Gun Games Page 11

  “Yeah, she likes you.” Decker wagged a finger at him. “Don’t fall for it.”

  “You’re in a mood,” Rina said. “Stop teasing him.”

  “I’m not teasing him. I’m telling him the truth.” He looked at Gabe. “The father would cut your head off. Then he’d probably go after me and cut my head off.”

  “Stop it,” Rina said.

  “He’s a dour guy.”

  “Bakshar is in his late sixties with four daughters and now he has to pay for a big wedding. How would you be?”

  “Dour.” Decker chomped on his sandwich, then chomped again. “Good.”

  Rina looked at Gabe. His sandwich was hardly eaten. “You’re not hungry anymore?”

  “I think I filled up on meatballs.” He looked at Decker who had polished off his dinner. “You want some of mine, Peter?”

  “If you’re not going to eat it.”

  “Take it.”

  “See, that’s why you’re skinny and I’m fat.” Decker caught Gabe looking at his watch. “You need to go?”

  “I have to prepare for the audition.”

  Decker put his sandwich down and called for the check. He looked at the teen with sudden concern. “Gabe, do you feel comfortable working at such a young age?”

  “In this business, I’m not so young.”

  “But in real life, you are.” Decker suddenly realized he was looking at a child—very talented, very smart, but still a little boy. “I’m serious, Gabe. I know you’ve been . . . led in this direction your entire life. But make sure it’s what you want. Keep an open mind.”

  Gabe nodded.

  “I mean it, son. Only you can live your life.”

  He smiled. “I think that’s the first time that anyone has ever told me to consider options other than music.”

  “See, I’m an original,” Decker said.

  Gabe picked up his half-eaten sandwich and took a bite. He suddenly regained his appetite.

  Decker said, “You want your sandwich back?”

  “Nah, this is fine.” He felt okay. “I actually like what I do. I can’t see myself doing anything else.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Decker had just finished paying the bill when his cell phone went off. “It’s Marge. I should take this.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Can I call you back?” Decker said. “I’m just finishing dinner.”

  Marge said, “All right.”

  She sounded grave. “Two minutes.” He hung up.

  Rina got up and so did Gabe. She kissed her husband’s cheek. “We’ll meet you at home.”

  “Maybe.”

  “One of those calls?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good luck.” She tossed the keys to Gabe. “Yes, you can drive.”

  Decker accompanied them to Rina’s Volvo and watched Gabe back out of a tight spot and pull away in one swift motion. Like most boys, he had a good sense of spatial relations. Hannah was constantly bumping into things—poles, bushes, mailboxes. Was that being sexist? Maybe, but he was too set in his ways to be upset about it.

  Decker called his favorite sergeant back. “What’s going on?”

  Marge said, “Just got a call from one of the patrol officers. There’s been another suicide.”

  That got his attention. “One of Gregory’s friends?”

  “I don’t know yes or no, but she was a teenager. Myra Gelb—an eleventh grader at Bell and Wakefield.”

  “Good Lord.” Decker put the key in the ignition. “What’s the address?”

  Marge gave him the numerals. “This is just . . . horrible.”

  He turned on the ignition and put the car in drive. The phone hooked up to Bluetooth. “I’m on my way. Did you call the coroner’s office?”

  “Everyone’s on his way.”

  “How’d she do it?”

  “Single gunshot to the head?”

  “Like Gregory Hesse?”

  “Eerily like Gregory Hesse.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two cruisers were nose to nose, blocking the street to through traffic. An ambulance stood about fifty feet away. Decker trotted over to the scene, nodding at the two officers stationed outside the yellow tape before ducking under the ribbon. The apartment building was made from plaster and wood, each unit having a balcony and a view of the street below. The Gelb family lived on the second floor of a four-story building.

