to a small porch, three steps up. There were two doors—the one on the right led up a staircase to the top floor, the other directly into apartment number six.
“You go inside?” I asked.
“Yeah. We came downstairs, knocked. There was no answer, but the door was unlocked. I opened it, saw him there, went straight to him to see if he needed an ambulance, checked the bedroom and bathroom to make sure no one else was here, then came right back out and called it in.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I went up to number six and looked inside. The victim’s body lay slumped on a couch that divided the large living room in two. In front, a flat-screen TV, an upholstered chair with a matching ottoman, and a coffee table. A big bookcase and a desk tucked into the corner. On the far wall were two doorways, one leading into the kitchen and the other into the hallway to the bedroom and bathroom. From the porch I took several photos on my phone before heading back to the front of the building to find the crime-scene technician.
I looked around. It was a slow night, even for a Thursday, so we had at least three cars more than we needed. Because of the location of the victim’s apartment in the back of the building, it was easy to contain. We just needed a few people at the front gate and one or two in the alley in back.
“How’s it look inside?” Jen asked.
“Seems pretty straightforward. Give me a couple of minutes with the body, then come in and take a look before the ME gets started.”
I went back inside. The first pass through had been to get an overview. This time I’d look closer and start picking apart the details.
First, the body. We had a preliminary ID. The apartment belonged to William Denkins. DMV records told us he was a fifty-two-year-old white male, five foot ten, one hundred ninety pounds. The victim seemed to fit the description. I squatted at the corner of the couch, careful not to touch the coffee table, and looked him in the face. He had graying brown hair, a little thin on the top. His upper body had fallen against the arm and backrest, and his head was resting on his shoulder, a lime-green pillow wedged between his elbow and the dark-beige fabric of the couch. There wasn’t much blood. One thin line ran down from his temple, collected in the corner of his closed left eye, then continued on to the edge of his mouth, stopping at his slightly parted lips. His left arm hung down to his side, a Smith & Wesson Chiefs Special still gripped loosely in his hand.
On the coffee table in front of him was a nearly empty bottle of Glenlivet scotch and a single glass. The only other things on the table were a phone and two remote controls.
I stood and went to the desk in the corner. He kept it neat and well organized. The screen on his notebook computer was dark, so I tapped the backslash key with my latex-covered index finger. It lit up and displayed his Gmail inbox. No unread e-mails.
A wallet and a set of keys sat in a shallow tray on the upper-right corner of the desk, and on the opposite side were two lined yellow notepads, a smaller one on top of a full-sized eight and a half by eleven. Without moving them, I could read the grocery list on the top pad and a good portion of what looked like a building-maintenance to-do list underneath.
I looked back over my shoulder at the body, then back down at the writing on the pads.
“Fuck,” I said out loud.
I went outside, found Jen, and brought her back.
“What am I looking for?” she asked.
“Check out the body, then look at the desk,” I said.
She studied him for a few moments, then went to the desk. She saw it even more quickly than I had. “That handwriting doesn’t look left handed.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I said, bracing myself for a longer night than I had expected. “I think we might have a murder here.”
The sky was brightening with the first hints of the sunrise when I hit the drive-through at the Dunkin’ Donuts on Seventh Street and picked up a dozen assorted and two large coffees. Up until a few months ago, I’d spent most Friday mornings having breakfast with my friend Harlan, a retired LA County sheriff’s deputy. Like