Burning Man by Alan Russell

finally acknowledged my presence. He had big ears, deep wrinkles, and a protruding lower lip. His nickname fit him; he looked like a Gump. “We’re saved,” he said. “The cavalry has arrived.”
    I nodded and then turned my eyes back to the victim. I had been viewing him from the side before, but now I was looking straight ahead. Two supports had been nailed into the tree, a foot rest and a seat rest. Because the victim was only elevated a few feet off the ground, we were almost eye to eye, or should have been. There was a gaping hole where his right eye was missing.
    Gump noticed my reaction. “You didn’t know he was shot?”
    I shook my head.
    “It was close range,” he said, “probably a nine millimeter. It looks as if it happened right over there.”
    Two techs were working the area where he pointed, and lots of evidence bags were already filled. The ground was wet; in places you could see the russet stains of blood. There was a swath of wild mustard that had been crushed, showing the path along which the body had been dragged over to the tree. I was glad the victim was already dead before being crucified, or at least it appeared that was the case. He hadn’t suffered slow torture. If the victim was already dead, though, why had the murderer gone to the trouble of staging the man’s death?
    “Got anything on the victim?” I asked.
    “Everything’s already been tagged and bagged,” Gump said. “He was wearing one of those runner’s belts with compartments where we found a driver’s license. Meet Paul Klein.”
    I looked at the victim, studied the shirt, and said, “BHHS?”
    “As in Beverly Hills 90210,” Gump said. “According to his ASB card, which was also in the belt, he was a senior at Beverly Hills High School.”
    “What else do we know about him?”
    “He drives a late model BMW. It was ticketed yesterday for being left in the park after it closed. The Parks and Recreation worker that found him said that Klein is a regular in these parts. Apparently, he runs up here most days.”
    “Running might not have been the only thing he was doing,” the other detective said.
    “Martinez,” he added, tilting his head slightly by way of introduction.
    “Gideon,” I said. “And what else might he have been doing?”
    “Dealing or using or both,” Martinez said. “We found a stash of pills in his belt. He was holding a baggie filled with X and OC.”
    “X” was Ecstasy; in this instance, “OC” was OxyContin and not Orange County.
    “He also had a gold money clip with almost four hundred dollars, and an American Express Card. In case you’re wondering, it was only a Platinum card, not a Centurion.”
    “Times are tough even in Beverly Hills,” Gump said.
    Sirius decided to get into the conversation. His staccato bark sounded like “Rough!”
    Gump and Martinez thought that was funny, but I knew Sirius was trying to tell me something. I followed his gaze. He was staring out over the Sunset Strip off into the distance. I couldn’t see anything, but became aware of a noise, a whop, whop, whop that was drawing closer.
    “Shit,” I said. “It’s a helicopter.”
    I grabbed some of the plastic wrapping covering the ground and ran over to the crucifixion tree. For just a moment I hesitated, staring into the bloodied face of Paul Klein. Then I threw the plastic wrap over him before adding my sports coat as a covering. The plastic wrapping would help prevent any contamination to the crime scene.
    Martinez and Gump came up behind me, while overhead the helicopter circled the area trying to get the best footage possible. Before long I knew that the sky would be filled with other prying birds.
    “I’ll call in and get us some tarps ASAP,” I said.
    When the media becomes too invasive, sometimes it’s necessary to work behind curtains.
    “Forget the tarps,” Gump said, “just get me an RPG.”

CHAPTER 6:

THE AGENCY AND THE ECSTASY
    All morning and into the afternoon I worked the