Long Memory

LONG MEMORY

A Harry Logan Mystery

by

W.H. WHEELER

Copyright 2010 William H. Wheeler

Smashwords edition, July 2011

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CHAPTER 1

It was winter then, one of those January days with crisp air and a hot sun, one of those glorious days which make putting up with all the hassles in Los Angeles worth it.

Not a day for a murder.

I remember it was during the week, because instead of sitting in the shade by my pool with a cold glass of Steinlager in my hand doing nothing, I was in my office. OK, even when I’m by my pool, I’m doing something. I can’t just do nothing. I’m at least thinking about who I have to call, who I can wheedle for some more funding, how come after three months the damn script writer is only fifty pages into the rewrite. I’m always doing something.

Well, anyway, I was in my office that afternoon – it was a Wednesday, in fact – and I was working on the budget for my new film, Daggerhead. It was a fast-paced action flick, and I had a guy approaching star-status interested in playing the lead. Daggerhead was going to be another Golden Dreams, which had made me $3 million a few years before. Most of which I banked instead of going for the Ferrari and the Malibu beach house. I’m still living off the interest. But I did buy a modest 2,500 square foot house on Roxbury in the older section of Beverly Hills.

Somewhere between trying to figure out how to do 30 days of shooting on 25 days worth of money and get Lola Green to play the female lead for less than her last picture (well, it was a bomb), my phone rang. I picked it up and did my usual Harry Logan here. I’ve been told that’s pompous or British or something, but I still do it. I think it’s direct and to the point, and people don’t have to ask, Is Harry Logan there? or Is that you, Harry?

It was my old buddy Jack Silverman. Jack used to produce some films, and we worked together on a couple. We made a little money, until the last one. It flopped, and nobody would back our next one. His money ran out before mine, and he had to get a job. He went to work for a completion bond company. I managed to muddle through, until I found a nice Japanese guy who wanted to get into the movie business. He paid for a film, and I made him a nice profit.

Harry, I’ve got some bad news, Jack said.

Now when a completion bond guy says he’s got bad news, it usually means your movie is in trouble. But I didn’t have a movie in production right then.

What news? I said.

A while ago we bonded a fair-sized documentary directed by that Yugoslavian guy, Goran Petrovich.

Goran, yeah, I remember him. Met him in Belgrade on a shoot. He came here after that and looked me up. Like 33, 34 years old. Assistant director on one of the films you and I did a couple of years ago, I said.

Yeah. He’s a talented guy... was a talented guy.

Was?

He’s dead, Jack said.

What happened?

He was in post-production, dubbing sound at a house up on Beverly. Yesterday he went home for the night. This morning he doesn’t show up at the studio. They call, no answer. One of the mixing technicians from the studio knew where he lived. They tell her to go check on him. She drives up to his house in the Valley. Nobody answers the door. She tries it, it’s open, she goes in, she finds Goran naked in the middle of the kitchen floor. Dead. There’s blood all over the place. She runs screaming out of the house and pounds on the next-door neighbor’s. They let her in and called the cops.

Jeez!

Jack’s voice cracked a little. Harry, Goran was stabbed to death, and...

What?

... mutilated. Jack could hardly get the word out.

"What do you mean, mutilated?" I asked

Harry, they cut off his right hand.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Harry?

I’m still here. I had to clear my throat and coughed. Jeez, that’s a helluva way to go. Took his hand? How’d you find out about it?

"Their cameraman called me... a guy named Todor Boskovich. They need time, of course. But it’ll probably be on the six o’clock news tonight and front page in the Times tomorrow. My boss will be on me to take it over."

Do the cops have any idea who did it? I asked.

I don’t know. I called Lopez out at the West Valley Station, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. You’ve had more dealings with the guys out there; maybe you can find out something.

