Chapter Eighteen

Los Angeles County Department of Medical Examiner…December 7, 9:00am

          A somber faced gentleman stared through the thick glass into the morgue’s viewing room. The curtain had just been drawn automatically revealing an empty sterile looking brightly lit area. A white linen sheet draped a stainless-steel gurney situated in the center of the room. Underneath an eerily still figure lay motionless, the sheet outlining the contour of his son’s corpse. Still yet to be confirmed but the staring man had little doubt. The thick glass and the heavily insulated walls prevented the scent of formaldehyde from permeating beyond the viewing room into the parlor where family prepared themselves for the tragic reveal. That was a blessing for grieving families going through the confirmation process like this one.

          An attendant studied the gentleman from the doorway behind him, being ever so quiet as to avoid interrupting the private moment. He noted that the gentleman’s posture was not stiff like a statue and not relaxed by any means either. It was if he were looking at a blank page. The somber gentleman was white, stood around six foot two with his hands clasped in front of him at the waist. He was neatly dressed in business casual attire, dark slacks, and a grey tweed sport coat over a white button-down shirt san a tie open at the collar. The attendant speculated that his appearance suggested an academic, perhaps a professor of history or political science. Or maybe a medical professional of some sort, a doctor perhaps or a scientist. To the attendant’s mind the gentleman’s demeanor suggested the former as he was calm almost to the point being unnerving, given the circumstance.

          The room was dimly lit by twin lamps setting upon two small table placed on either side of the door leading from the office area. The intent being to create a peaceful setting to lessen the shock of the moment versus subjecting the family to a glaring clinical experience that smacked more of a police line-up.

The attendant moved into the room slowly and approached the gentleman at the window. As he got closer, he could see a faint reflection of the man in the window. He was clean shaven and wore round wire rimmed spectacles. That sort of confirmed the attendant’s assumption that the man fit the mold of an academic. He paused a moment then spoke in a soft tone, “Are you ready, sir?” asked the attendant

There was not an immediate reply. The attendant paused a moment before repeating the question. Moments like these required tact and the attendant was experienced in dealing with the correct protocol. He waited another moment and then asked again, “Mr. Whembly are you ready to proceed?”

“Doctor Whembly,” the man replied without turning to face the attendant.

“Please forgive me, Doctor Whembly.”

“Thank you. Yes, I am ready, let’s get on with it,” the doctor replied, nodding his head slightly.

“Very well, please excuse me while I signal the orderly on the other side of the glass.”

The attendant stepped forward and stood beside Doctor Whembly and gently tapped on the window. Inside an orderly moved to the gurney and slowly pulled the sheet down away from the lifeless face and rested it on the young man’s chest. He stepped back and waited for the signal to replace the sheet and transfer the gurney back to the morgue.

Doctor Whembly remained still and silent, his posture unchanged, his face revealing no emotional reaction whatsoever. The attendant waited a few uncomfortable moments before speaking. “Is this your son Doctor Whembly?” he asked softly.

“It is, that is Alex,” he replied with just a hint of sorrow imagined the attendant.

“If you would like a few moments with him privately that can be arranged”

The doctor sighed slightly, “Thank you, kind of you to offer, but that will not be necessary.”

He turned suddenly and walked past the attendant towards the exit. “I’m sure there are papers to sign and arrangements to be made,” he said without looking back.

The attendant scurried to catch up, caught off guard by the doctor’s abruptness.

“Yes of course. Shall we return to my office and discuss next steps?”

The attendant quickly sidestepped the doctor to lead the way to his office. “Right this way sir.”

“Splendid,” said Doctor Whembly following close behind.

The attendant opened the door to his office and politely let the doctor enter first. Funny he thought, it was only now when the doctor said splendid did he pick up the faint accent of an Irishman. He offered one of two plush leather chairs in front of his desk to the doctor, then scurried around to be seated across from him. He picked up a couple of manila folders, green folders oddly enough and started to explain in great detail the next steps of the process prior to the release of his son’s remains. Doctor Whembly stared at the man half listening. His mind was elsewhere. He was considering his son Alex. Alexander Whembly, the little fool he thought disdainfully. He had such plans for him, a brilliant future carefully constructed from the time he was born. And the ingrate pissed it all away for the love of a penniless tart and her whelp of a child. He could see this coming, ever since Alex began attending that abomination of a pious society called the Catholic Church. His mind poisoned by the teachings of flimflam artists in colorful robes. Science was Richard Whembly’s religion, and he had twenty-five years raising his only son in it. Only to lose him to a charismatic priest who fancied himself an artist of importance creating films that challenged the social conscience of the young and the elderly. He was fuming now in his silent reflection, his mind racing with wicked thoughts of next steps that had nothing to do with what this lout was blathering on about in the seat across from him. His expression must of changed somewhat as the attendant paused his dissertation.

