Hollywood Lust Page 19

  The follow-up reports provided summaries of interviews with those who had been close to the actress, including her mother and two of her four ex-husbands. I learned that Winslow had remained especially close to Frank Acosta, a musician, who told the detectives that the actress had been depressed from time to time and was prone to using prescription drugs. There was also a brief mention that the detectives had contacted Wallace Studios and spoken with Donald Regis, but he’d offered nothing of value regarding the death.

  When I finished with my stack of reports, I said to Leo, “I don’t see anything remarkable. How about you?”

  He thumbed through a thick file on his desk and then looked at me. “I’ve got a file here on her medical history that the coroner obtained. It confirms a history of depression and psychiatric treatment. I don’t know if her shrink is still alive, but it might be worth checking out.”

  I made a note of the psychiatrist’s name. “Anything else?”

  “It might mean nothing, but a couple of years before her death, Winslow was treated for a fracture of her left arm, supposedly from a fall. There’s nothing in her history that ever references her breaking her arm.”

  My sister’s circumstances came to mind as I asked, “You think it might be domestic violence?”

  He shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  I told him about the brief mention of Donald Regis in the reports. “There was apparently enough concern to interview him, even though nothing came of it.”

  “Do we know if Regis is still alive?”

  “I have a couple of friends who I confided in about my mom’s letters. They did some checking and found out he’s still living in Beverly Hills, although I don’t think he’s involved with the studios anymore.”

  Leo regarded me. “Maybe, if time permits, we can go have a little chat with Mr. Regis.”

  I nodded. “Why don’t you give me the medical file? I’ll have my friend in the coroner’s office take a look at it, along with the autopsy report.”

  Leo and I got a bite to eat before we headed to Sunset Photography in North Hollywood. We’d called ahead and Gene Washington, the owner, had agreed to meet with us and talk about Galen Marshall’s work as one of their contract employees.

  After arriving at the company and showing a receptionist our credentials, she led us to a back room where Washington was working. The work space was filled with equipment, supplies, and stacks of photographs.

  “Greetings,” Washington said, waving us over to the table. The owner of Sunset Photography was probably in his sixties, with a slight build. He looked like he’d spent too much time in the sun, leaving his skin wrinkled and blotched. He cleared a space for us, saying, “Have a seat.”

  We sat in chairs across from him, while Bernie settled at my feet. I saw there were dozens of photographs that he had arranged in stacks on the table that he told us about. “We’re starting to do some of the shoots for the local proms and I’m trying to get things organized.”

  We chatted about the business for a few minutes. We learned that Washington had owned the company for over twenty years before we got down to the reason for our visit.

  I showed him the photograph of Galen Marshall from when he’d worked at the shredding company. “He was a contractor, from what we know. He took the group shots over at Bernstein Studios about ten years ago. He’s a suspect in the murder of one of the individuals in the photographs he took.”

  Washington studied the photo, at the same time shaking his head. “Sorry, neither his name nor the photo looks familiar.” He handed the picture back to me. “Who did you say he killed?”

  “He’s a suspect in the murder of a man named Bruce Reeder. He was a producer at Bernstein Studios.”

  Washington had a vacant expression. He continued to shake his head. “Wish I could be of more help.”

  “Is there anyone else who works here who might remember him?” Leo asked.

  There were more head-shakes. “I’m pretty much a one man show, except for my secretary Margaret, and the contractors…”

  He seemed to lose his train of thought. I glanced at Leo, then back at him. “Did you remember something?”

  “Margaret!” He’d shouted his secretary’s name and she came scurrying around the corner. Washington took the photograph of Marshall back from me and held it up as she got to the table. “Is this the guy who we found out worked for that mortuary about ten years ago?”

  His secretary, who reminded me of a younger version of Nana, glanced at the photo and said, “That’s him.” She looked at Leo and me. “He was weird as hell.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “After he worked for us for a couple of years, we found out he also worked for…” She looked at her boss.

  “Galvan Mortuary,” Washington said, apparently having an aha moment.

  “That’s it,” she agreed. “He photographed some of the funerals for the families. From what we heard, he even photographed the bodies as they were being prepared for the funeral.”

  “Is that a service some of the mortuaries offer?” Leo asked. He then looked at me, his big forehead pinching together.

  Margaret answered. “It was his own business. I ran into a friend who worked at the funeral home and I made the connection that it was the same guy who was working as one of our contract employees.” Washington’s secretary grimaced. “She said he was caught with one of the bodies.”

  “Caught?”

  “He was caught in the act of having sex with a corpse.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  It was mid-afternoon by the time we got back to the station where Leo and I met with Oz, Selfie, and Molly. We took a few minutes, explaining what we’d learned about Galen Marshall working for the mortuary and his extra-curricular activities.

  “I guess that’s what you call being caught in corpus delicto,” Selfie said, her nose scrunching up.

  “Remind me to be cremated,” Molly added.

  “Can you see what you can pull up on the Internet regarding the Galvan Mortuary?” I asked, as Bernie lapped up some water from a bowl I’d put out for him.

