City of Saviors, page 9
Behind the face shield, Colin’s eyes were squeezed shut.
And his eyes stayed shut as Brooks examined Eugene Washington’s internal organs. “The lungs appear hyperinflated,” Brooks said. Both organs resembled balloons and took up most of the room in his chest.
And still no evidence of a gunshot.
I held up a shaking hand.
Brooks switched off the microphone.
“You’d mentioned poisoning yesterday because of the blue splotches,” I said.
“Possibly.” Brooks then pointed to the blue splotches. “Caused by a lack of oxygen in the blood. Has anyone told you of a food allergy?”
I shook my head. “We’re still looking around the house.”
Spots of red colored Colin’s cheeks, and he lurched out of the double doors.
Brooks viewed the digital clock over the sink. “Twenty-six minutes.”
I smiled. “A record.”
“But this is strange,” Brooks said, nodding at the body. “Some things I see say cyanide, like the blue splotches. Other indicators say anaphylactic shock.”
“From eating something he’s allergic to.”
“Yeah.” Then he turned to the photographs taped to the cabinet. “Look at the second picture on the right.”
I found the close-up shot of the casserole dish filled with that goop.
“You said a witness thinks this is peach cobbler?” Brooks asked.
“Right.”
“The flecks, then,” Brooks said. “Those could be peach leaves. And the grit that looks like cracked pepper? Crushed peach pits, perhaps. Both of which contain cyanide.”
“Hopefully, Zucca’s results will be in soon.”
“I’ll test Mr. Washington’s hair and stomach contents. Take some bone as well. If it’s arsenic, it’ll show itself, and I’ll be able to determine if he’d been poisoned over a span of time or just one big event.”
Colin slipped back into the chamber. “Sorry ’bout that.” He blushed, then dabbed his clammy face against his shoulder.
“We’ll get a warrant for Washington’s medical records,” I said. “See if his recent blood tests showed anything.”
“Do you know when he saw the doctor last?” Brooks asked.
“His girlfriend said he had a physical last week,” Colin offered.
“But he didn’t take the blood tests,” I said.
“Did she bake the cobbler?” Brooks asked.
“She denies it,” Colin said, “but she’d never admit it if she did.”
“Hopefully,” I said, “there are prints on the dish.”
“So the gun?” Colin asked.
“Wasn’t used to kill him.” Brooks then pointed to the tattoo on Eugene Washington’s left bicep. “Vet, huh?”
“Found a few medals in a box at his house,” I said. “Including a Purple Heart.”
Brooks sighed. “How did he come to die in a place like that?”
In my own understanding of PTSD, I’d learned that black vets especially were more likely to develop the disorder. Too many of them didn’t seek help for their problem—and so, too, many of them committed suicide. Eugene Washington had served in this country’s most unpopular war. Anyone could tell from the hoarded mess he called home that he hadn’t benefited from any mental health programs. A Purple Heart and Medal of Freedom stowed in a box hidden beneath a hill of cat skeletons?
As F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “Show me a hero and I’ll write you a tragedy.”
12
“SO IS IT OFFICIAL, LOU?” PEPE ASKED AS HE SETTLED IN A CONFERENCE ROOM chair. “That Washington was murdered?”
I shrugged as I pawed through the evidence boxes. No insurance policy papers but I did find a yellowed sandwich bag filled with tangled and tarnished chains. “According to Brooks, after ingesting cyanide, your respiratory system stops working after ten, fifteen minutes. Your heart stops a little after that. He sent hair, nails, and bone to be tested to see if he’d been poisoned over a long period of time.”
“That’s a fucked-up way to die,” Pepe said.
“Did they find prints on the beer bottle or the cobbler dish?” Colin asked.
“The prints on the beer bottle were the vic’s.” I returned to my seat and glanced over Zucca’s preliminary autopsy report on the laptop. “No matches yet found on the casserole dish. And Bernice Parrish is supposed to come in today to leave her prints.”
Colin nodded. “I’ll call her again as a friendly reminder.”
“I didn’t look,” I said, “but did that dish come from a set in Washington’s house?”
