the Viking Funeral (2001) Read online

  Shane and Chooch walked into the auditorium, which was already almost full. He saw Buddy up near the front. Shane waved at him, but Buddy either pretended not to see him or had decided to ignore him.

  A tall, good-looking lieutenant in plain clothes from Press Relations grabbed Shane moments after he arrived.

  "Sergeant... Good. I was hoping I'd spot you. We have a special place for you," the lieutenant said. His ID was in a badge holder hanging upside down in his suit pocket like a Spanish leather bat.

  "What about my son?"

  "He can sit here. We thought you'd want to be up close."

  "Go ahead, Shane," Chooch said, grinning. "I'm cool." Then he plopped down in the back.

  Shane was led out of the auditorium, along a side corridor, and into a small room with a TV monitor that showed a picture of the empty podium.

  "You can see it better from here."

  "Whatta you kidding me, Loo?" Shane said, using the nickname reserved for all lieutenants while glowering at the handsome recruiting-poster officer. "I'm supposed to watch it back here, on TV?"

  "Look, Sergeant." The Press Relations officer was now talking slowly, as if addressing an irritating child. "The last thing we need today is to have the press make the story." He looked at Shane hopefully. "I'm sure you want Sergeant Hamilton's day to go smoothly."

  Shane knew in his heart that the man was probably right, so he finally nodded, but it still pissed him off. Shane was being hidden away like a leper. He reached into his pocket and secretly wrapped his fingers around the jewelry box containing Alexa's diamond ring. "Okay," he finally said. "But will you tell Alexa I'm here?"

  "Of course. Absolutely." It sounded like bullshit rolling smoothly out of the handsome press officer's mouth.

  "Hey, Loo, no kidding... She needs to know I'm here."

  "I wouldn't kid about this. Sergeant. I never kid about anything," he said, revealing a shred of his humorless personality. Then he turned and left Shane alone in the room.

  That was when the third strange thing happened.

  Shane watched on the color TV in the isolation room as the event was postponed for almost fifteen minutes. He slipped out of his makeshift holding cell and found out that Commander Shephard, who was scheduled to read Alexa's citation, had not yet arrived.

  As a result, the award ceremony began half an hour late, and the other four officers received their MOVs first. Their commanders all read their commendations, then the chief awarded the medals. Then it was Alexa's turn. Since Mark Shephard had still not shown up, Chief Tony Filosiani stepped to the microphone and ad-libbed some remarks:

  "Obviously, I was still back East, running da Rye, New York, department, when all dis happened," he said in Day-Glo Dago Brooklynese. "Now dat I'm here in Los Angeles and have had the opportunity of dealing with all of you, I wanna say, I'm humbled by the extreme bravery Sergeant Alexa Hamilton displayed in the completion of her assigned task. We all should take pride in her profound dedication to her duty, and to the people of dis city." He turned from the podium and faced her.

  "Sergeant Hamilton, you are among the finest officers I have ever been privileged to command, an it is with great pride dat I present you with dis, our department's highest honor."

  Alexa blushed, standing at attention in her blue pressed and starched uniform, her black hair shining.

  Shane had not returned to the Press Relations room; he was standing in the auditorium's wings, looking out at her. He, like Chief Filosiani, was also very proud of her, while at the same time experiencing a sinking feeling of concern for the missing Commander Shephard.

  Has he disappeared like Captain Medwick, his predecessor at DSG?

  Chief Filosiani read the citation. It described how, while she was at Internal Affairs, Alexa became aware of a high degree of police malfeasance involving a Hispanic gang named the Hoover Street Bounty Hunters, whose turf was located around the L. A. Coliseum. She discovered that arrested gang members were easily escaping from the police cars in that division. They were often not Mirandized, so their cases were thrown out of court. On one occasion, an arrested Bounty Hunter had been left unattended and just got out of the back of a squad car and walked away. The citation explained that these police screwups had been sent to IAD, where Alexa had noticed that police officers in these incidents were all involved with Shane's dead ex-partner, Ray Molar. Alexa had followed the trail of this investigation to a huge real-estate scam involving the defunct Long Beach Naval Yard. LAPD Chief Burleigh Brewer and L. A. Mayor Clark Crispin had been silent partners in that venture and were arrested two weeks later. The citation further stated that in the apprehension of the criminals, Sergeant Hamilton had been severely wounded. Of course, Shane, who had originally brought all of this to Alexa's attention and had helped solve the case, was not mentioned in either the citation or the chief's portrayal of her heroism.

