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2. Dead Men Tell No Tales
"You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be." – Chuck Palahniuk
It was a dingy, run-down motel, the kind of place where you duck your head when you enter and don't give your real name at the front desk. The sign was too covered in grime to read; most of the windows were broken, patched from within with gratuitous amounts of scotch tape and brightly colored papers that, on closer inspection, turned out to be flyers for hookers. Squeezed impossibly between an apartment building and an equally disheveled club with a neon sign identifying it as the 'Crash Mansion', it looked as if one day, its neighbors would simply crush it between them… and that such an occurrence would be a welcome one.
In fact, Don would have missed it completely had the pack of police cars not given it away. Hesitantly, he slammed the SUV door behind him, surveying the dump with a more than puzzled expression; out of habit, he slipped on his sunglasses, though, in the L.A. twilight, they were hardly necessary. Navigating through the maze of police vehicles, he followed the general flow of people into the place. If possible, the lobby was more neglected than the exterior; he was glad to be quickly free of it as he climbed one, two, three sets of stairs, emerging onto a hallway so dark that he thankfully was unable to discern what exactly was living in the corners. Almost immediately on the left, a door stood ajar; into this he turned, and there he was.
The room was small and dark, and smelled strongly of urine, smoke, and death. The source of the latter smell lay on the twin bed that took up most of the room, spread-eagled and wrapped up in stained white sheets that matched the color of his skin. Misty eyes stared accusingly up at the ceiling, the features twisted into a chilling guarantee that Billy Cooper's death had not been a peaceful one.
"Agent Eppes?"
Tearing his eyes from the haunting spectacle, he turned to see a very familiar short, stocky man approaching, clad in an L.A.P.D. uniform.
"Gary Walker?" he returned, confused. "What're you doing here? I thought homicide was handling this."
They are, unless the FBI is on it," he answered, holding out a hand for Don to shake. "We got an anonymous tip that there was gonna be a big deal goin' down here tonight. Staked it out, went in, and what do we find? A dead fed."
Don looked back to the body, unsettled by the casual label; Walker noted the reaction.
"Sorry – one of my boys told me you knew him."
Nodding, Don sidestepped him and approached the bed. "Agent Billy Cooper. He was my partner when I worked fugitive recovery." Cautiously, he reached out, feeling the postmortem cold of the skin as he reverently shut his friend's eyes. For a minute, he sat with head bowed, glad of his shades as the hustle and bustle continued around him.
"Cause of death?" he prompted quietly.
Gary pointed, directing his gaze to a pile of evidence bags on the table, in which were enclosed at least half a dozen white medication bottles. "Take your pick. WE found all sorts of goodies on him; sleeping pills, antidepressants… if your boy was trying to kill himself, well, then, he was on the right track. There were enough pills missing to kill about five of him."
Rising, Don rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. "So what made you think homicide?"
Walking around to the end of the bed, Walker untangled a pale foot from the sheets; he didn't need to point out the dark bruises around the ankle – the contrast took care if that.
"These look to me like they came from some sort of restraints, probably rope or cord," he theorized, twisting the foot to show they ran all the way around. "Wouldn't have noticed 'em at first, 'cause they were hidden with makeup – women's cover-up, they expect."
He returned the foot to its previous position and straightened up. Don let out a held breath. "Okay," he said finally. "Anybody see him come in?"
"Nope," answered Walker forlornly. "Course, I wouldn't believe 'em if they said they had, if they were hangin' around here in the wee hours."
Don cast a baleful eye over the ragtag bunch being interviewed in the hallway. Walker had a point; most of them looked to be the sort who would conveniently forget your name for a fiver.
"Right," he said.
"So, how you wanna play this, Eppes?"
Don shook his head, returning to the foot of the bed to re-examine the bruised ankle. "Are you asking me like this is any other case, or as a concerned friend?"
Walker scratched his chin and gave a faint smile. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
"The only thing that would help me sleep at night is if I quit this job." He pushed his shades up and rubbed at his eyes again. "I'm treating it as a homicide."
"All righty, then," said Walker, gesturing to the forensics team, who nodded and stepped in, ants ready to carry their leaf to the hill without complaint. The last thing Don heard before he swept out the door was the horrid, confirming zip of the body bag closing over Billy Cooper's head.