Anatomy of a Killing

By John Leslie Evans

An international film star is found brutally murdered in his Hollywood Hills mansion. A secret life of lies, deception and sex-for-hire . . . a shocking confession which turns brother against brother, a juvenile detention facility where hate, racism and violence are submerged in secrecy: These are the electrifying elements that lead two LAPD detectives into a baffling case no witnesses, no suspects. Their only clue is a bloody footprint. Stripping away the City of Angels' glittering facade, the detectives are drawn into a dark web of greed, betrayal, prostitution, and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 9, 2002
• ISBN: 9781403354099

John Leslie Evans

John Leslie Evans, born in Corsham, England and raised in Kimberley, British Columbia, Canada, presently lives in Brea, California, a suburb of Los Angeles. His first published novel, “Prescription: Murder,” was adapted from a screenplay by the same name. This was followed by “Eyes of a Killer,” the story of a predatory woman who lures a rogue cop into a complex web of murder and deception, and “Dead of Night,” the story of a woman’s obsession with money…power…prestige. “A Question of Murder” concerns the alleged murder-suicide of tabloid-publisher, Randall Curtiss and his wife, in their palatial Hollywood Hills mansion. In “A Deadly Affair,” the ultimate fatal attraction leads to murder, when Dr. Joel Steiner is found shot to death on his luxurious Marina del Rey yacht.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

10/11/99. It was precisely 2:15 A.M., when the operator at Hollywood Division received the 911 emergency call. Big-time movie star, Antonio DeMarco had been found brutally murdered in the bedroom of his palatial Sunset Plaza mansion.

Sunset Boulevard. 3:00 A.M. Rain. A few hours earlier, the famous Strip was alive with the night people: the usual conglomeration of out-of-town tourists, the would-be starlets, the hustlers, the honchos, the hookers—all looking for the same thing. The action. But now, at this late hour, except for a couple of black prostitutes huddled beneath a hotel canopy, the streets were almost deserted.

The HPD dispatcher had rousted me out of a deep sleep. She’d given me the info on the 911 call. DeMarco’s address at 1000 Sunset Plaza Drive. Fortunately, I lived not more than a mile away. I threw on some clothes, snagged a quick cup of Instant coffee, and was on my way. My eyes were still heavy as I drove along Sunset—a barrage of flickering neon lights advertising the hotels, the bars, the restaurants, the massage parlors, the strip joints, the head shops. A big spectacular billboard advertised "The Thomas Crown Affair. " It was a remake of the Steve McQueen flick. McQueen and Faye Dunaway. I’d seen it a few times on late-night television. The rain was coming down heavy now. I peered through the rain-soaked windshield. The wipers were slapping back and forth; their hypnotic motion was putting me to sleep. I cracked the window. The cool air felt good, refreshing. I goosed the unmarked, picked up a little speed. Heading west on the Sunset Strip, at 3:00 o’clock in the morning. The streets deserted. Garish blotches of gaudy neon reflected in the mirror of wet pavement.

In case I forgot to introduce myself, the name is Kellermann. Detective Joe Kellermann. Currently attached to LAPD’s Hollywood Division. I’m pushing forty. My ex-wife (whom I found out was banging another a cop; a friend, no less) describes me as being tall, muscularly-built, good-looking. I’ve also been known to be brusque, impatient at times, with a ballsy, aggressive attitude. I usually come across as the cerebral tough guy. I’d just recently joined HPD, having been transferred from LAPD’s Pacific Division, where my then-partner, Richard (Rick) Ramirez and I had been handed the Dr. Joel Steiner case. The Joel Steiner murder had become notorious in beach-city circles. Notorious and grisly. When his mistress dumped him for another guy, the good doctor, seeking revenge at any cost, injected her with the deadly HIV-AIDS virus. After weeks of tenacious work, Ramirez and I had finally cracked the case. We both got commendations from downtown’s Parker Center. I was promoted to Detective 1st Class. Fortunately for me, an opening had come up at Hollywood Division, and I jumped at it. End of story.