No one spoke.
I sighed. “So when we go back in—”
“No,” Colin shouted.
“Let’s look and see,” I continued.
“Peach pits can kill you?” Luke asked.
“Cherry, plum, nectarine . . .” I said.
“Who knew that?” he asked.
Pepe, Colin, and I raised our hands.
Luke blushed. “But we eat them saladitos.”
“But you don’t consume the pit,” I said. “You just suck off the salt.”
Zucca’s report now filled the screen of the sixty-inch monitor. I double-clicked to open the enlarged picture of the casserole dish, then placed the cursor on the dark flecks suspended in sugary goo. “The cobbler tested negative for cyanide and arsenic as well as other . . .”
No one spoke.
My heart dropped. He wasn’t poisoned—and I’d just wasted a day and thousands of dollars on a feckless crusade.
Colin tapped my shoulder. “It’s okay, Lou. You wanted to be sure. That’s our job.”
“Yeah.” I studied the plastic sandwich bag sitting on my binder, then dumped the chains onto the table. “Whoa.” From the tangle, I pulled out a medic alert bracelet. The red snake emblem was still bright against the dust. The front of the bracelet listed Eugene Washington’s name and phone number, and the back listed two lines.
Allergic:
Coconut.
13
ZUCCA DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING, BUT I HEARD HIM BREATHING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF the phone line.
“Is that a problem?” I asked.
“Testing the beer and cobbler for coconut? Not really. But I’m not understanding . . .”
“If Mr. Washington died as a result of ingesting coconut—”
“But people die from anaphylactic shock without nefarious—”
“True but . . .” But what? My mind whirled. “Can you do it, please? For me?”
Brooks was harder to convince.
“Where was his medic alert bracelet?” I asked the pathologist over the phone. “A man this old with a food allergy should have been wearing his bracelet.” I pulled from the expandable file that picture of Eugene Washington on the boat with Ike Washington. “The photograph I’m looking at right now? He’s wearing the bracelet, but back at the house, it wasn’t on him when we found him.”
Brooks grunted.
“And at the picnic,” I continued, “wouldn’t he ask, ‘Hey, what’s in this cobbler,’ if he thought it could possibly be unsafe to eat?”
“Sure.”
“Please do the test, Brooks. Pretty please?”
“Do you think someone took the medic alert bracelet?” Brooks asked. “Because an easier explanation is that the bracelet fell off.”
“And another explanation is that someone removed the bracelet after poisoning the man with coconut.” I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed, please, please, please.
Brooks sighed, then said, “Guess I could do tryptase and IgE analyses which would help me determine if he could’ve died from anaphylaxis—”
Yes! “That means allergic reaction, right? Sounds good. And I’ll get the medical records to confirm the coconut allergy. Thanks so much Brooks.”
“And if you’re wrong?” he asked.
“Then, my critics will dance on my career’s grave and I’ll soon be walking the beat between Claire’s and See’s Candies.”
And as I ended my call, I prayed again. Please let me be right. A tragic prayer to pray, that someone murdered an old man. A selfish prayer. But I’m only human.
* * *
Colin and I exited the building for the parking lot. The fiery urgency of 2,500 burning acres of Douglas firs, lodgepole pines, and chaparral shrub forests in a zero-percent-contained blaze slammed us in the nose. Two layers of California snow made my blue Crown Vic look silver.
“Car’s filthy.” Colin ran a finger through the ashy buildup. “Didn’t you wash it last week?”
“Yeah,” I said. “So, yesterday, when L.T. called you out—”
“Are we still investigating Washington’s death?” he interrupted.
“We are.”
“As?”
“As a poisoning.”
“Because of the medic alert bracelet?”
“Yep.”
He shrugged. “You’re the boss. Wanna drive?”
I shook my head. “I’m a little beat.” “I hear ya. Let’s grab some drive-through before we head over to Blessed Mission.”
A little beat. If he kept a primer, Colin would know that “a little beat” meant “low-grade headache with slight pain in my left arm.”