  As he stood in the wings, Shane had a fleeting moment of jealousy and anger directed at Alexa. How had it come to pass that no matter what he did on the job, he always seemed to come out a loser? He knew the answer as soon as he asked the question. He tended to grate on his superiors. Shane had, on occasion, tried to be politically correct, to kiss ass, but it never came off right; plus he hated the taste it left on his lips. Alexa, on the other hand, never kissed ass but seemed to have the ability to get her points across without rancor. She was tough and uncompromising; somehow, unlike Shane, she didn't irritate everyone in the process.

  He ultimately had to admit that his failure had been more a question of style than substance. He stuffed these ungallant thoughts away, then watched as Alexa stepped forward after the citation was read and the chief hung the medal around her neck. It glistened there, shining in the TV lights, as the room full of people applauded.

  A press and media buffet in the Police Academy cafeteria followed. In its typical killjoy fashion, the department served soft drinks instead of champagne. People stood around in clusters, stealing looks at their watches and saying what a wonderful ceremony it had been. Shane hugged Alexa, then, while she accepted congratulations from staff rank officers, he moved through the room, again looking for Commander Shephard, who had still not arrived.

  The Press Relations lieutenant worked Shane like a sheepdog, screening him from the media, herding him here and there, trying to keep him away from anybody holding a mike or a camera. Shane, of course, obliged willingly, not wanting to begin another round of negative press coverage on the case or embarrass Alexa.

  Finally, Shane and Chooch were back in the Academy parking lot, looking at the rear door of the Jack Webb Auditorium, waiting for Alexa to come out.

  "That was cool," Chooch said, not realizing that Commander Shephard's no-show was a potentially dark omen.

  "Yeah," Shane said, holding the leather ring box inside his pants pocket, gripping it, feeling the corners digging into his palm. "Listen, Chooch, I'm gonna go for the quarterback camp. I think that's a good deal. I called the coach, and he's setting it up."

  "You sure we can afford it, man?"

  "Yep. Gotta do it."

  "It starts in two days. I could probably go up a few days late."

  "Nope. You gotta be there when it starts. I'll figure out the plane reservations when I take Buddy to the airport." Shane let go of the ring box, reached out, and put his hand on Chooch's shoulder. "But I'm gonna miss you, man."

  "Maybe you can come up and watch."

  "I'll try," he said, but he already knew what he was going to be doing. The quarterback camp would put Chooch in Palo Alto, safely out of Jody Dean's reach, because he didn't know how ruthless Jody had become. Right now, Shane wouldn't put anything past him.

  Alexa walked out of the Jack Webb Auditorium and over to the car. She had changed out of her dress blues and was wearing a plain black skirt, white blouse, and heels, carrying the uniform in a hanging bag, smiling as she approached the car. The MOV was in a gold-lettered leather box stuffed under her arm, significantly larger and more elegant than t
he box in Shane's pocket.

  "Great ceremony," he said giving her a hug.

  Chooch did the same. They stood in the Police Academy parking lot, all shifting their weight awkwardly.

  "Next stop, dinner with Buddy," she said. Buddy had left the ceremony shortly after it was over. "He had to go back to the hotel and get packed," she alibied.

  "So what happened to Mark Shephard?"

  Shane finally asked. "That was strange, wasn't it?"

  "I don't know. I called his office and his house, but there was no answer," she said.

  A heavy cloud passed overhead, further darkening the parking lot and the moment.

  "Listen, I think on the way to dinner, we should swing by Shephard's house," Shane said. "There could be more here than the eye can see. This guy is a Glass House commander. I doubt he'd miss a chance to make the six o'clock news."

  "It is pretty strange," she agreed.

  "So, let's do it." Shane said. And that decision took them on step further down the road to disaster.

