“Let’s hit it,” I told Sirius.
The two of us jogged back to the car. For now, the baby Rose case would have to be put on the back burner. Police work is nothing if not a series of interruptions.
The morning commute had already started; it was a good thing I had a cherry topper. I flashed my light and siren and surprised commuters as I passed by on the shoulder. A lot of conversations were interrupted as cell phones were tossed aside and drivers suddenly became law abiding. I was two minutes from the park when Radar called.
“Are you there yet?” he asked.
“Golgotha is almost within sight.”
“That’s the kind of comment the media better never hear.”
“Afraid it might upset the money changers?”
Radar decided to ignore me. “A Parks and Recreation worker discovered the body, and the park was immediately secured and closed. The media has not yet caught on to what occurred.”
I knew that wouldn’t last more than an hour or two. Word always leaks out.
“The chief wants you to keep him up to date on this one. He expects there will be lots of scrutiny.”
“You think?”
Crucifixions aren’t everyday events, even in Los Angeles.
“I’m at the scene,” I announced.
I clicked off in the middle of him saying “Call me when…”
A uniform was standing at the park’s palm tree-lined southern entrance at Vista Street and Fuller Avenue. Sirius was pacing back and forth in the backseat, his tail wagging furiously. Runyon Canyon was a favorite park of his. Usually it was full of gamboling dogs.
I offered up my ID to the uniform, and after looking at it he said, “You’ll want to park up the hill as far as you can, but even then you’ll have a walk.”
He looked around to make sure no one was listening in and said, “The body is way up the trail at a place called Clouds Rest. You’ll see signs along the path directing you there.”
“Thanks, I know where it is.”
There were half a dozen cars parked in a ragged line near the trailhead, including the forensics van and the coroner’s wagon. The parking lot wasn’t far away, but something in most cops’ DNA compels them to do almost anything to avoid walking any farther than necessary. I passed by the parked cars, but not out of nobility. Most visitors to the park enter through the southern entrance at the bottom of the canyon, and from there they choose one of two walking trails. The clockwise route is the shorter and less strenuous route to the back of the canyon and the eastern ridge, which is Clouds Rest. The counterclockwise trail is longer and harder, with more ups and downs.
What the other cops didn’t know was that there was a third and shorter route to Clouds Rest that started from the lower fire road. Their way would have taken them half an hour of walking; my route would cut that time in half. I parked along the bend in the lower fire road, and Sirius and I began our hike. The 130-acre park is designated as “urban wilderness.” It might not be Yosemite, but you don’t have to venture far into the canyon before you feel as if you’ve escaped from LA. The park’s southern entrance is just two blocks from Hollywood Boulevard, making it a popular getaway for Angelenos.
We followed an upward path that went along a dry riverbed. Before bulldozers and development, LA was chaparral country and the park is a natural museum to LA’s former terrain. We made our way through sagebrush, flattop buckwheat, and laurel sumac. The muted greenery was typical of most drought-resistant plants, although occasionally we passed by some red-berried toyon, which all the locals call California holly.
The last part of the hike was the hardest, a steep rise that had me using my hands in a few spots to steady myself. All the climbs throughout Runyon Park are worth it. Depending on your vantage point and the smog, you can see everything from Catalina Island to Griffith Observatory to the Capitol Records building, but today I didn’t stop to take in the view. I was thinking about what awaited me at Clouds Rest.
“Why would you pick this spot to crucify someone?” I asked.
It was out of the way but not that out of the way. Lots of people walked the trails every day. For some, it was part of a regular exercise regimen. The murderer wouldn’t have been able to get in or out easily. And if you dragged a cross up a hill, someone was likely to notice. No, it wasn’t the first spot I would pick for crucifying someone.
Sirius’s ears perked up and his body went on the alert. He sniffed the air and got a preview of what was ahead. It was another half a minute before I saw the activity. A handful of people-forensics techs and the coroner’s people-were clustered around a coast live oak. The tree was typical of its kind: it had a gnarled trunk and contorted branches and was rather compact, at least as oaks went, but it was large enough to be supporting a body.
The young man’s arms were spread out along two branches, and his torso was backed up by the trunk. As I came closer, I could see the odd angle of the victim’s toes. Because his ankles had been nailed into the tree, he looked as if he was pigeon-toed and walking on air. The victim wasn’t wearing the loincloth associated with every crucifixion tableau I had ever seen. He had on running clothes, with lightweight Speedo shorts and a tank top that said BHHS.
I kept enough distance from the tree to not impact the lighting. Techs from Scientific Investigation Division were busy using digital and video cameras to record the scene. Everyone working the crime scene offered some form of acknowledgment to Sirius and me except for the two detectives from Robbery-Homicide. The detectives continued talking to each other and studiously avoided me. Normally it was RHD that took over any high-profile cases from other detectives, something known as “bigfooting.” They were used to having the shoe on the other foot-or bigfoot. In this instance, I was the perceived bigfoot.
I knew one of the detectives, a longtime veteran named Worsley that everyone called Gump. The nickname didn’t come from Forrest Gump but from an NHL goalie named Gump Worsley whose main claim to fame was that he was the last NHL goalie to play without a mask.
Gump finally acknowledged my presence. He had big ears, deep wrinkles, and a protruding lower lip. His nickname fit him; he looked like a Gump. “We’re saved,” he said. “The cavalry has arrived.”
I nodded and then turned my eyes back to the victim. I had been viewing him from the side before, but now I was looking straight ahead. Two supports had been nailed into the tree, a foot rest and a seat rest. Because the victim was only elevated a few feet off the ground, we were almost eye to eye, or should have been. There was a gaping hole where his right eye was missing.
Gump noticed my reaction. “You didn’t know he was shot?”
I shook my head.
“It was close range,” he said, “probably a nine millimeter. It looks as if it happened right over there.”
Two techs were working the area where he pointed, and lots of evidence bags were already filled. The ground was wet; in places you could see the russet stains of blood. There was a swath of wild mustard that had been crushed, showing the path along which the body had been dragged over to the tree. I was glad the victim was already dead before being crucified, or at least it appeared that was the case. He hadn’t suffered slow torture. If the victim was already dead, though, why had the murderer gone to the trouble of staging the man’s death?
“Got anything on the victim?” I asked.
“Everything’s already been tagged and bagged,” Gump said. “He was wearing one of those runner’s belts with compartments where we found a driver’s license. Meet Paul Klein.”
I looked at the victim, studied the shirt, and said, “BHHS?”
“As in Beverly Hills 90210,” Gump said. “According to his ASB card, which was also in the belt, he was a senior at Beverly Hills High School.”
“What else do we know about him?”
“He drives a late model BMW. It was ticketed yesterday for being left in the park after it closed. The Parks and Recreation worker that found him said that Klein is a regular in these parts. Apparently, he runs up here most days.”