Geography of Murder (21 page)

Lowe hung up and came around the counter to greet us.

He held out his hand and we shook. Then I brought out the evidence box and set it on the counter.

"There someplace we can do this? I don't want anyone coming in and seeing what we have."

"Got a studio in back. Bring it along."

We followed him through a door, then a black curtain to a cramped space about the size of a two-car garage. Several tables were scattered through the room. In one corner there were at least a dozen tan hard to recognize forms, deer skulls and antlers. There were lights everywhere. Spots, banks of incandescent and fluorescent illuminated every nook and cranny. A direct contrast to the show room outside. The air had a chemical smell. Nothing like the other house of the dead I was more familiar with. But then if my research was right, very few of what looked like animal corpses were real.

All clever fakes.

Lowe cleared a table for us and swung a brilliant white light over the box. I gingerly pried the lid off, lifting the large black bird out and setting it down on the table top.

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He pulled down a large magnifying glass and bent over to study the thing. With a pair of tweezers he lifted the wing up and separated some of the tail feathers.

"What are you looking for?" I asked. I could just imagine some sleazy defense attorney asking me how the information I was presenting to the court had been found. I had to be able to assure the jury and the judge that care had been taken to ensure the integrity of the search and there had been no haste in what we did.

When I saw him examining the eyes, I spoke, "What do you expect to find there. Those are glass, aren't they?"

"They're gonna be the best way to find out who did this bird."

"I don't follow."

"Lot of glass eye manufacturers around. Each one different. We don't all use the same type. I use Van Dykes.

These..." He peered through the magnifying glass. "Look like Tohickon's."

I shook my head. Who would have thought there'd be that much demand for glass eyes?

He looked up from his magnifying glass. "Is this the way the cast came to you?"

"Cast?"

"The bird. Did it come like this?"

"Yes, in a shoe box. Why?"

"No effort was made to put the animal on any kind of display. That's the whole point of doing this."

"I don't think they meant for this particular bird to be put up in public."

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"That makes no sense."

"Tell me about it."

"So if this is a Tohickon's eye, what does that tell you?"

Nancy asked.

"Only one guy in this area uses those. Randall's
The Art of
the Game
in Oxnard."

Lowe couldn't tell us much more about Randall. Randall Craig. He'd been in the business longer than Lowe. "A hack,"

Lowe said.

"That right." My eyes met Nancy's. "Road trip I guess."

I collected the bird, thanked Lowe for his help, telling him if we needed anything else I'd be sure to come and talk to him again. And if he thought of anything, he shouldn't hesitate to call me. I handed him one of my business cards and he took it gingerly as though he thought it might explode.

He nodded gravely. I knew the card would be filed in the circular filing cabinet the minute we were out the door. Oh well, I knew where to find him if I needed him.

Back outside we stood over the unmarked car I had signed out, basking in the brightness of the sun. It was warmer today. I lifted my face to the sun, eyes shut. The car door thunked shut. I joined her, fired the engine up. "Want to take this bad boy to Oxnard for a visit?"

"Sure. Breakfast first?"

Oxnard was a small agricultural oases of flat land nestled between Bone Mountain, South Mountain and Red Mountain.

It was the strawberry capital of California. The
Art of the
Game
was situated in a strip mall in the shadow of the 101.

Climbing out of our car the hiss of the nearby freeway was a 205

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low-level white noise, punctuated occasionally by a blast of truck horn or the rumble of a heavy big rig gearing up.

The inside of the shop was so eerily reminiscent of Lowe's place that I wondered if claustrophobic and Gothic were a franchise. The man who came out of the back room wasn't anything like his Santa Barbara counterpart. I remembered Lowe's parting words. Hack. What made a taxidermist a hack?

Pondering those words I cruised the showroom. No boar's head here. Plenty of deer and a buffalo head that looked a little moth-eaten to my unknowing eyes. Did moths actually eat dead animal heads? Still, the black head, which was about the size of a small pickup, was impressive.

"Can I help you folks?"

I showed him my badge. Nancy did the same. Having done the equivalent of SBPD's finest's ritual greeting we got down to business. "We're down to see you because of some work you may have performed recently. You got a few minutes?"

"S-sure. What's this about?"

I hefted the box containing the bird. "Like to show you something."

He led us over to his cash register, set atop a glass topped case that displayed tools of the trade. Who knew there were so many things you might need to stuff a dead animal. I slipped on a pair of gloves, popped the lid off the box and lifted out the raven.

Randall gave a short 'oh' and stepped back as though he expected the thing to go for his throat.

"You recognize this?"

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Before he could reach for the bird I handed him a pair of nitrile gloves. "To protect the evidence," was all I said.

He nodded as though he understood, pulled the gloves on and picked up the bird. Like Lowe he examined it in great detail and like his counterpart he studied the eyes most of all.

After a while he slipped a pair of reading glasses on. Finally he handed the thing back to me. "Those are definitely Tohickon."

"Do you recognize the work? Did someone commission you to do this for him?"

He took his glasses off and tucked them away in his shirt pocket. "It does resemble one I worked on," he said, but cautiously, like he didn't want to commit himself. "What's this about, officer?"

"It's about a homicide," Nancy said. She took the boxed up bird from me and crowded closer to Randall. "Now, do you or don't you recognize the damned bird?"

"Okay, yes I do. What murder? Who was murdered? Here in town? I haven't heard of any murders."

"Santa Barbara. A Clarence Dutton, sixty-one. Was killed in his bed in Rancho Verde, a nursing home. He was savagely beaten."

"Oh my, that's terrible. Who would do such a thing?"

