Rojo hadn’t gotten close to getting his head around the T-shirt when Kovacic’s voice pulled him away.
‘And there’s this. Christ, Charlie, check this out.’
Rojo moved towards him while still looking back at the worn T-shirt under glass. He nearly walked into Kovacic, who was standing in front of another object hung on the wall.
The square frame was black ash, in stark contrast with the pure white canvas behind. It took Rojo a moment to work out what he was looking at, just a curl of dark on a second, raised white mount in the middle of the piece. It was a curl of hair. The attached plaque told him whose.
‘Charles Manson.’
‘The fuck?’
‘Right?’ Kovacic felt vindicated. ‘There’s more. Check out the clown.’
Rojo did. The painting was garish, heavy-handed daubs of red, white and blue. A heavyweight clown in red stripes, the white podgy face swathed in blue at the eyes and red at the mouth. There was no plaque on this one, just the artist’s signature at bottom left. J. W. GACY.
‘Gacy. John Wayne fucking Gacy. What is this, Charlie?’
Rojo lifted his shoulders. ‘He’s a collector, I guess.’
‘A collector? What’s wrong with fucking stamps or baseball cards?’
‘Damned if I know, but today it’s going to be someone else’s problem.’
Kovacic turned to him. ‘You’re not calling this in? Are you kidding me? You said yourself it’s a heart attack. We don’t need help with this.’
‘This . . .’ Rojo waved an arm at the wall. ‘This changes it and you know it. This is weird shit, Mario. And given we have a body, it gets to be someone else’s weird shit.’
*
It was half an hour before Detectives Bryan Salgado and Cally O’Neill got to the property on Finley. That was partly down to the inevitable LA traffic, officially the world’s worst, but also because Salgado and O’Neill weren’t exactly busting a gut to get to a heart attack victim.
Rojo met them at the front door.
‘This better be good, Carlos. Forensics say it’s natural causes.’
Salgado was long and lean, well dressed in a blue suit and tie over a white shirt, a pair of Gucci aviators over his eyes. At six four, he towered over O’Neill and contrasted with her pale skin and red hair pulled tightly back on her head, just as his tailored clothes contrasted with her functional black trouser suit and blouse.
‘Yeah, well, I’m sure forensics is right,’ Rojo told him. ‘It’s the other stuff.’
‘What other stuff? The message I got was there was some weird shit on the walls. Unless the weird shit killed him, I’m not sure why we’re here.’
‘Tell us the weird shit killed him, Carlos,’ O’Neill chimed in. ‘Please tell us it was the weird shit. Is today going to go all X-Files?’
Rojo closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. ‘Why didn’t they send someone else? As if the smell isn’t bad enough, I have to listen to you two play Mulder and Scully. Come inside, I’ll show you.’
The detectives followed him through the front door and into the lounge where Garland lay. The room now held two crime scene investigators and they’d taken charge of the remains. Rojo guided Salgado and O’Neill past the body, all three cops now wearing protective masks, to where Garland’s collection hung.
They moved from piece to piece in silence, Salgado and O’Neill sharing the kind of unspoken conversation that only long-term partners can fully understand. Raised eyebrows, stolen sideways glances, murmured noises.
‘What the hell is this stuff?’ Salgado asked finally.
‘Murderabilia,’ O’Neill answered before Rojo could. ‘Collectibles. These freaks buy artefacts connected to serial killers. It’s big business.’
‘You’re shitting me.’
‘I shit you not. There’s serious money in it. This painting by Gacy? There’s a ton of them out there but this would still cost a few grand. Maybe five.’
Salgado and Rojo looked at her. ‘How do you know this stuff?’
‘Same way I know anything. I read. I learn. You should try it.’
Salgado laughed. ‘I’ll stick to getting by on Puerto Rican good looks and charm. So, who collects this stuff and what does it tell us about the dead guy?’
‘About him?’ she shrugged. ‘Maybe not much. I’d wonder about the psychology of anyone who collected this shit but it wouldn’t mean a lot. The theory goes that many of them are just fascinated by serial killers, like half the population, but they go a step further and buy stuff that gives them a kind of connection to the killer.’
‘Sick fucks.’
‘Well, yeah, but the world’s full of them. It’s what keeps us in a job. Does it mean the dead guy, Garland, was up to no good? Not necessarily. But I’d say it warranted a look around.’
‘Some of us have already had a look.’ Kovacic announced his return to the room in his usual sensitive manner. ‘There’s more. Much more. This guy was a complete psycho.’
Salgado and O’Neill swapped glances. ‘Show us.’
Kovacic gave them a guided tour of Garland’s home, pointing out all stops of interest. The Manson piece of art hanging above the bed; a bible belonging to ‘Son of Sam’ David Berkowitz in the hallway below framed prison letters from Ed Kemper, Gary Ridgway and Arthur Shawcross; as well as a weights bench and dumbbells, the second bedroom even had a bed cover with a white prison label sewn onto the other side declaring it Property of Ellis Unit, Texas Department of Corrections and the initials HLL scrawled on it.
‘Henry Lee Lucas,’ Kovacic informed them before reluctantly admitting he’d had to google it.
The collection was a who’s who of American serial killers. Art, clothing and letters once owned by Ted Bundy, Albert DeSalvo, Joel Rifkin, Aileen Wuornos, Edward Wayne Edwards, Ottis Toole and Dennis Rader.
Every room ramped up the unspoken sense of alarm. It was sometimes called ‘blue sense’, cop intuition, knowing, just knowing when the shit was going to hit. Salgado was a big believer in it. O’Neill not so much, thinking it lay somewhere between seeing the obvious, and believing you were right even when you were wrong.
They both knew the house screamed trouble – whether it was down to instinct or common sense, there was no ignoring it.
Kovacic led them into the kitchen and stopped in the middle of the floor, well aware that he was holding court and clearly enjoying the moment.
‘This is my favourite,’ The cop wore a twisted grin that made O’Neill want to slap him. She didn’t like that the only thing stopping her was the desire to see what he was going to show them. The uniform moved next to the refrigerator and she dreaded what might be inside as he tapped a gloved hand on the front of it. All three cops held their breath as he slowly inched the door open.
Kovacic was eying them all with glee, waiting for their reaction. When the door swung open, he laughed loudly at seeing the mild disappointment when it only revealed milk, juices, vegetables, two wrapped portions of meat in brown paper and a couple of cans of beer.
‘Very funny,’ Salgado snapped at him. ‘You wasting our time, wise guy?’
‘Nope,’ Kovacic’s grin widened. ‘You’re all staring right at it.’ He slapped a hand on the side of the old fridge.