I said, “Four victims, variation of method. So maybe they were killed separately, at different locations. At some point, they’re collected, cleaned up and costumed postmortem, placed in the car and driven up here. Then they’re splashed with blood and left to be discovered. It feels like some sort of a production. With all those steps, moving the bodies, probably more than one person. Or one bad guy who had plenty of time, a safe place to work, and the ability to escape on foot. Or he’d stashed one of those mini-bikes in the trunk.”
“A physically fit psycho,” he said. “Or a gang of zombie fiends. Wonderful. What else, keep ideating.”
The cigar made a second appearance. As I thought, he smoked. When I began talking, he stopped.
“We’re talking a killer or killers who knew the gate would be left open with no one around. That could mean a past partygoer. Or someone with a link to either the rental company or the house itself. What about the victim I.D.’s?”
He pulled out his notepad, flipped a page. “The men all had their wallets in their pant pockets, nothing on the women. The driver’s Solomon Roget, seventy-eight. I googled him. Legit livery driver, home address near Pico-Robertson, the limo’s registered to him along with a 2001 Cadillac sedan. The poor guy with his fly open is Richard Peter Gurnsey, thirty-six, Santa Monica, the little guy is Benson Mauricio Alvarez, forty-four, lives near downtown.”
“Victims from all over the city,” I said. “Any purse on the woman?”
“Empty. Got the Gucci clasp but Alicia informs me it’s a cheap-shit copy. No blood on it, so it was placed after the red bath.”
I said, “A prop.”
He frowned and turned pages. “Gurnsey—he goes by Rick on his social media pages—has a law degree and works in business affairs at Sony Studios in Culver City. He put himself all over Instagram. Mountain biking, scuba diving, hang gliding, fooling in the gym. He also liked showing off his matte-black BMW and he likes women. All young and cute, no apparent fetish for grannies. Roget has no internet presence and neither does Alvarez, who’s mentally challenged. I reverse-directoried his address. Group home for people with developmental issues able to ‘mainstream and live semi-independently.’ ”
I said, “A mentally slow forty-four-year-old, a narcissistic hotshot, a woman who looks like everyone’s straitlaced aunt, and their chauffeur. It’s like they’re characters in a play. Roget doesn’t advertise?”
“Haven’t found anything yet. He doesn’t appear to work for a company and the limo is registered to him personally so I’m thinking freelance.”
“I wonder how he got business.”
“Maybe word of mouth? Don’t know much about anything, Alex. Let’s go back.”
—
Reed, Binchy, and Bogomil were waiting for us just inside the tent. Off in a corner, near the limo’s rear tire, stood a coroner’s investigator working her phone. Gloria Mendez pulled down her mask and waved. No trace of her usual smile.
I waved back. Her thumbs stayed busy.
Milo said, “Hey, kids.”
The trio said, “Sir,” in unison, but looked at me. Expecting wisdom.
I repeated what I’d told Milo about multiple offenders and the theatrical quality of the body dump.
Moe Reed said, “Makes sense.”
Sean Binchy said, “Total sense.”
Alicia Bogomil said, “The posing, Doctor. The way Gurnsey was…” She blushed. “Do you see this as a sexual thing?”
“Could be,” I said. “Or it could all be about power.”
“So are sex crimes.”
Reed said, “Sex crimes are about sexandpower.” To me: “Right?”
Milo said, “What Dr. D. would like to tell you but won’t because he’s kind and empathic is we’re starting with a lot of weird and nothing else.”
Alicia said, “So what do we need to do, L.T.?”
“Same as any other case, kiddo: learn about the victims.”
“Speaking of which,” she said, “I just took a closer look at the woman. Like I told you, the purse is cheap-phony. She’s also wearing a lot of makeup but it was put on sloppily and where her skin shows through, here”—touching the space between her cheekbone and her ear—“it looks raw. Wind-whipped. And there are blood vessels all over her nose.”
Reed said, “Street person?”