  Chapter 9.

  DUTCH TREAT

  SHANE AND CHOOCH followed Alexa's department-issue Crown Vic to Commander Mark Shephard's house in the Valley. It was strange, Shane thought, that Alexa knew exactly where he lived. They pulled up in front of a small Spanish-style bungalow-- typical L. A. construction from the mid-forties. The house had a red-tile roof, arched doorways, and a small, neatly trimmed front lawn. A spill of purple bougainvillea garlanded off a garage trellis.

  "This is it," she said, exiting her car and joining them at the curb.

  Shane stole a glance at her. "How many times you been here?" he asked with forced casualness, trying not to come off like a stiff-necked jealous boyfriend.

  "Had to drop some budget stuff off once or twice," she said, not looking at him.

  "Okay, let's go see if he's home." He got out of the car, and Chooch scrambled out of the backseat. "Stick out here by the car, will you, Chooch?" Shane asked.

  "How come?"

  "Just wait by the car, okay? I'm not sure what we're gonna find."

  "I think you're being overly dramatic," Alexa said, but her voice seemed guarded.

  They left Chooch and moved up to the front door of the house. It was locked, so they rang the bell. No answer. No key under the pot, over the jamb, or in any of the other no-brainer hiding spots.

  They rang the bell three more times.

  Shane moved around to the garage and looked in the side window. A dark green, department-issue Crown Victoria staff car was parked inside. "Car's here," he said. Not a good sign.

  Next they tried the back door--also locked. He decided he'd have to break in, so he took out his small set of lock picks.

  "Those things again?" she said, wrinkling her nose at them.

  "We could just stand out here until the neighbors report us," Shane said.

  She nodded, so he slipped the picks out of the little leather case. The set contained half a dozen slender needles with widened ends, and one larger shaft piece. The trick was to work the pick's wide shaft into the lock, then slip the needles in under it, twisting them so they'd fill up the spaces inside the tumbler lock. Once he had enough purchase inside the dead bolt, he could turn the collection of picks to throw the lock. Shane had seen several newer-style lock-picks used by state-of-the-art B&E men. The most recent consisted of long strips of a new metal alloy attached to a heating coil. They were first slipped into the lock, then heated up by the coil until the soft metal melted into the lock. The alloy dried quickly, hardening and allowing the bolt to be turned. But Shane liked his old-fashioned Sam Spade set better. It took a little longer, required more skill, and appealed to his sense of police noir.

  He got the door open and smiled tightly at Alexa; then they moved into a small, white-tile-and-wood-trimmed kitchen.

  Mark Shephard lived alone. For a bachelor, he was uncommonly neat: dishes washed and stacked on the drip tray, washcloth folded neatly over the goosenecked faucet that hung over an old-style metal sink. They passed out of the kitchen, into the dining room.

  Shane could smell him before he saw him. The sweet, sick odor of flesh decaying in a self-liquefying bath of butyric acid.

  The Good Shepherd wasn't looking so good today. He was sitting in his Archie Bunker armchair, directly in front of the TV, wearing gray slacks and a white dress shirt, his shoes laced neatly on his feet. His head was thrown back with his mouth wide open, as if he had fallen asleep in front of the tube. Except for two green flies crawling in his mouth, he looked peaceful. His .38-caliber Smith & Wesson was halfway across the floor behind him.

  He had shot himself in the temple, or so they were supposed to believe. The entrance wound was round and neat. Purple-black blood and cerebral spinal fluid had oozed from the hole, staining his shirt collar and shoulders. There were what looked like second-or third-generation maggot larvae festering inside the wound. Shane knew that each generation represented approximately twelve hours, indicating that he had been dead somewhere around thirty-six hours, or at least since yesterday evening.

  "Oh, my God," he heard Alexa whisper. "No... No... Please, no."

  Shane glanced at her and saw a look of shock and pain tightening her features. She seemed pale and frightened--not exactly Medal of Valor crime-scene behavior. However, Mark Shephard was her friend, he reasoned. The Good Shepherd had arranged for her to be his XO at Detective Services... arranged it early, even before she had made lieutenant. So they were close. It was hard to witness a close friend in terminus situ, oozing blood and hosting fly larvae. Even though they were cops and had seen it before, she would find this difficult; that's why she seemed emotionally wrought.