So who would want to kill a documentary film maker? People make plenty of enemies in the movie business, but not usually in the documentary end of it. You make enemies when they think you’ve screwed them out of their share of the money. In documentaries, there’s no money to get screwed out of. So why do people make documentaries? I guess, just because they like to. The nature guys, especially. They must love going to godforsaken places and getting exotic bug bites while filming animals who would just as soon have them for dinner.

If you’re any good and have, or can get, the initial production money, you can make a living off of sales to public TV and the nature or history channels. Sort of a living, anyway. Rich, hardly. Rich enough to make enemies, never.

So who would want to kill Goran? Maybe a burglar. Goran comes home, finds the guy stealing his stuff, the thief kills him. But why would he be in the kitchen? Nobody kills for pots and pans. Maybe the thief was coming out through the kitchen. But no, wait a minute. Goran was naked. You don’t come home naked, even in L.A... at least not very often. Lots of questions, lots of maybes.

It was already 5 o’clock, but I called West Valley Station.

Detective Alvaro Lopez answered the phone. A pleasant enough guy on the surface, but his nickname is El Fiero, and you don’t want to cross him. El Fiero, The Fierce, The Ferocious, The Wild, The Terrible, The Ugly... well, that one doesn’t fit anyway. He’s actually still not bad looking, even though he’s in his fifties. Hey, like I should talk. At least he could still get some chicas. Now don’t misunderstand me, I’ve got some lady friends. It’s just that they aren’t exactly chicas anymore. All the sweet young things now call me sir. What the hell, at least they’re polite. To my face, anyway.

So Mr. Ferocious answered the phone. I asked him about Goran’s murder.

That’s police business, Harry. It’s confidential.

Al, it’ll be all over the news in nothing flat. Come on, Goran was a friend of mine. What happened?

You’re right about the damn news. The media’s already here. Nothing like a messy Hollywood murder.

Goran was not exactly a celebrity, I said.

You know what I mean, Lopez sighed.

Yeah. Anyway, this is personal. Any leads?

Lopez sighed again. I can’t tell you whether we have any leads or not.

So what can you tell me? I asked.

I’ll tell you what’s already out and on its way to the newsrooms. The victim was stabbed multiple times with a short knife of some kind.

You don’t have the knife?

Spanish insults blasted my ear. When the torrent stopped, he said, Hell no, I don’t have the knife! If I had the knife, I wouldn’t have said ‘some kind’ of knife!

Easy, Al, easy, I soothed.

Was it a burglary?

I could hear a deep breath.

No... maybe... we don’t know yet. Nothing was torn up in the house. We think he knew the killer, Lopez said.

Has his family in Belgrade been notified? I asked.

We called the Serbian embassy in Washington. They’re going to take care of it.

I heard they cut off his hand, I said.

How the hell did you find out about that?

A friend told me.

That won’t be in the papers. But since you already know, yes, the killer... or killers... cut off his hand. His right hand, Lopez answered.

Why would somebody do that? I wondered out loud.

Hell if I know, Lopez replied. They wanted it, obviously. They took it with them.

That stunned me. My throat went dry.

Took it with them? I managed to get out.

You got a hearing problem, Harry?

El Fiero was as respectful as an untipped maître d’.

Sorry, Al. It’s just a shock. I won’t even ask you what you think they might be doing with it.

Keep this to yourself, OK? he said.

Sure. But maybe the killer is someone in the movie biz. I can poke around a bit for you, I said.

Harry, keep your nose out of police business, Al said sharply.

I won’t mention the hand. I know a few Yugoslavs. Just some discreet questions. You know me, Al.

A sigh. Exactly.

So once again the same question. Who would want to kill Goran? Certainly not burglars. They might kill you, but they’re not going to stick around and chop pieces off you for souvenirs. So who? And why?

I figured the best place to start would be at the studio where his production company was dubbing the sound track. I got Jack Silverman on the phone again.

Jack, this is Harry.

Hi. What’s up?

I got hold of Lopez. I didn’t get much more information out of him than you did. He’s such a friendly guy, I said.