  “Done,” Molly said, looking at the overhead monitor. “It’s been in business over thirty years. Looks like a mom and pop operation.” She clicked through several screen shots showing photographs of the building and their services before we saw a link that said, Funeral Photography.

  Molly clicked on the link and a moment later said, “Bingo.”

  “It’s our guy,” I said, leaning closer to the monitor.

  There were several photographs of Galen Marshall taken in and around the funeral home, showing him photographing funerals and graveside services. The accompanying text said the funeral home offered memory albums for the families of the dearly departed.

  “It makes me wonder if Galen took photographs of himself with his victims,” Selfie said. “Why do you suppose they didn’t fire him?”

  I shook my head. “Hard to say. Maybe he was good friends with the owners and promised not to repeat his offense.”

  “Was Marshall ever prosecuted for his necrophilia activities?” Oz asked.

  Molly answered. “He has no record, other than a couple of traffic violations.”

  Oz looked at Leo and me. “Let’s get over to the funeral home, see if we can put these cases to bed before the day is over.”

  ***

  The Galvan Funeral home was located just off the central business district in Fullerton, a city about twenty minutes from Hollywood. The establishment was in a rambling single family abode that had probably been the home to some prominent residents in the middle of the last century.

  The home was now full of the dead, and I’m not just talking about the corpses that were probably resting there. The elderly owners of the business, Raymond and Rose Galvan, looked like they could be ready to avail themselves of the services they offered at any moment.

  “How may we be of service?” Mr. Galvan said in a serious, low voice after we introduced ourselves and s
howed our credentials. He lowered his eyes, looking at Bernie and raising a brow.

  The owner of the funeral home was probably pushing into the dark regions of eighty. He had a full head of white hair, swept straight back from his forehead. His wife sat at the desk across from him. Rose had almost the same color hair as her husband. Her thin lips were pursed together, giving me the impression that she didn’t want us there.

  “We’re looking for an employee of yours named Galen Marshall,” I said. “We understand he does your funeral photography.”

  “What do you want with him?” Rose growled. My earlier thought about her not wanting us there was confirmed by the tone of her voice.

  Given her attitude, I decided to only give them some general information. “We just need to ask him a few questions about a case we’re working.”

  It was now Raymond’s opportunity to show his disdain. “What kind of case?”

  I glanced at Leo, then back at the elderly couple. “I’m not at liberty to say. Is he working today?”

  Raymond and Rose exchanged a furtive look. “No,” Raymond said. “We’re not sure when he’ll be at work again. He works his own schedule, based upon the request for his services.”

  “Do you have his address?” Leo asked, not bothering to conceal his irritation with them.

  We got back two headshakes, another stealthy look.

  “You need to understand something,” I said, now also thoroughly annoyed. “This is a police investigation and a serious matter. If you don’t want to cooperate, we’ll get a judge on the line and get a search warrant to look through every closet, coffin, and corner of your little slice of otherworldly paradise until we find Mr. Marshall or information about where he’s living.” I raised my voice. “Now, where is he?”

  What I’d said caused Raymond to look at Rose again. She gave a slight nod of her head. Mr. Galvan said, “He stays in our basement, sometimes. I’ll show you.”

  As we followed the elderly funeral home proprietor through his place of business at the pace of an extremely slow snail, I said to him, “Tell me something. Why all the secrecy?”

  He stopped and turned to us, scratching one of his big ears. “I’m afraid Mr. Marshall is…” He found a breath. It rattled in his throat as he released it slowly. “He’s not a very nice person.”

  “Has he threatened you?”

  Galvan nodded. “I’m afraid so. He made it clear that if we ever complained to the authorities about him, or asked him to leave, he would see to it that we paid the price.”

  I glanced at Leo, back at Galvan. “When we get to the basement where he’s staying, let us go in ahead of you. I’d prefer that you stay back if there’s any trouble.”

  After a nod, we continued our slow walk to the back of the residence where there was a staircase. Galvan turned to us and whispered, “His room is down the hall toward the back of the basement.”

  Leo and I followed Bernie down the dimly lit, narrow stairway with our guns drawn. Once we were in the basement, we cautiously made our way down the hallway toward the room where Marshall was staying. We stopped at his door and I made eye contact with Leo at the same time Bernie released a low whine. Leo nodded and I pushed the door open, calling out and announcing ourselves.

  There was no response, and seconds later I understood why. We found our suspect at the back of the small bedroom slumped against a wall. Bernie released a deep growl when he saw what was happening.

  I put my gun away, tugged on Bernie’s leash, and said to Leo, “It looks like the Galvans have another customer.”

  Galen Marshall had probably been dead for several days. I was aware of that fact, not because of my experience or training in homicide. It was made obvious to me by the rats that were crawling over his body, eating what was left of his face.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Leo and I spent most of the night at the funeral home, processing the scene with SID and my friend Brie Henner, the deputy coroner who had been called out on the case.

