No Human Involved - Barbara Seranella Page 6

  "Come in, Sergeant. Have a seat." Her desk faced one wall, so that when Mace sat in the chair reserved for her clients she sat opposite him with no furniture to obstruct his view. She handed him a file and her fingers briefly brushed his wrist. He could tell a lot about a woman by the way she kept her hands. Caroline's were clean and soft, her nails evenly tapered and painted a delicate shade of pink that matched her lipstick.

  "This is Munch's file."

  He scanned the report: Miranda Blowme aka Munch Mancini, last arrested November 11, 1976. Charges: 647B, prostitution; 11721 H&S, possession of a controlled substance; 4149 B&P, narcotic paraphernalia; CBC 148.9, supplying a police officer with false information. Served twenty-three days at Sybil Brand Institute for Women. Sentenced to twenty-three days (time served), one year suspended, and two years probation.

  "Whenever I get a new client, I give them a writing assignment," Caroline said, putting a sheet of notebook paper on top of the file on his lap. "I ask them to write down what their dream life would be like. I don't put any limits on their fantasy I tell them just to write the perfect life for themselves. This was Munch's response."

  He read the block printing.

  My perfect life, Munch wrote, would be if I could live in the country I would have a house that only I lived in. I would own my own Harley which I would ride to work each day I would work at the gas station in town.

  That was it. He turned the paper over in his hand. The back was blank.

  "How would you have answered the question, Miss Rhinehart?"

  She thought a moment. "In my perfect life," she said finally "my job wouldn't be necessary."

  How about you?"

  "My job will always be necessary."

  She put her hand on his and leaned towards him. Her wide-spaced eyes were intense as she stared into his. They were like the sky a sky full of clouds that kept changing. He could get lost in eyes like hers, if he allowed himself. "You could make a difference here. Help this girl, she's never had a break."

  It was difficult, but he pulled his hand away from hers. "I'm not a social worker," he said. "I'm a homicide detective. If a murder is committed, it has to be answered for."

  "Isn't there such a thing as justifiable homicide?"

  "That's not for me to decide, you know that. Is there something more about this case that I should know?"

  She gave him another searching look. He found he couldn't maintain eye contact and looked away

  "No," she answered after a minute. "Nothing concrete, just a feeling."

  His hand was still warm where she had grabbed it. He wanted to tell her that he knew what she meant, but that was silly. She wasn't even sure of what she felt. "Just get her to come in and talk," he said. "If she contacts you."

  "She won't. She thinks I have it in for her. She doesn't trust women."

  Who does? Mace thought, but instead asked: "What does she think of men?"

  "They are definitely the enemy "

  "Doesn't leave anybody else, does it?"

  She just shook her head and bored into him with those stormy blue eyes of hers.

  ***

  At four o'clock, Munch changed back into her street clothes and took off walking. St. Anthony's Episcopal Church was four blocks away and her appointment with the priest was set for four-fifteen. Their ad in the Yellow Pages said they were a "progressive" church. Her stomach cramps were more persistent now. She alternated between chills and sweats.

  St. Anthony's grounds took up half a city block. The church itself was an elaborate structure with an ornate facade of grape vines chiseled in stone. Above the front door, a crucified Christ looked down benevolently She shivered at the sight of the nails driven through his feet and hands and scratched her arms in sympathy. Weird religion, she thought. Near the sidewalk, there was a directory mounted in a glass case with a map of the buildings. She studied it; her linger rested on the red arrow that informed, "You are here." The lady on the phone had said that Father Frank would meet with her in the rectory Munch had said she hoped it wouldnt take all day The lady said it would take what it took, they were on God's time.

  Wooden signposts directed her across a large courtyard filled with a well-tended rose garden, birdbaths, and several wooden benches. She came to a large oak door with a brass nameplate that identified the room as "Fellowship Hall." On the other side of the door people were laughing and talking. The door swung open and she saw a plate of doughnuts set out on a folding table next to a stack of Styrofoam cups. She wasn't sure what force drew her more, the doughnuts or the laughter.