  He walked through the unlocked door, finding the paramedics treating a dazed woman sacked out on the sofa. She wore gray slacks and a red blouse, the right sleeve rolled up to accommodate a blood pressure cuff. Next to her stood a young man in his twenties, dressed in jeans and a UCLA sweatshirt, holding her hand.

  The living room led to a dining room and then into a kitchen. Decker found Marge leaning against the counter, her notepad open but she wasn’t writing anything.

  She spoke softly. “It happened in her bedroom.”

  “How many bedrooms?”

  “Two. One for the daughter, one for the son. He goes to UCLA but he lives at home. The mother sleeps in the living room on a pull-out bed.” Marge’s eyes were just shy of wet. “I’ll show you where it happened if you want.”

  “Who’s guarding the death scene?”

  “Hosea Nederlander. He’s waiting for the CIs.”

  “Let’s hold off on viewing the body for a moment. I want to get a feel for the family first.”

  Quietly, they returned to the living room. The paramedics, speaking in low tones, were conversing among themselves. The mother was in her late forties, eyes red-rimmed but dry. She sat stiffly as one of the men continued to check on vitals.

  A paramedic named Lanie spoke to the young man. “Her pressure is still sky high. She really needs to come down with us.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” the woman insisted. Her eyes suddenly fixed on Marge and Decker. “Are you the police?”

  “Yes, we are.” Decker introduced himself.

  Lanie said, “She should go to the hospital.”

  “I don’t want to go!”

  “Mom—”

  “No. I can’t leave her alone! I can’t do that!”

  “I’ll stay here and take care of things,” the son said. “But I can’t do anything if I have to worry about you.”

  “I’m not going!” The woman’s complexion was one shade short of ghost.

  Marge said, “Would you like some water, ma’am?”

  The son said, “That’s a good idea.”

  Marge went into the kitchen. Decker said, “Do you have a doctor that I could call?”

  The son said, “Mom, do you still use Dr. Radcliff?”

  The woman didn’t answer.

  “Brian Radcliff,” the son said. “I don’t know his number.”

  “I’ll get it,” Decker said. “I could have him meet your mother at the hospital.”

  “I’m not going!”

  The son’s eyes were desperate. “Please call him.”

  Decker said, “Maybe he can come here.”

  Marge returned with a glass of water. She slowly brought it to the mother’s lips. Decker made the phone call, then walked back to the living room. “He’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

  “Thank you,” the son said.

  Decker said to Marge, “Stay with her, okay?”

  “Absolutely.”

  To the boy, Decker said, “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

  The young man followed Decker into the kitchen. “First of all, I am so sorry for your sister’s death.”

  “Thank you.” He swiped at his eyes, brimming with tears.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Eric Gelb.”

  “The victim is your younger sister?”

  Eric nodded.

  “And your mother’s name?”

  “Udonis.”

  “Gelb?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Divorced, widowed?”

  “Divorced.�
��

  “And your father?”

  “Dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged.

  “Were you here when it happened . . . with your sister?”

  “No.”

  “Was your mother here?”

  “At work.”

  “So you came home or she came home . . .”

  “I found her . . . Myra.” He clamped his hand over his mouth. “She was already . . .”

  Decker nodded. “And then what did you do?”

  “I called my mom but didn’t tell her what happened. Then I called the police.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “The police got here before my mom. They stopped her from going into the room. When they—the police—told her that my sister had passed on, Mom fainted. So I called the paramedics.”

  “So this all happened about a half hour ago?”

  “Maybe an hour. I have no sense of time.”

  Decker nodded. “Are you up to answering a few more questions?”

  Eric nodded.

  “First of all, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Okay. And you’re at UCLA?”

  He nodded. “Second-year law.”

  “Okay. Is it just you and your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you two were pretty close or . . .”

  “There’s an age gap. I’m not home a lot. But when we saw each other, we got along.”

  “Are you from the same mother and father?”

  “Yeah. My parents separated, then reconciled and had my sister. But eventually they got divorced when I was eighteen.”

  “So Myra was ten?”