As long as I can remember, the movie business had held a certain fascination for me. I was studying Criminal Law at UCLA during the day and had latched onto part-time work as a security guard at Fox studios at night. On-location shoots were particularly appealing to me—at times I’d even managed to cajole a few sympathetic casting directors to allow me to work as an extra. The pay was good. The work easy.

So…as I was driving up Sunset Plaza, I was asking myself, what did I know about Antonio DeMarco? I knew he was considered one of the Hollywood heavyweights; he’d won an Academy Award for best actor, plus five nominations. I knew he had emigrated from Italy, in his early twenties, ending up in New York, where he starred in several Broadway plays. A West Coast talent scout had discovered him in a revival of Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge, and he was signed to a 7-year contract with Marathon Pictures. DeMarco’s marriage to actress Rita Alexander, at Beverly Hills’ Church of the Good Shepherd had been a major media event. The scandal sheets covered the DeMarco divorce, five years later, in all of its lurid details—there were innuendoes of betrayal, physical abuse, suspected homosexuality.

The Mediterranean villa-styled residence was built on a slight rise overlooking Sunset Plaza Drive. Built in the late 1930’s, the mansion was pristine white with arched windows encased with wrought iron balconies, white louvered shutters. Red tiled roof. The carved entrance doors were fronted with gates of intricately-designed, Spanish grille-work. Towering Royal palms stood like sentinels on each side of the entranceway. An octagonal-shaped, white marble fountain centered the circular, flagstone courtyard. DeMarco had had installed a replica of the fountain at Piazza Esedra in Rome—a male nude holding a huge fish—a stream of water spurting out of the fish’s mouth. From this high elevation there was a magnificent view of the city. Lights and neon stretching all the way to the sea.

A half-dozen vehicles snaked around the marble fountain. Three black-and-whites, two unmarked

sedans, a coroner’s wagon. I rolled to a stop behind one of the patrol cars, exited, and made a dash for the mansion’s entrance, where a uniform had been stationed. He gave me a quick nod, and I entered.

I crossed the polished, black marble-floored entry-hall and stepped down into the sunken living room. Professionally decorated, the spacious room reflected the Mediterranean-style of the exterior. A large crystal chandelier was suspended from the ornately-carved, gold-leafed ceiling. The walls were painted white with accent colors of terra-cotta and melon. The furnishings were rich, opulent; baroquely-framed oil paintings climbed the adobe walls. There was a carved, white, Italian-marble fireplace. A plaster low-relief above the wide archway overlooking the swimming pool, gave an Hispanic-Moorish air to the room. It was still raining and the pool looked strangely eerie, with wisps of fog rising from the water’s surface. A police photographer was busily taking shots of the living room. My attention was diverted to a long, curved stairway. My partner, Mike Rodriguez was slowly descending the stairs. Rodriguez, about thirty, was dark, sensual, handsome, with hair the color of a blackbird. He’d been raised in a two-bedroom house on Soto Street, in East L.A. Rodriguez had always wanted to be a cop. I threw him a quick glance. So…whadda we got here, Mike?

Rodriguez’s look was grim. Victim is upstairs. I gotta warn you—it’s a bloody mess up there—

Let’s take a look.

Rodriguez wasn’t exaggerating. Antonio DeMarco’s bedroom was a shambles. As we entered, the sporadic flash of a strobe light cut the shadowy

darkness; Harry Palmer, a second photographer was taking pictures of the victim. With Palmer, huddled over DeMarco’s body, was deputy coroner, Dr. Sidney Blackman and a uniformed officer, Sgt. Brad Ryan. There was also a young, female forensics technician standing close by. Criminalist experts were combing the room for clues.

Rodriguez and I crossed to the ornate, canopy-covered bed. Antonio DeMarco was lying in a grotesquely-contorted position. The upper portion of his semi-nude body was covered in blood. The white, satin sheets and pillowcases of the unmade bed were drenched with blood. There was a wide pool of blood on the carpet near the bed. Hardly recognizable, DeMarco’s lifeless body glistened like wet lard; his eyes had that soft, dry shine. Lying about two feet away from the body, was a heavy, brass fire iron. An apparent attempt to wipe fingerprints and blood from the metal poker had been made—a blood-soaked hand towel was lying on the bed nearby.