Yeah. So?

What’s the name of that dubbing studio on Beverly? I asked.

Clarion Sound. Why? Jack asked.

I’m going to go ask some questions.

I thought you might, said Jack. I couldn’t see his little grin, but I knew it was there. Listen, for what it’s worth, I’ve got the name and address of his family in Yugoslavia. I’m sure as hell not going to call them, but maybe you can use it.

Maybe. Fax it to me, I said. I think I remember meeting his brother when I was over there. Or maybe it was his brother-in-law. He spoke a little English.

What, you don’t speak Yugoslavian? Jack asked. I could see that little grin again. Even in the worst of situations, Jack would find something to joke about.

Serbian, Jack. Serbian, I corrected. Goran was a Serb. There’s no such language as ‘Yugoslavian.’ There’s Serbian and Croatian, and Slovenian and a couple other languages. And Serbian and Croatian are just about the same, except the Serbs use the Cyrillic alphabet and the Croats use the Latin alphabet...

Enough already, said Jack.

... except sometimes the Serbs use the Latin alphabet, too, and...

Harry! Stop with the schooling!

Jack sounded a little ticked off. I admit I get carried away. Languages interest me.

Sorry, Jack. Anyway, I don’t know any Serbian. Well, a few words, maybe. The grimness of Goran’s murder suddenly flowed back over me. Not the right ones for this business.

I know. I could hear the sadness again in Jack’s voice.

Fax me the names. I’ll make sure I don’t contact them before the police do.

I’ll have to get the information off one of the forms Goran signed to get the completion bond, Jack said. You’ll have it tomorrow. The people in his company probably have it too, and maybe some more contacts.

What’s the name of his company? I asked.

Reality Films.

Thanks, Jack.

Hey, and keep me posted, OK?

Sure thing.

CHAPTER 2

The morning was cool, but the heat of the sun said the afternoon was going to be hot. I found the sound studio. There was actually a parking space almost in front. I sandwiched my Corolla in between a shiny new BMW (don’t hit that, I thought; the banshees will wail) and a 1970 Chrysler Town and Country. God, I loved those old Chrysler wagons! You could haul a ton of stuff in one. Me and my wife, Judy... my ex-wife... used to load one up with the kids and ten suitcases and drive across the U.S. OK, I exaggerate a little; maybe there were only six or seven suitcases. Always got 14 miles to the gallon, tuned up or not. Maybe I should find one with a straight body and restore it.

Clarion Sound was housed in a once classy brick building in a once stylish section of Beverly Boulevard, an area of Hollywood that tourists don’t go to, but which is where a lot of the real work gets done. Hollywood is more a what than a where. As a what, it’s not just the movie business, the biz, as they call it around here. It’s television, video and even music. It’s entertainment. As a where, well... I’ve never met anybody who was quite sure where the boundaries are, if there are any. It’s not a city; it’s part of the city of Los Angeles. But it does have a post office from the 1920s with the name Hollywood and its own zipcode next to the front door. It doesn’t really have a center, just a more touristy area focusing on Hollywood Boulevard. (What the hell is a boulevard anyway? It sounds big. When does a street cease to be a street and get promoted to boulevard?) Hollywood-the-where basically sort of dribbles off at the edges into not-Hollywood.

I pushed the plate glass door open and went into Clarion Sound. Why do I keep thinking of angels with trumpets? The reception desk was manned (oops! politically incorrect... personed) by an inattentive twenties-something lady with black hair, black lace dress, black fingernails and black lipstick. God, I love a flair for color! I introduced myself and asked if anyone from Reality Films was there today. That got the lady’s attention. In all fairness, she was visibly moved.

I heard about Mr. Petrovich, she said. He was a sweet guy.

The words ‘sweet guy’ seemed incongruous with her Gothic image. But they were clearly genuine.

Yeah. He was a friend of mine, too, I said.