Two tacos and a Diet Coke helped dissipate my headache, but the ache in my arm only grew stronger.
Colin chomped the last of his second burrito, and taco sauce dripped onto the cuff of his shirt.
“Maybe you should eat something clear for lunch,” I said. “Like water.”
He dabbed at the stain with a tired napkin. “Where am I driving?”
I scanned the map on my phone. “Blessed Mission’s over on La Brea in Inglewood.”
The church’s digital billboard advertised this week’s sermon: THE JÖB/JŌB EXPERIENCE.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’ve been here before. Well, not this exact . . . It was much smaller back then.” During my childhood, Blessed Mission had been one of two churches on this stretch of La Brea. On the block before reaching Blessed Mission sat Mount Shiloh Baptist Church, along with a barbershop, auto collision garage, stationery store, a U-Buy-We-Fry fish market, and a locksmith. But Mount Shiloh had been torn down and that land had been developed to become Blessed Mission’s parking lot. The digital billboard now stood in place of the locksmith and stationery store. The auto collision shop had survived, and its three bays were filled with smashed-up clunkers.
Colin passed through the tall wrought iron gates of Blessed Mission Ministries. Gold letters bolted into dual brick retaining walls read BLESSED MISSION on one side, and BISHOP SOLOMON TATE—PASTOR on the other. The boulder positioned between the walls carried the church’s logo: a tall leafy tree with its trunk protected by a golden shield.
This was not your grandma’s church with its brick façade, potholed parking lot, and weather-beaten cross stationed above the double doors. Nope. Palm trees lined the long, private driveway. The tropical plants filling the porte cochere reminded me of time-shares in Hawaii.
Colin drove past the patio and parked near the fire hydrant. “And I thought my folks’ church was swanky. This place makes Divine Light look like Chernobyl.”
The parking lot was now a quarter filled with cars and SUVs. People scurried all around the campus, some carrying weed whackers and leaf blowers while others rushed about with buckets and vacuum cleaners. A squad of six cleaned the long rectangular fountain that started in the lush courtyard and ended near the church’s glass double doors.
We entered the main building and stood before golden-brown way-finding signs. Stainless steel columns, high windows, a grand staircase, and recessed lighting—like an airport or a LEED-certified convention center. We wandered to the round welcome desk. I plucked a pamphlet from the acrylic brochure stand. WELCOME HOME, it said. Beneath the greeting was a black, white, and spot-red photograph of Bishop Solomon Tate group-hugging a light-skinned black woman with shoulder-length twists, a preteen boy with a flattop, and a curly-haired grade-school girl missing her front teeth.
After we’d wandered the lobby without anyone stopping to help us, Colin and I were rescued by a woman wearing a purple sweater set and a lapel pin of the church’s tree logo. Though she had perfect silver hair, her wrinkle-free face looked closer to fifty than sixty. “To get to the bishop’s wing,” the woman said, “go up the stairs, turn right, and walk all the way around the rotunda.”
Colin said, “Thank you, Sister . . . ?”
“Elliott,” she said and smiled. “Sonia Elliott. Have a blessed day.”
On the way to the stairs, I spotted a giant giving tree on the wall. Leaf-shaped pictures of member-donors filled the branches. An ATM sat just a few feet away.
Subtle.
“Where are the pictures of Jesus and heaven and Charlton Heston holding the Ten Commandments?” I asked. “And why is there an ATM in the lobby?”
Colin said, “To get money, duh.”
“And I thought it dispensed vaccinations. Why?”
He cocked his head. “I get to know something you don’t know?”
I started up the stairs. “Sure. Enlighten me.”
“Big churches don’t exist on their own goodness, Lou,” he explained. “You need lots of cash to keep ’em going. My church at home has at least four offerings each Sunday. Building fund, regular tithe, special offering, and children’s ministries.” He held up a finger. “And church members gotta submit their tax returns. It’s required.”
I gaped at him. “You’re kidding me.”
“To make sure everybody’s paying their ten percent.”
A pang of anger flicked within me. “My taxes ain’t nobody’s business.”