  The clock on the wall said it was ten after four. She stepped inside.

  "Welcome!" a woman shouted in her face. "Are you new?"

  "Maybe."

  "Come in. There's literature on the credenza, help yourself to refreshments."

  She didn't know what the hell a credenza was, but refreshments were clear enough. She grabbed three doughnuts, sticking two under her shirt. The greeter at the door swooped down on her with two more church ladies in tow. She cringed as the woman lowered her arms around her shoulders.

  "What's your name, honey?"

  "Daisy Signman."

  "We just use first names here, dear. Is this your first meeting?"

  "I'm here to see Father Frank. He's going to baptize me. In fact, I'm going to be late." She twisted out from under the woman's arms. Was this whole town full of lesbos, or what? She didnt go in for that shit. She half-ran out the door and followed the signs pointing to the rectory cramming the doughnuts down as fast as she could.

  The man waiting for her there who introduced himself as Father Frank wasn't what she expected. He wasn't wearing long black robes and wasn't a hundred years old. In place of the clerical garb were jeans. His only concession to convention was a black shirt with one of those funny white collars. She wiped her palms on her pants before she accepted his soft warm hand and welcoming smile.

  "How can I help you?"

  To her horror, she felt her lip begin to quiver. She wasn't ready for this. She had expected judgment, distrust, the wariness that she always brought out in people. The same wariness she brought with her to all her dealings. This was the point where the barter should begin. There was always some kind of trade involved. The idea was to give as little as possible to get as much as possible. No one ever began by asking what they could do for her. She felt tears forming behind her eyes and blinked them back.

  "I don't have much money. I told the lady on the phone."

  "Mrs. Waters tells me that you said your time was also limited." Father Frank gestured for her to sit. "We've decided to waive charges, if you're sincere in your desire to make peace with the Lord."

  There, she knew there would be a catch. He wanted her to say she believed in all his mumbo-jumbo. "What do I have to do?"

  "I have selected a passage, the Twenty-Third Psalm, that has always been a special comfort to me. Please, come pray with me."

  "What if I don't know the words?"

  "You can read along." He handed her a small black book with a cross embossed on its leather

  cover. He opened it to a page he had marked with a ribbon. "We'll start here."

  She took the book from him and started to read. '"Yeah, though I travel through the valley—'"

  "That's 'Yea.'" he interrupted. "'Yea, though I travel through the valley'"

  She looked up at him and nodded once, then began again, '"Yea, though I travel through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil."' Her eyes began to blur and from somewhere deep within her, someplace she had closed off, she felt a stirring, an opening of a door. The tears came then. The ones that had been held at bay but had never dried up. A flood followed that choked her voice and streaked her face.

  Father Frank nodded. He didn't stop reciting till the passage was finished. Then he led her to a stone bowl in the chapel garden under a statue of the Madonna and her child. He dipped his fingers in the bowl and made the sign of the cross on her forehead. When the
ceremony was concluded he gave her a baptismal certificate, embossed with the church's seal. She tried to give him the Bible back, but he stopped her.

  "That's for you. Study it. Come back."

  She folded the document carefully and stuck it in the cover of the book. He had written something on the first page. "For Daisy" it said in neat cursive.

  "When God is with you, who can be against you? Sincerely Father Franklin Bartlett."

  "Thank you, Father. You don't know how much this means to me." She left the church and headed towards Van Nuys Boulevard for the Department of Motor Vehicles, which viewed a certificate of baptism as equal to a birth certificate for proof of birth. The priest wanted sincerity he got it. She tried to smirk, but gave up. lt was too hard to do with a quivering chin. Who was she trying to kid? Deep down she knew she wasn't that good an actress, and now all that deep-down stuff seemed to be right on the surface.

  7

  BEFORE MACE RETURNED TO THE BELLA DONNA, he stopped at the gym to shower and shave. Before he cleaned up, he slipped on a pair of training gloves and punched halfheartedly at the uppercut bag, gradually building into a rhythm. Above the bag hung a homemade sign that said, "NO SMOKEING." Mace hadn't had the heart to correct the spelling of the kid who made the sign. Besides, he'd made his point and that was what mattered.

