Thurston Nobach landed atop the left-most bin.
Postmortem photos didn’t reveal much in the way of humanity. More like a clotted stain, which Milo termed “Beyond apropos.”
Once Nobach’s parents were notified of his death, they reacted the way people used to getting their way do: mustering a battalion of lawyers to draft a demand letter, ordering immediate release of all information and material related to the cruel, callous, negligent police behavior leading to the death of an innocent young man in the privacy of his own home. Page two announced intention to file criminal charges against the perpetrators of said behavior, to be named. The final page tacked on a civil suit for damages related to...
Multiple copies were couriered simultaneously to the mayor, the D.A., several state and federal legislators, the local office of the FBI, and the city councilwoman and county supervisor whose districts encompassed the Wilshire Corridor.
That died quickly when the lawyers had a look at the contents of evidence obtained at Thirsty Nobach’s condo and a unit in the building he “managed.”
Radio silence. New goaclass="underline" damage control.
Futile goal. Six hours after Nobach went over the glass, Maxine Driver called me at home. I was in the kitchen, ice pack pushed to my face, Robin and Blanche trying not to look upset.
“Sorry,” she said. “I got caught up in convention nonsense — serving on an inane committee but you know how it is. Anyway, the serendipity I mentioned was a historian from Emory on the same committee — maybe kismet, huh? Turns out his much younger wife was here as an R.A. and she interviewed to be an advisor for that program. She didn’t get it, Alex, but she knows who did—”
“Thurston Nobach.”
Silence. “You got there without me.”
“No big deal, Maxine.”
“We’re still pals?”
“You bet.”
“When the time’s right you’ll tell me the story?”
“Got a few minutes right now?”
With Maxine in the loop, everyone on campus knew by morning. By noon the following day, lurid details, some of them true, quite a bit not, spread to social media.
As Thurston Nobach became the fiend of the moment, the people who’d created him withdrew from public life.
No attempt to achieve accuracy. That’s the way it is, nowadays: facts, lies, the stuff in between.
Chapter 49
I got to read the material soon after Milo.
LAPD Document 18-4326-187D: Materials seized from two units at Academo-Strathmore Student Residences, Westwood Village.
1. One socket wrench yielding blood, hair, and cranial bone matching that of assault victim Sandra Burdette, the handle additionally yielding latent fingerprints consistent with those of suspect T. Nobach.
2. Additional latent fingerprints consistent with those of suspect T. Nobach on the edge of a dresser and a bathroom counter in Unit C-418, the latter admixed with blood from victim Burdette.
A. Supplementary data: eyewitness identification of suspect T. Nobach by victim Burdette as the man who assaulted her from behind when she attempted to leave an argument she’d had regarding his relationship with her daughter, attempted homicide victim Amanda Burdette.
B. Related supplementary data obtained at 12345 Wilshire Boulevard, Unit 24, PH1, former primary residence of suspect T. Nobach: latent fingerprints from a used hypodermic syringe containing traces of heroin and fentanyl matching Suspect T. Nobach’s fingerprints and found near the unconscious form of attempted homicide victim A. Burdette, subsequently revived by LAPD Lieutenant Detective Milo Bernard Sturgis.
1. Two glassine envelopes containing heroin laced with fentanyl. The proportion of fentanyl consistent with that found in the system of homicide victims Susan Koster and Michael Lotz and attempted homicide victim Amanda Burdette.
2. Three glassine envelopes containing powdered cocaine.
3. A bottle containing five benzodiazepam tablets, the label authorizing prescription of 50 tablets issued to Michael Lotz, prescribing physician Manuel Licht, M.D., The East Venice Community Clinic.
4. An acoustic guitar labeled King-Tone internally, manufactured seven years ago in South Korea. Five of six metal strings intact, the A-string missing and consistent with a ligature used in the homicide of victim Susan Koster.
5. One roll of 200 adhesive-backed decal-type stickers with the word “Thirsty” printed in black ink. Match to similar decals found on twelve textbooks belonging to attempted homicide victim A. Burdette.
6. Four color photographs of what appears to be a young deceased white female, subsequently identified as Cassandra Booker, manner of death previously registered as undetermined and subsequently altered to homicide. The images placed in an envelope embossed with suspect Nobach’s name on the flap, along with a page of handwritten doggerel credited to suspect Nobach by himself, the cursive writing subsequently matched to samples from suspect Nobach’s checkbook. The young pass quickly. But never slickly. Dully naïve, they take their leave. Leaving no mark but a tiny little prick-ly.
7. Four color photographs of what appears to be a middle-aged, deceased white male, subsequently identified as homicide victim Michael Lotz. Similar envelope to Booker, another page of doggerel. He lives in a hole, the humanoid mole. No more than a prole, a step above the dole. Was there even a soul?
8. Four color photographs of what appears to be a deceased young woman, subsequently identified as homicide victim Susan Koster. Similar envelope to Booker and Lotz. More extensive doggerel.
Ooh, the shape. The curves, the swoops. The nape. She swings she prances. Pretends she dances. Playing a role. Riding the pole. Ceding her hole. Without resistance. Though there was assistance! Ah, the allure of the page. Believing she was sage. Not filth in a cage.
9. Four color photographs of what appears to be a deceased young woman, thin, long blond hair, as yet unidentified. Placed in an unmarked envelope along with a postcard depicting the Honolulu Hilton, Oahu, Hawaii.
10. Four color photographs of what appears to be a deceased young woman, thin, short brunette hair, as yet unidentified. Placed in an unmarked envelope along with a postcard depicting the Lord Byron Hotel, Rome, Italy.
I finished reading, poured myself a double Chivas, sat back, and thought.
For all the probative value of the drugs, the prints, the guitar, and the bad verse, the piece of evidence I found most interesting had never made it to the murder book.
A collection of correspondence, including room measurement charts and bills of sale, exchanged over a two-year period between “Dr. Thurston Nobach, Esq.,” and Smythe-Sheetley Booksellers, 65 Cambria Lane, London SW2V 5PS.
The company’s motto:
Chapter 50
Within ten days, the swelling that had ballooned my left cheek subsided. Three days after that, I got a call from Brearely Burdette.
“I heard you got socked in the jaw, Dr. Delaware. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks. How’s everyone doing?”
“Sandy’s still in the hospital. She’s got three skull fractures and will probably have headaches for a while but they say she’ll be basically okay. They think. Amanda... you know, she’s Amanda. Will told me he asked you to treat her but you said you couldn’t and referred her to another therapist. That was probably a good idea. I wouldn’t want her for a patient.”
No sense getting into ethics. I said, “That’s true.” I’d just heard from the psychologist I recommended, Michelle Tessler. (“Obviously not a short-termer, Alex. At least she’s honest. You might say to a fault, but that beats digging through layers of bullshit.”)