  He reached out and touched the body. It was loose, the flesh jiggled... Rigor mortis had already come and gone, confirming his rough estimate of TOD.

  "Suicide. Why would he commit suicide?" he heard Alexa say.

  "Yeah," Shane said, now noticing some more disturbing pieces of the crime-scene puzzle. Shane was a homicide detective, so right off, three things bothered him--two small, the other large. First, and least important, was the fact that Mark Shephard had his shoes on. Most suicides, approximately 80 percent, remove their shoes before killing themselves. The why had never been adequately explained to him, but they did it nonetheless. It was troubling only in conjunction with his two other observations. The large event was the bullet itself. It had entered Mark Shephard's right temple, but had not come out again. The gun was on the floor where it had supposedly been thrown from his hand by the recoil after the shot. It was the same checkered-grip .38 that Shane had seen on his belt in Shephard's office Friday morning. Shane knew that a f full-load, 110-grain .38 caliber slug traveled at a velocity of 995 feet per second and had 240 foot pounds of muzzle energy. These were manufacturer's stats. So the big, hard-to-explain piece was why the bullet had not exited the other side of Shephard's head, taking half his skull with it like it was supposed to?

  The third thing Shane noticed was that at the edge of the wound, there was "tattooing" from the exploding gunpowder coming out of the barrel. Most tattooing from guns held close to the head made a tight pattern around the wound. The tattooing around Mark Shephard's wound, however, was about an inch from the exterior circumference of the bullet hole, indicating that the bullet Commander Shephard had used to take his life was most likely a standard-police-issue, light-load cartridge. Light loads were the hated ordnance of all street cops because they contained half the gunpowder of a full load. The reasoning was that if a police officer got into a gunfight in the street, the bullet would carry only half as far and not kill an innocent civilian feeding a parking meter a mile away. It also had damn little velocity, so when fired close-up, it left this wider tattoo.

  Mark Shephard was a cop. Cops were issued light loads. A light load wouldn't necessarily go all the way through Shephard's head and out the other side. It would cause this wider tattoo. That's physics. That's the way the cartridge is designed. So what's the problem? What's wrong w
ith this picture?

  Only one thing.

  Shane had been on the job for almost twenty years, and in all that time he'd seen or heard of hundreds of cops screwing their service revolvers into their mouths or ears and doing a Dutch Treat. But in all of those cases-- every single one--the cops used full loads. Not one of them had tried to kill himself with a light load, and the reason for that was obvious: there was a high degree of probability that a half load wouldn't get the job done, like in the street, where it sometimes failed to even slow down an enraged assailant. Half loads, most of the time, managed only to maim or cripple.

  Why had Mark Shephard used the underpowered cartridge? Was this a suicide, or could it be a murder? Had somebody used the commander's gun to kill him, unaware that it contained Remington Lights? While these thoughts were going through his mind, the situation became even more complicated when he heard Alexa sobbing.

  He looked over and saw her sitting on the sofa, her head in her hands, crying. He'd only known her well for half a year, but she was not a weepy woman. Why was this street-trained police officer who had witnessed the worst of man's inhumanity to man sitting on the sofa crying like a heartbroken relative?

  Shock? Yes.

  Dismay? Of course.

  Anger and depression? You bet.

  But tears, uncontrollable tears, at a crime scene?

  What the fuck is going on here?

  Chapter 10.

  AFTERMATH

  THEY DIDN'T GET out of Mark Shephard's house for hours. Buddy had to take a cab to the airport, and Chooch drove the Acura home. Shane and Alexa stood on the Good Shepherd's neatly trimmed lawn while the ME and lab techs did their gruesome work: bagging the corpse's hands, photographing the body with its growing colony of fly larvae.

  Alexa watched in silence. Somewhere around six, the body was wheeled out and put into the coroner's wagon. The windowless, black Econoline van pulled slowly away from the little Spanish house, taking its resident away for the last time.