  On the far wall, Hector "Romeo" Sanchez's picture grinned down at him from the display case. Hector's rippled torso was adorned with the wide golden belt of a champion. Mace raised his glove in acknowledgment of the boy's achievement. Hector was the exception. He'd come to the gym and hooked up with Digger before he had reached the point of no return. Instead of joining a gang, Hector wandered into the Vernon Street Gym and channeled all that hungry energy into something that could get him out of this pisshole. The picture was old but the display case was new, another donation by the Venice Police Department. The division had also donated the manpower to build a second ring and add on to the locker room. Small bronze plaques affixed to the brick walls credited local lumber and hardware businesses with donations of materials. What the plaques didn't mention was the duress applied by one Officer Mace St. John, who offered to not make arrests for those businesses use of illegal immigrants in return for their tax-deductible charitable contributions.

  "Stayin' Alive" came on the radio, and someone turned the volume up.

  "The fear will keep you pure," was scrawled on the wall behind the row of speed bags. The fear of being hurt in the ring kept the lighters training, sparring and jumping rope on those days when they would rather just stretch out and watch a game. Mace had learned all about redirecting emotion in the army. Then, it was anger. In the jungle, the rage kept you numb. He had used his anger to get him through each day.

  The bell rang, signaling the end of a three-minute round and beginning of the one-minute rest period. He began to punch the bag in earnest. It danced a herky-jerky under the punishment of blows. Next he went to the speed bag and got into a rhythm. The bag became a blur and drowned out the music around him and the hum of exhaust fans running at full tilt. The sweat poured down his body and stung his eyes.

  There were no "tough guys" in the Vernon Street Gym. They left all that behind them the first time they stepped on the canvas or they didn't make it. The trick was to weed out the individual from the gang. His wife had asked him once what the acronym CRIP stood for. "Cowards Run In Packs," he'd said. Pretty easy to be a tough guy when you had twenty homeboys to back you up. He liked to get that kind alone.

  The house Mace grew up in and Digger still lived in was on Carroll Canal. Carroll hadn't been a canal since the early part of the century when the health department ordered the non-functioning waterways near the ocean filled in. Narrow streets of asphalt entombed the area between the rows of houses and duplexes where the water had once flowed too slowly. Diggers brown stucco, one-story home with the cream-colored gingerbread trim had been built during the building boom at the end of World War II. One of the thousands built to accommodate all the soldiers returning from the war overseas who decided they preferred the mild climate of California.

  Digger had moved his family there in 1946 when Mace was four. Now Evangeline, the ever-patient Filipino woman Mace had found to look after Digger, stayed in Mace's childhood room. Mace parked in the alley behind the house and entered through the back door, which was unlocked as usual. He'd told them both a hundred times to keep it dead-bolted, but they never did.

  "Hello," he called out loudly so they would hear him over the noise of the television. He stopped in the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and riffled through various Tupperware containers stored neatly on the shelves. The first container yielded tunafish salad. He grabbed a fork out of the drawer, tried a few bites, chased them down with a few swigs of milk, then moved on. Evangeline always kept fresh cut-up fruit on hand. Todays selection was a combination of papaya and canteloupe. He speared a few wedges and popped them in his mouth. "You ready?" he yelled in the direction of the den. "I'm starving." The volume of the television turned down a notch.

  "Ready for what?" Digger yelled back.

  "Monday night, ribs, remember?" The doctors said that consistency would be good for Digger.

  Mace walked into the den.

  "Of course I remember. What do you mean? You think I don't know?" Digger clicked off the television and scowled at his son.

  "You're not wearing that? Where are those new slacks I bought you?" Mace turned to Evangeline, who only shrugged helplessly.

  "I tried to tell him, Mr. Mace," she said. "He no listen. He do it his way."

  "Dad, were not going out with you dressed like that. You got on a yellow shirt and red pants. Why don't you wear that blue pinstripe and the cords I brought you?" He held out his hands and Digger pulled to his feet. Digger groaned with the effort.

