might not get an honest answer, though. You could check Craigslist M4M, go back a few days and see if anyone was looking for PNP. You might find something there.”
I had no intention of doing these things myself, I would pass them onto Opal. She or Carl could snoop around online. I did a lot online, but finding tweakers on a bender was not a precedent I wanted to set.
“And, of course, Ronnie Scheck might have some idea.”
That was a little more challenging. Opal would definitely want me to go and talk to him. I might not mention that possibility.
“So, Henry, tell me how you got addicted to OxyContin.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you can’t solve a problem until you admit you have one. Tell me how your problem started?”
I didn’t want to answer that, it really wasn’t any of his business, but I found myself saying, “My stepfather pushed me down the stairs when I was fourteen. He told everyone I did it to myself. That I was trying to kill myself.”
“And that led to your taking Oxy?”
I nodded.
“Were you hurt badly?”
“I broke my wrist. My back was messed up for a while.”
“And you didn’t tell your doctor when it got better? You just kept getting prescriptions?”
I shrugged.
“So you’ve been an addict for nine, ten years?”
“No. I basically stopped right before college. And I was… sober, I guess, for most of the four years I was in college.”
“And afterwards?”
I shrugged. “I hadn’t forgotten what it was like. I kind of missed it. And by then I was going out to bars, and someone would buy me a drink. It wasn’t hard to ask if they knew where I could get some Oxy. You know, this is none of your business.”
He smiled knowingly. “Yes, I remember that. The idea that my addiction was no one’s business but my own. You get over that.”
That’s what he thought.