Burning Man by Alan Russell Page A

scene. It’s often the small details that make or break a homicide case, so it is a painstakingly slow process. The homicide scene was curtained off, but that didn’t stop the helicopters from hovering. Occasionally the wind blew open the curtain, and the voyeurs did their peeping. Klein’s body had also been shrouded, but the outline of what was there was only too visible.
    Gump and Martinez were still working the scene when I left to go interview Michelle Klein. It was the one part of the investigation they were happy to hand off to me. They would just as soon not be the ones looking into the eyes of a mother who had just lost her son.
    The name of the victim had not yet been released to the press, which meant I wouldn’t have to fight through a media gauntlet to talk to the mother. The Klein house was located north of Sunset Boulevard, in the hills that were Beverly Hills. Despite its name, most of Beverly Hills is actually flat, but the northern part of town is hilly and more exclusive.
    I knew the media was lined up and waiting on Fuller Avenue, so I avoided it by driving the long way out and exiting the park on Mulholland. I didn’t want to advertise my connection to the Klein case; the investigation was already enough of a three-ring circus without bringing in the spectacle of my history with Ellis Haines, the serial killer who had somehow obtained cult status since Sirius and I had captured him.
    The January sun was already on the run, even though it was only three thirty. My stomach had been complaining for hours, so I stopped for subs. I went with an Italian on wheat with all the veggies; Sirius had turkey breast and roast beef on whole grain. When we’re not on a case, he gets kibble with chicken breast and steamed broccoli, which is probably why he likes eating out more than I do. In the backseat he made quick work of his sub.
    I chewed a little more thoughtfully and also chewed over the questions that needed asking. There was a lot I wanted to know about Paul Klein. Given the chance, I like to rehearse field interviews in my mind, but whenever I thought about Klein I kept seeing him nailed to a tree. The more I tried to will that image from my mind, the more it stuck. Sometimes things should stick, so I reached for the right music to be pensive by. Billie Holiday was perfect for that, and I found the CD track I was looking for. There have been plenty of protest songs written, but none as powerful as “Strange Fruit.”
    I listened to Miss Holiday’s lament about the strange, bloody fruit that southern trees bear. My coat’s lining was spotted with Paul Klein’s blood, so I would have to leave it in the car before interviewing his mother. Holiday’s song was about a lynching in the south. Klein hadn’t been lynched, but he had been crucified. Someone had nailed him to a tree after he was dead.
    Strange fruit indeed, I thought. I listened while Holiday emoted about bulging eyes. One of Klein’s eyes was missing from having been shot. It was that hollow that had kept drawing my stares. I would have to travel through that dark cave to find answers. The song and the case were bitter fruit to contemplate.
    Another of Holiday’s classics, “God Bless the Child,” began to play. She seemed to be summing up my cases and my thoughts. I had started the day with baby Rose, and I’d probably end it in fire.
    Into the hills of Beverly I drove. There weren’t any gated communities, but it was a community of high and imposing gates, and you couldn’t even see most of the houses from the road. Good fences might make for good neighbors, but they make for bad rubbernecking. A lot of the houses I passed by were known by fanciful names that predated the current owners, many of them associated with old-time Hollywood. Every day, tour buses make the rounds of the area, pointing out the past and present homes of stars, and recounting scandals and murders that happened in this domain of the wealthy. For a small city,