  "Come in the bedroom, I'l1 help you."

  "Okay okay," the old man muttered. His once dark brown hair had turned a platinum blonde with the passage of years and thinned to the point of transparency. In defiance of gravity, he grew the remaining strands long on one side and combed them over the top. As he rose grudgingly to his feet, the gossamer strands lifted straight up, then settled over his left ear, resting just short of his frayed collar. Mace smoothed the stray locks back in place and Digger mirrored the gesture with his own big hand. In his prime, Digger had been strong, quick, light on his feet, with hands so tough they could put out cigars. The same big hands that pummeled opponents in warmup bouts at the Olympic Auditorium before the main event, ironed Mace's shirts for Sunday school, and whipped up a weekly treat of French toast after church. The tradition had begun when Mace was eight. It was a big year of change for both of them. That was the year Mace had been granted the honor of calling his dad by his nickname, "Digger." A reward for making the transition to "big boy" specifically one who didn't cry at his own mothers funeral. That was also the year Digger had made the transition to trainer. In later years, Digger picked up extra cash sparring with the greats: Patterson, Marciano, Sugar Ray, Sonny Liston. Maybe a few times too many. Mace grabbed a tissue from the table by the armchair and wiped the moisture running from Diggers nose. His dad looked up at him.

  "By the way, where are we going?"

  "It's Monday night. We always get ribs on Monday night."

  "Thatls right."

  Half an hour later they were in the car on their way to dinner. On the way out the door, Mace instructed Evangeline to throw out the red pants with the cigarette burns in them and to lock the door. When they came to the signal at Washington and Pacific, Digger turned to his son. "Where are we going?" he asked.

  "It's a surprise, dad."

  "Oh," Digger said, and settled comfortably into his seat.

  ***

  The following day Mace got to work early. Sitting on top of his desk were the threads of an investigation that had been left dangling since Friday They called to him now, two small plastic evidence bags sitting on top of the clutter on his desk. One bag held the but
t of a Viceroy cigarette, the other a burnt match. The two bags represented the only physical evidence recovered from the scene of a brutal robbery/murder at the Glenwood Garden Apartments. The apartment complex sat right on the border of Marina del Rey and Venice. He had been staring at the two bags off and on since last Friday. They were trying to tell him something. He could feel it.

  The victim had been an old woman who lived alone. The cigarette butt and match were recovered in the kitchen. He and Cassiletti had been called to investigate when the woman's relatives, unable to reach her by phone for two days, had gone to her apartment. That was last Friday Her car was still in the carport, so the relatives contacted the manager. He used the passkey They found the woman in the living room, lying lifeless in a puddle of blood with her head dented in. The manager called the police. Mace and Cassiletti came with their Polaroid cameras and notebooks. It was Cassiletti's first homicide investigation. Judging by the degree of rigor mortis, the woman had been dead for at least a full day.

  "Murder," Mace explained to his initiate as they perused the crime scene, "is one of the easier crimes to solve. Ninety percent of the assailants are known to the victims. The question is to determine the motive and then work back from there."

  They walked through the apartment. St. John pointed out the riffled drawers, the missing wallet from the woman's purse. Her drivers license was sitting out on the otherwise empty kitchen counter. Mace placed it in an evidence envelope, careful not to touch the surface. They took pictures of the death scene. The woman's family said she didn't smoke. The detectives bagged the cigarette butt and match.

  "So how do we determine motive?" he continued his lecture. "We work with what we got. In this case, it's the victim and the scene of the crime. We'll start with her. Female, seventy-two years old, lives alone." He pointed to the deadbolt locks on her door. "A cautious woman, yet she allowed her attacker inside." He studied her clothing. Her shoes were wom, but well cared for. Her dress was handmade, in the style of the thirties. He went through her desk and even went to the parking structure to inspect her car. She was on Social Security and, according to a Medicare form, a widow. Her car was a 1962 Skylark with only twelve thousand miles on it. "What have we got here?"