One of them is in there, she said, pointing to a door, trying to work. It can’t be easy. One of our guys is with him.

Can I go in?

Sure. They’re mixing previous recordings today. Let me call the booth.

She picked up her phone and punched in the extension numbers.

Fred? Tell Todor there’s a Mr. Harry Logan here to see him. He says he was a friend of Goran’s.... OK. She hung up and pointed again to the door leading off from the reception area. Go on back. They’re in room number two on the right.

I walked through the door and down the hallway to a door with a brass 2 on it. I opened the door slowly and looked in. The two men seated at the mixing console turned as I entered. One pushed a stop button on the console.

Come on in, Mr... Logan, was it?

Harry Logan.

I’m Fred Meyer. I’m with Clarion. He motioned to the man next to him. This is Todor Boskovich. He’s the Director of Photography on the production.

Boskovich got up, smiled briefly and extended his hand. We shook hands, then I shook hands with Meyer. I pulled some of my business cards out of my front shirt pocket and gave one to each of them.

You knew Goran? Boskovich asked, his voice serious but steady. Boskovich looked to be in his early thirties. Tall, fairly muscular build, with a black Van Dyke beard and mustache. Probably works out a couple times a week. De rigueur denim shirt, unironed. Blue jeans, Doc Maartens. Meyer was about the same age, clean shaven, a bit flabby, dressed like... well, I don’t remember how he was dressed. He obviously wasn’t trying to look Hollywood.

Yes. I met Goran in Belgrade. Later, when he came here, he AD’d on one of my films.

You’re a director? asked Meyer.

Producer. I was sorry to hear about Goran’s death, I said, looking from one to the other.

Yeah, that was awful, said Meyer. He didn’t look too shaken up about it. But Goran was probably just a client, not a friend.

A terrible thing, Mr. Logan, said Boskovich. We will miss him greatly.

It didn’t seem to me that Boskovich was all that broken up by Goran’s death, either.

Goran was a dear friend of mine, Boskovich added, coolly.

I would have expected a bit more emotion from a dear friend, but I put my misgivings down to maybe cultural differences, and after all, he was not expressing himself in his native language.

Were you from the same part of Yugoslavia? I asked.

Yes, Osijek. It belongs to Serbia, but it is now held by Croatia. There is no more Yugoslavia.

Meyer looked at Boskovich. I thought they still call it Yugoslavia. Serbia, I mean, and that other part... Monte... Monte... whatsit.

Montenegro, Boskovich corrected. Small, and they are just like Serbs. So formally, there was still a Yugoslavia. But Montenegro decided they could do better alone. Now... just Serbia, and the other countries.

Must have been hard seeing your country break up like that, I said, sympathetically.

Boskovich smiled slightly.

Yes, he said. We all grew up believing in a Yugoslavia, united and where many different peoples all got along. We sang songs about Yugoslavia. It was a nice place. His smile disappeared. We were deceived.

Hard to comprehend, said Meyer.

Boskovich looked at Meyer. In the Balkans, the past is always with you, he replied. He turned again to me. But surely, Mr. Logan, you did not come here to talk about Yugoslavia.

No, I replied, I want to find out who killed Goran.

And why do you come here? Boskovich asked. Surely it was a thief in his house.

I don’t think so, I answered.

It is a matter for the police, Boskovich said.

Yes, and for his friends.

Boskovich looked sharply at me. Of course.

Did Goran have any enemies? I asked, looking from one to the other.

Not that I know of, said Meyer. But I didn’t know him, really. Only met him a few weeks ago. Pretty even-tempered fellow.

Boskovich shrugged his shoulders. I can’t imagine Goran having any enemies. Very nice guy. Everybody liked him.

Meyer tilted his head a bit. There was that one guy he got in an argument with a couple of weeks ago. He turned to Boskovich. "You know, the soundman. You weren’t here, but I’m sure Goran told you about it after he fired