“Have I said something wrong Doctor Whembly?” he asked nervously.

The doctor composed himself immediately and focused on the task at hand.

“No of course not, I was just thinking of a matter that needs my attention when we finish her. Please continue.”

“Good. Alright then as I was saying…”

Richard Whembly was listening more closely now, mindful that his mood was betraying him. He stuffed his rage into a dark recess within his heart where his mind could retrieve later to formulate his revenge. He wasn’t through with the priest or the church. Not by a longshot. The real suffering was yet to come.

          The attendant slid one of the green folders across the desk, opened to a document requiring Doctor Whembly to review and sign. The doctor leaned forward slightly and accepted the fountain pen that was offered. The attendant studied him as he read looked the document over and then methodically applied his signature, neat and clear. He slid the folder back across the desk to the attendant whom he addressed by name for the first time. Standing he extended his hand, “Thank you very much Mr. Tolliver, I appreciate your professionalism and care with which you have extended poor Alex. He was a good man you know,” said Doctor Whembly. Mr. Tolliver took the doctor’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Yes sir, I’m sure that he was. And may I say once more how very sorry I am, we are, for your loss.”

“Thank you young man, please do proceed with the transfer to the funeral home straight away. It will be greatly appreciated. Well, I must be off, cheerio sir,” said the doctor. And with that he turned to let himself out.

Mr. Tolliver called after him, “We will get right on this doctor, no worries, sir,” he bellowed slightly. He watched the doctor walk away and could not explain an uncomfortable feeling of foreboding. His mind drifted to a song by The Doors, “people are strange when you’re a stranger, people look ugly when you’re alone…”

 

Chapter Seventeen

 

Hollenbeck Station, Los Angeles…December 5, 1:00pm

 

          Rebecca leaned way back in her chair raising both arms high above her head in an over the top big girl stretch. Yawning audibly she shook her head to clear the cobwebs from her weary brain. She wasn’t tired just fatigued. Clenching her hands into tiny fists she rubbed her eyes and prepared to get up and go to the loo to wash her face with some cold water. Suddenly she was startled by a loud familiar noise. Flinching she looked up from her reading and watched her partner flop down into his chair at the desk directly across from her. “Darn it Iggie, can’t you see I’m working here?”

“So am I detective,” he replied taking a loud bite from the Fuji apple he had just polished to a shiny red/orange hue on the lapel of his sport coat.

“By the way, here’s your corned beef on rye. Hope you like extra mustard and pickles. Oh, and I may have taken a bite too,” Iggie said tossing a brown sack onto her desk.

“HEY! Boundaries Iggie, geeze, and thank you.”   What an ass she thought. Becca noticed that he always seemed so out of place in a coat and tie. She suspected that off the job he wandered around Hermosa Beach hitting his favorite watering holes like The Mermaid near the pier, a dive bar frequented primarily by old dudes who sat at the windows facing the beach to watch bikini clad women jumping and diving on the tournament style volleyball courts. She pictured him sitting there in a pair of board shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops, swilling pitcher after pitcher of Budweiser, his favorite brew.

“I see, well can you keep it down for a few minute while I finish what I’m doing?”

Becca lowered her eyes and considered opening the sack and devouring the sandwich, she was famished having worked through lunch. Instead she opted to continue reading her notes and hold her water for a while longer. As quietly as he could, save intermittent bites of his apple, Iggie watched her study her notes. Becca tried her best to tune him out, but it was hard to concentrate with him chewing noisily with his mouth open. He really was a piggy. She wished that she had gone to the library at lunch instead of staying in to gather her thoughts. Fueled only by some awful station house coffee and some saltine crackers her stomach growled. She could feel Iggie watching her, evaluating her and braced herself for the inevitable interruption. She didn’t have to wait long.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Iggie finally uttered.

“Cost you more than that buddy, I ain’t cheap,” Becca quipped halfheartedly.

“Har-de-har-har, good one. Really, what are you working on?”

“Just going over my case notes,” she replied.

“The Mallory case?”

“Yes.” Iggie tossed the apple core into the circular file under his desk. He reached into his coat and retrieved his own steno pad from the inside pocket. In a quick movement he flipped it open. Thumbing through it, he stopping on a dog-eared page.

“Okay newbie let’s compare notes. What’s your theory so far?”

Becca wasn’t really prepared to share her thoughts yet, but even though she found her partner crude and a bit misogynistic, he was also a seasoned professional. Not to mention being her training officer.  She decided to throw caution to the wind and brainstorm with the man. After all, he had proved himself worthy of her respect on the last case that they worked together. The Mei Li Teng (a.k.a. Sally November) murder. They had teamed up with former LAPD detective turned private investigator, Whitey Roode to track down what turned out to be a serial killer. It was her first major case and it ended in a shootout at a Las Vegas police station. Exciting times and it was Becca who took down the killer herself while she was stuffed into an airshaft. She remembered laying prone in that small space, sweating profusely while she waited for the perp to literally crawl right into her line of fire. She winced, the memory still fresh in her mind’s eye. Her ears had rung painfully for weeks afterward. Becca set down her notebook and looked up. “You first,” she said.