  “Yeah. Right after that, my dad came down with cancer. He died two years ago. My dad and I weren’t very close—no animosity, but nothing in common. Myra and Dad were very close. The divorce hit Myra very hard. My dad’s death was devastating to her.”

  “Depression?”

  “Major. She was put on medication.”

  “Is she still on medication?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did the medication help her?”

  “I wouldn’t know. She was also seeing a psychiatrist.”

  “Do you know the name?”

  “My mom knows.”

  “Had your sister ever made any suicide attempts in the past?”

  “Yes. Right after my father’s death. She seemed to be getting better . . .” He threw up his hands.

  Decker said, “She went to Bell and Wakefield?”

  Eric nodded. “Scholarship. We both were scholarship students.”

  “How was that for you?”

  “For me?”

  Decker nodded.

  “It was okay. I got a good education.”

  “Socially?”

  “Not the warmest place, but I had my friends. I didn’t have problems.”

  “What about your sister?”

  Eric blew out air. “I don’t know. She never complained. I know that she has a few friends.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “First names only. Heddy . . . Ramona . . .” He shrugged. “That’s as much as I can recall.”

  “Has anything about your sister changed over the last couple of months?”

  “Not that I noticed. But I wasn’t home a lot.”

  “Did you see a deepening of her depression?”

  “No . . . not really.”

  “Do you know if your sister had any outside activities?”

  “She painted and drew,” Eric said. “She was a great artist. I think she did some cartooning for the school paper.”

  “Anything else?”

  He exhaled. “She might have had other interests, but I don’t know. I’m not here most of the time. It was just a fluke that I . . .” His eyes watered. “I’m either at school or in the library. I also have an internship after school and on the weekends. Mostly, I just sleep here. I told my mother to switch beds with me—I don’t need my room anymore—but she’s stubborn. I guess you can see that.”

  Decker heard voices from the other room. Marge peeked her head in. “The doctor’s here.”

  “Good.” To Eric, Decker said, “Thank you very much for answering the questions. Again, I’m very sorry.”

  Eric nodded and they returned to the living room.

  Radcliff was in his fifties with gray hair. He was dressed in a sweater over an oxford shirt and jeans. He patted Eric’s shoulder. “We decided to meet up at the hospital.”

  “Thank you very much,” Eric told him.

  Marge got off her cell. “We’ve got two CIs downstairs. Maybe we should wait until Mrs. Gelb leaves for the hospital.”

  Decker agreed as Udonis Gelb was helped onto a wheelchair. Dr. Radcliff said, “I’ll let you know what’s going on, Eric. Can I have your cell number?”

  He gave it to him. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  As soon as the mother left, the two coroner’s investigators—Jamaica Carmichael and Austin Bodine—came into the apartment.

  Decker said to Eric, “I have to check out what happened. Lots of people coming in and out. You don’t have to stay.”

  “I promised my mother.”

  “You can wait in the living room.”

  Eric nodded.

  Marge led the CIs to the death scene. Decker took out his notebook. An average-looking bedroom—blue walls, white furniture, and a white silky cover splattered with blood. The gun—a .22 Taurus revolver—still rested atop the duvet, but the body was on the floor, crumpled at the foot of the bed. Her face lay sideways in a pool of congealing blood, a blackened hole dripping blood down her cheek and skull, clotting into her short, dark hair. Her right hand had a lot of stippling from powder burns. She’d been dressed in a gray T-shirt and dark jeans. Her feet were bare.

  Decker said, “Did you take any trajectory measurements?”

  “I took measurements from the gun to her hand and from the gun to her head, but she was on the floor when I came in. I’ve been looking around the room. I haven’t found a bullet.”

  Coroner investigator Austin Bodine carefully turned the head. “You didn’t find any bullet because it’s still inside. No exit wound.”