He shrugged. “Malachi 3:10 says bring the whole tithe blah blah blah.”
“But . . . But Jesus died.”
He studied the high ceilings and tall windows. “This place isn’t that big. Now, down in Orange County and Atlanta, those churches are massive.” He grinned as his eyes shimmered with memories. “Gotta admit that I miss it sometimes. The community, the music. The day I got—” He made quotation fingers. “—saved? One of the best days of my life. Never seen my folks look so happy. Dad bought me a Jeep for baptism, and—”
“May I help you?” A woman’s husky voice drifted from the top of the staircase.
My back was turned to her but Colin’s wasn’t. He blushed and his blue eyes widened. A smile broke over his lips like waves over rocks.
I turned around and saw the woman from the “WELCOME HOME” brochure, the one with the long twists, high cheekbones, and Sophia Loren eyes. I startled—gosh, she was pretty. “We’re looking for someone on the pastoral staff,” I said.
The woman’s whiskey-colored eyes left mine to linger on Colin. “I’m Charity Tate, the bishop’s wife. Is that ‘pastoral staff’ enough for you?” She had a tired jazz singer’s voice, a voice treated with menthol cigarettes and cherry cough drops.
Colin grinned. “Guess that’s enough.”
I badged her, then introduced Colin and myself.
Charity Tate’s perfect eyebrows furrowed. “Uh oh. What did my husband do this time?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came.
She giggled. “It’s a joke, detectives.” She smiled and said, “Sol’s in his office.”
As we passed the audiovisual room and the entrance to the balcony’s seating, we chatted about the weather, the fires, and then the weather again.
“And here we are.” Charity led us into a suite with khaki-colored walls, chocolate leather furniture, and French doors overlooking a patio.
Bishop Solomon Tate leaned against a cold fireplace with a Starbucks Frappuccino in his hand. His outfit—a Gap for Seniors gray polo shirt and light gray chinos—seemed more Neighborhood Watch captain than church pastor. He had been the pastor during my single visit back when I was a kid. He seemed old even then. And he was married to Charity? She couldn’t have been in her fifties. Hell, she couldn’t have been in her forties.
“We have visitors, honey.” Charity made the introductions.
She reminded me of my high school friend T’keyla with those cat eyes and Nigerian nose. Born round-the-way but now living the dream with Louis Vuitton bags, Whole Foods produce, and a monthly wine club.
We settled on the couch, then smiled politely as Charity chided her husband about the Frap and his waistline.
Bishop Tate tossed her an icy glare, then unbuttoned the top of his shirt. To Colin and me, he said, “How can we help?”
“As you’ve probably heard,” I said, “Eugene Washington died in his home yesterday.”
Blank faces from the couple. Huh?
Charity cocked her head. “Who?”
“Older,” I said. “Thin. His house . . .”
“Yes, his house,” Bishop Tate said. He then described our victim to his wife.
“That’s Ike’s friend, right?” Charity asked.
Bishop Tate nodded.
I pulled out a copy of the picture we’d found in Eugene Washington’s den. I pointed to the man standing next to him in the red fishing boat.
“That’s Ike Underwood,” the minister confirmed. “Sorry to say, but we haven’t heard a thing about this. How did Gene die?”
“We’re still trying to determine that,” I said.
“We do know that he attended the church picnic on Sunday,” Colin said. “We heard that he ate a lot. Maybe got a little sick. You know if anyone else came down with a stomach bug?”
The couple shook their heads. The bishop considered his beverage. “Brother Washington . . . He was an incredible man. Fought in Vietnam. Gave back to the community tenfold.”
“How long was he a member of the church?” I asked.
“About three, four years,” he said. “Came in through Ike
Underwood.”
“I like Ike,” Charity peeped. “He’s good with his hands.”
Bishop Tate glowered at her.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re the one with the dirty mind. Stop being an old man.”
“I am an old man,” he mumbled.
She swiveled her neck to look at me, all anyway. “Ike’s in construction, so, yes, he’s good with his hands.” She tossed a last smirk at her husband.