Iggie chuckled, “Okay, age before beauty, I can live with that,” he replied.

He licked his thumb and peeled back a few pages in his note pad. Clearing his throat he began to share his thoughts so far.

“So, I’m wondering what would drive a mother, a very young mother that, to choose such an awful fate. What sort of desperation could have pushed her into so dark a corner? Choosing to end not only for her own life but the life of her innocent child as well. What was she afraid of? Who was she afraid of? Murder/suicide makes quite a statement, what was she trying to say? I think we need to start with who was closest to her in the days before her decision. Start with the priest, Father Quinn, and work our way backwards and build a timeline. Textbook investigating, detective 101 sort of. Are you with me so far? What do you think?”

“Yeah I think so, but you’re just scratching the surface. Do you have a working theory to build on?”

“Patience young-un,” Iggie said in a fatherly tone. Becca rolled her eyes.

“Remember, multiple witnesses said that they heard the mother yell before lighting the match, ‘father, I love you!’  So, who was she talking about? The priest, Father Quinn? Her own father? The father of her child, whoever that might be? My theory is that one of those fellas is likely the lynchpin in this tragedy, savvy,” explained Iggie.

Becca rolled her eyes again. She hated it when Iggie would mansplain everything like she was clueless. She thought that she had earned a little more respect after Vegas. Guess as far as her Iggie was concerned she was still a work in progress.

Iggie continued, “So consider this, what if they are all the same person?”

Becca snorted audibly and stifled a laugh. “That’s your theory? Are you suggesting that Father Quinn is all three, priest, daddy, and father of her kid? Is that what you are thinking?” she asked frowning,

“What, no good? Why not, it’s not impossible,” he replied.

“Might be possible biologically, but highly improbable. I can’t see it. My early research into Father Quinn is preliminary but so far he’s a well-respected member of the clergy and the community. People like him, they say he’s a good egg to quote one parishioner.”

Iggie leaned back in his chair and spoke over his hands laced together in front of his face. His mood had shifted slightly and he did not try to mask his annoyance with his rookie charge. “It’s a theory Rebecca, maybe not a good one in your opinion, but it is meant to be a starting point. A disciplined investigator never throws the baby out with the bathwater. As unlikely as it might seem, it is where we are going to start our investigation. My call, I am the lead on this case, don’t make the mistake of forgetting that. Are we clear?”

Becca resisted the urge to challenge or contradict her training officer and nodded submissively but with an unmistakable defiant look in her dark black eyes. Nothing to be gained here by escalating this beyond the nickel lecture he had laid on her. In this case silence was golden. She knew that her silent rebellion had not gone unnoticed either. Actually Iggie looked pleased to see it. She was pretty sure that he would attribute it to his stern yet magnanimous supervision. What a goofball.

Iggie continued, interrupting the uncomfortable silence. “Look I realize it’s a longshot, a stretch, but that’s how ya do it. Think of every possibility, every angle. Approach this like a sculptor approaches a block of clay. You start pecking away, piece by piece you eliminate the noise until you get to the hidden art, in our case the truth. That’s the way I look at it anyway,” he said with a smirk, clearly pleased with himself.

Becca was taken aback. That really made sense. That was almost profound and completely unexpected. She felt a little guilty judging him so shallowly. Clearly there was more to this man than she had unfairly led herself to believe. Never judge a book by its cover. She had read that somewhere. Becca decided an apology was in order.

“Huh, I see what you mean Iggie. I’m sorry for throwing rocks so quickly. I spoke too soon, my bad, rookie mistake boss,” she offered with a sheepish grin.

“No harm no foul Becca. Olay, time to get to work. First up we roll through the five W’s. Who, what, when, where, and why. We start with what and who we know, specifically the principle players in this sad story, Megan Mallory, her child name unknown, and Father Nicholas Quinn. Let’s go to the conference room, break out the dry erase markers and post-it notes and start mapping the timeline and connect the personal histories.”

This was the fun part as far as Iggie was concerned. He beamed slightly, pleased with how Rebecca Tran was progressing, convinced that he was the main reason. The kid had guts, she proved that in Vegas when she gunned down that serial killer Jai Lai. Sure, she was a brat, but she was a cute brat and she made Iggie smile.

“Okay Detective Tran, grab your stuff and follow me to conference room B. Let’s kick this pig,” Iggie said as he gathered his own stuff, turned and led the way.