  “I don’t know how you manage your illness and continue to work,” I said to Brie after she’d examined the body, knowing that she had a five year-old daughter at home.

  “Some days are easier than others. It’s a process that I’m learning to deal with.” She smiled and changed the subject. “So, how are things with you and Noah?”

  It was my turn to smile. “I haven’t been this happy in a long time. We’re planning to go away together when I can work it into my schedule.”

  We shared small talk about Noah and Brie’s own boyfriend before Leo came over and she went over her findings.

  “I’d say Mr. Marshall has been dead at least forty-eight hours, maybe longer. I’ll be able to pin it down further when I get him back to the shop. The COD was a small caliber, single gunshot to the chest. It looks like the round is still inside, so we’ll try to match it to the databases after we cut him open.”

  We gave her some background on the decedent, our suspicion that he’d been involved in two homicides ten years apart, before she asked, “Are there any suspects in Marshall’s homicide?”

  I said, “Marshall had apparently been terrorizing the elderly owners of the funeral home for years and had forced them to let him live here in the basement. We questioned both Raymond and Rose Galvan at length, and, while they were obviously in fear for their lives and safety at the hands of Marshall, both Leo and I are convinced they aren’t involved.” I smiled. “That was the long answer. The short answer is we have no suspects.”

  Leo added, “I’ve got a feeling Mr. Marshall is the type of person who angered a lot of people over the years and one of those individuals paid him back.”

  Brie then changed the subject, mentioning the Carla Hodge homicide. “I took a look at the autopsy reports you gave me.” Her gaze drifted over to Leo. “I think your theory is spot on. By the look of the blood spray and angle of the body, I’d say her attacker could very well have been left handed.”

  I smiled at Leo. “Nice work.”

  The big detective had his own, ever-present smile. “Not bad for someone past his prime.”

  After we’d finished up with the crime scene, I walked Brie to her car. I remembered the medical and autopsy reports I’d gotten on Jean Winslow and retrieved them from my car. I took a few minutes and filled her in on everything, including the letters from my mother.

  “Wow, Jean Winslow,” Brie said. “And you think the same person who murdered the man who raised you also killed her?”

  “That’s the way it sounds from what my mother said.” I motioned to the stack of reports I’d given her. “I’d appreciate it if you could take a look at everything. The medical file shows Winslow had broken her arm a couple of years before her death, but there’s nothing in her history that speaks of that. Leo and I think there could have been some domestic violence involved.”

  “And...I think you said his name was Regis...”

  I nodded. “Donald Regis. He was the head of Walker Studios. Winslow was under contract to him and was apparently unhappy about it. They were also rumored to have been involved at one time.”

  Brie pushed the stack of reports into her briefcase. “I’ll take a look and let you know.”

  “One other thing. This is all confidential. The brass doesn’t even know that we’re looking into the case.”

  Brie smiled at me. “Jean who?”

  Bernie and I were in my car, getting ready to call it a night when my phone rang. A spark of anxiety shot through me when I saw the call was from Joe Dawson. “Don’t tell me The Swarm is starting to swarm again.”

  “I’m afraid there’s some more buzzing coming from Colorado. Janice Taylor and her attorney want to meet with you in Denver the day after tomorrow. She plans to write out a statement for her upcoming hearing, confessing her crimes, and asking for the death penalty.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  It was after midnight when Bernie and I got home. I was exhausted by the time we finished up with the Galen Marshall crime scene. I�
��d sent Oz a text, telling him that I’d be in at noon the next day, after getting some sleep.

  Despite that exhaustion, I had trouble falling asleep because of Joe Dawson’s phone call. While Janice Taylor claimed she wanted to confess her crimes, I knew there had to be more to the story, especially if she wanted me there. It occurred to me that when we’d stopped The Swarm and the destruction meant for the cities, she probably had taken it personally. And, if that was the case, she likely had blamed me for what happened.

  After spending an hour wrestling with that, the murder of our chief suspect in the murders of Bruce Reeder and Carla Hodge, and my sister being in an abusive relationship, sleep finally, mercifully found me. I slept until almost nine when Bernie pushed his big nose into my bed and whined. It was canine speak for, “I need to go potty.”

  After grabbing my robe and slippers, and taking a quick stroll around my apartment complex, I went back home, where I saw Natalie and Mo were leaving their apartment dressed in their bad-ass private detective gear. They had on more leather and chains than you’d find in a BDSM store.

  “Glad we ran into you,” Natalie said. “Can we come over for a cuppa and some chinwag?”

  It was Natalie’s way of saying she needed some caffeine and had some gossip. I waved them over. “I’ll put some coffee on.”

  “We think we got us another lead on that cold case,” Mo said when we got to my apartment. She winked a big fake eyelash at me like there was a giant spider on her eye, her way of telling me they were keeping things confidential.

  After putting the coffee on, feeding Bernie, and running a brush through my hair, I joined them in the living room. Natalie set a plate of bagels and cream cheese she’d found in my kitchen on the coffee table. Bernie came over and sniffed it, before going back to his bowl of kibble.