  Marge checked her notes. “To me, it appears that she was sitting on the edge of the bed when she did it. The gun shot back onto the bed, but she slid down to the floor. The comforter is satiny material . . . slippery.”

  Decker said, “Are you sure it’s just one shot?”

  “So far just the one to the head.” Jamaica carefully turned the body onto its side. “Everything else appears intact.”

  Bodine bagged the hands. “You want to check her clothes before we take her?”

  Marge said, “Yeah.” Meticulously, the two detectives went through the clothing looking for foreign objects—hair, fiber, anything to suggest the presence of another person in the room. Blood had splattered everywhere. It looked like a self-inflicted gunshot to the head, not unlike Gregory Hesse. But at least in this case, there were some answers as to the why.

  When Marge and Decker had finished with the clothes, the CIs began the arduous process of wrapping and transferring the body, sliding the remains of Myra Gelb onto a steel gurney and wheeling her out the door. Eric sat on the sofa while all this was happening, head down, with his hands in his lap. It took a while for the young man to speak even after the investigators had left. Finally Eric said, “What now?”

  “My partner and I would like to go over the room thoroughly. Open drawers, go through the closet, look under the bed . . . Do you have any objection to that?”

  “No.”

  Marge said, “Do you have any idea where Myra got the gun?”

  Eric looked up and stared at her. “That’s a very good question.”

  “Could it be your mother’s?” Decker said.

  “Not likely. She never said anything about it to me.”

  “We’ll ask her,” Marge said. “We’re going to take the gun with us to make sure that everyth
ing matches.”

  “Okay.” Eric was very pale. “What happens after you go through the room?”

  Decker handed Eric a card. “Once we clear the area, you can call up this woman. She and her son will come into the room and dispose of what needs to be cleaned up.”

  “God, I never thought of that.” His head sank in his hands. “I guess you just don’t call up the cleaning lady.” Tears trickled down his cheeks.

  “It has to be done by a professional. There are other people who do this, but we’ve found that this woman is very sensitive.”

  Eric took the card. “Thank you, Sergeant . . . Lieutenant.”

  “She’s the sergeant, I’m the lieutenant.” Decker and Marge gave Eric their cards. “Call us if you need anything.”

  “What about the body?”

  “After the autopsy, someone will call you to pick it up.” Decker gave him another card. “This is a contact at Forest Lawn. I don’t know if you have a cemetery, but at least here’s a name. I also have the name of someone who does cremations, if you want that. Once the body is released, the professionals will do the rest.”

  Eric took the cards. “Thanks for the direction.” He looked up. “I’m totally lost.”

  “We understand,” Marge said. “We’re going back to the room if that’s okay with you. In the meantime, do you have someone you want us to call?”

  “No one I want to be with,” Eric told them. “I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The bedroom was functional: Myra’s belongings were meager. She was neat. Her desk drawers and her clothing drawers were organized and sparse. It was one of the few times that Decker ever remembered a female closet with room to spare. Myra had six dresses, almost identical in style—short sleeves, V-necks in solid colors. She had four skirts, and a half-dozen each of sweaters, tees, and jeans. Her shoes were sneakers, a set of black pumps, and flip-flops.

  Not much in the way of ornamentation—nothing frilly like stuffed animals, glass figurines, or heart jewelry. Nor was there anything rebellions; no Goth accoutrements, no combat boots, no chains, no signs of cigarettes or pot. She didn’t appear to be into athletics, she didn’t appear to be into drama. There was nothing to put your finger on and say: Hey, this was Myra. She was a psychologically impoverished girl.

  Her books must have provided her with some escapism: the Harry Potter series in hardback, the Twilight series in hardback, and Gossip Girls in paperbacks. She had no CDs, but she did have an iPod and a cell phone. With a gloved hand, Decker checked her most recent calls. Most were from Mom, but there were several from Heddy, Ramona, and Lisa. Eric had called her cell once in the last few weeks. There were also several numbers with no names ascribed to them. Decker wrote down the digits.