"That's what we want to know. This raven," she held up the box, "was sent to the family just prior to the attack that killed him. We need to know who commissioned you to mount this bird. Do you keep records? If you do, we want to see them."

"I do ... do you need a warrant for them?"

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I rolled my eyes. People watch way too much TV these days. "Are you a doctor?"

"No, of course not."

"Then there is no expectation of privacy on sales records.

You have to report them to just about everyone anyway. You can give them to us, too."

"Well, I don't know."

"I will get a warrant if you want. And when I get it I will bring a whole team of cops down here with me to tear this place apart. Is that what you want?"

I hated using half-truths and even lies to convince people to do what they knew was right. But this case was frustrating me and even without the scathing indictment in the
Independent
this morning I wanted this piece of shit caught, good deed or not. Let him convince a jury of his peers that he did the world a favor.

"What's it going to be, Mr. Craig?"

"What time frame are you looking at?"

I pulled out my notebook and flipped back to my interview with Dutton's son. "About four weeks ago. Say six to be on the safe side. Oh hell, you can't have had too many jobs mounting ravens, so give them all to me from the last year."

I was right, there weren't many. There were two.

Something shivered up my spine and Nancy and I traded looks. Two? Nancy took the receipts from him.

"Lucy Chavez, De la Guerra Street, Santa Barbara," she read.

"Both of them?"

"Both."

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"So there's another bird out there."

"How much you want to guess it's sitting at Blunt's. This will get us a warrant for sure." For reasons known only to himself, the judge I had approached about the warrant to George Blunt's residence had denied it. Now he'd have to sign it. "Where is this?" I waved at the receipts.

"It's near Antioch University." She scribbled a receipt for the two sales slips and we slid them into evidence bags with both our signatures. Randall watched us.

"Do I get those back?"

"When we're done with them. Right now they're the property of the Santa Barbara Police."

We left the stuffy building, a new bounce in our steps. We might be on to something positive for the first time in days. I passed her the box and unlocked the car. Cranked it on we headed back to the Ventura Freeway and home.

"Let's log this back and get that warrant rewritten. I want to go see this Lucy Chavez as soon as we can, find out what her story is. But I want some ammo behind us. Two birds."

"One stone?" Nancy grinned at my sour look. "Call first? In case she's not home."

I smiled my evil little smile. "Nah, let's surprise her."

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by P. A. Brown

I dropped the car off at eight and they assured me it
would be done by four. Turned out I was too young for
the rental so I was glad the car will be ready when I
get back to dry land. I'd hate to have to call Alex for a
ride. I'm sure I'd never hear the end of it.

I found Phil on the dock, loading supplies into the galley.

He made a side business of selling pop and junk food to our customers. Plus he usually carried a few picture books featuring shots of where we took them. Memories he called them. A con I called them. Tourists didn't realize they could get the same snacks and books onshore at the nearest shopping center for a lot less. But Phil never missed an opportunity to make a buck.

He was anything but generous when it came to paying me.

Like I told Alex, I didn't have a whole lot of choice. In an ideal world I would go back to school and become something, but that wasn't in the cards. I rubbed my nose, which was crusted and raw from last night. That had been a crazy thing to do.

What if Alex had caught on to what I was up to? He'd blow a gasket. This time it wouldn't be a night on the sofa, it would be a boot out the door and bye-bye, no more Jason. I couldn't let that happen.

Simple then, right? Don't indulge. How easy was that? Not very. I had felt good last night. On top of my world for a change instead of knee-deep in shit. Alex felt good too, but not like the rush the dope gave me. It was a lot easier to give 210

Geography of Murder

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control over to the drugs. They didn't make the kind of demands Alex did. They didn't drive me crazy with longing then leave me sleeping alone on the couch. They were there when I wanted them; just like I could leave them anytime I wanted. And I wanted to experience it again.

Decision made I pulled out my cell and called Trip. We arranged to meet on the docks at four-thirty with some blow.

I'd have a little taste and go home to Alex. If I wasn't always there at his beck and call maybe he'd appreciate me more.

Mind made up I trotted down the dock toward the
Weeping
Lady
and helped Phil carry the last of the supplies onboard.

Shortly after that our clients arrived and I had no time to think of anything. He took the wheel and guided us out of the marina.

I kept one eye on the barometer, the other on the approaching Santa Cruz Island, the largest of the Channel Island National park. I half listened to the radio chatter. Phil moved around down below. When we were safely away from any of the currents that could carry us onto the rocks.

Overhead a trio of Brown Pelicans dive-bombed a school of fish to the accompaniment of 'ohs' and 'ahs' from the tourists on the forward deck. Soon after Phil clumped into the cockpit and jerked his thumb toward the bow. "She's all yours, boy.

Keep the patter going and keep the drinks flowing. Bird watching is thirsty work." He laughed at his own joke. "Keep

'em happy, and—"

"Keep 'em hungry," I finished his usual refrain for him.

He nodded and got on the radio to call our position in to the Coast Guard.

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I climbed up on deck and started my spiel. I had an appreciative audience. They proved knowledgeable too, which was a nice change from some of the bimbos Phil attracts. In a calculated move on Phil's part, he hires only young sexy men to work his boats. If they happen to know anything beyond how to strut in a tight pair of jeans then it's a bonus. I was a bonus he used when he got these 'birdy' tours as he called them.

But when I started talking I forgot all about that. I loved telling people about how crucial the preserve was. How it was an important and vital nesting area for seabirds of all kinds.

"Like those Brown Pelicans," I said, gesturing leeward to where the three large birds were fighting with a Western gull over a morsel of fish. "They have two nesting sites on the islands, the only nesting population of them along the west coast. The mixture of northern and southern species isn't duplicated anywhere else."

They peppered me with questions.