Dr. Blackman, sixtyish, tall, balding, gaunt-looking, was carefully examining the body. Something had caught his attention. A large, gold-plated dildo was lying beside the corpse’s head. Blackman fingered it gingerly. He glanced up at the technician. Bag the dildo carefully…it may have prints.

The technician nodded. Yes sir.

Palmer continued to photograph the death scene; fixing the position of DeMarco’s body for the record. Blackman extracted a thermometer from inside the victim’s mouth. He studied it for a second, then glanced up at me. "You can release the vie anytime you want, Detective. We got everything we need.

Cause of death is pretty obvious. I count at least four blows to the head with the fire iron. There are also contusions around the neck area. Victim was strangled. Time of death—I’d say approximately two hours ago. I can tell you more…tomorrow."

I glanced at the bloodied corpse, once again. "This is Antonio DeMarco…the actor. Right?"

Yeah. He sneered. You want a high-profile case, Detective? I’d say you got a high-profile case—

I was suddenly curious. "What do you make of the dildo, for Chris’sakes?"

Blackman grinned. I’ve always heard Antonio DeMarco was gay. They kept it pretty-well hushed up. All those adoring, female fans of his…would have been heart-broken. Right, Kellermann?

Yeah…right. I turned to face Officer Ryan. Any signs of forced entry, Sergeant?

No. Nothing at all.

Who discovered the body?

Mr. DeMarco’s houseman…chauffeur—

Does he live on the premises?

Yeah. He lives in separate quarters…rear of the house.

This houseman got a name?

Yeah. Calvin Jennings. A black dude.

Where is Calvin Jennings, now?

He’s downstairs. I told him to stick around. Told him we needed to talk to him.

Forensics experts continued to dust the room for prints. The flash of Palmer’s strobe light cut the stillness as he took pictures of DeMarco from yet another angle. A large crystal lamp was lying in a shattered heap on the floor. Dresser drawers had been ransacked; the door to a large walk-in closet had been left ajar; there were personal items thrown askew; a desk chair lay forlornly on its side.

I gazed at Rodriguez. No question about it. Looks like DeMarco put up a hell of a fight—

"You got that right, Rodriguez said as he crossed to examine a full bathroom immediately adjacent to the Master bedroom. Suddenly: Joe? Do you wanna come here a sec? Take a look at this!"

I joined Rodriguez. He was standing, gazing down at the bathroom floor. The white-tiled floor was spotlessly clean except for a single footprint in blood. It looked to be made by a rubber-soled, athletic shoe. I bent down to examine the bloody footprint. I glanced up at Harry Palmer, who had just joined us. "Make sure you get some good shots of this footprint. Okay, Harry?"

Yeah. Will do.

I could feel the adrenaline pumping up. Shit! This is incredible! This is the best evidence we got, so far. Don’t screw up on me, Harry! Okay?

Palmer was a little pissed, I could tell. No way, Detective, he said in a low voice.

What about DeMarco? You finished with him?

Yeah. I got all I need.

Good. I wanna get him outta here.

Calvin Jennings was a tall, good-looking man in his early fifties. He had a wide, open face, an easy smile. Although, right now, as Rodriguez and I approached him, seated on a leather sofa near the fireplace, his look was wary, apprehensive. I gripped his hand. Hello, Mr. Jennings. I’m Detective Kellermann, Homicide, LAPD. My partner, Detective Rodriguez—

Nice to meet you, he said.

Rodriguez and I took a seat, opposite. I realize Mr. DeMarco’s death has been a very traumatic experience for you…but there are a few questions I need to ask. Do you feel up to it?

Certainly, Detective. I’d like to help in any way I can—

As I understand it, you worked for Mr. DeMarco…as a houseman…a chauffeur?

That’s right. He smiled a little. I guess you might say I was a Jack-of-all-trades. I’d drive him to the studio…arrange parties for him…pay bills…even cook if I had to. I was kinda like Mr. DeMarco’s right-hand-man. Whatever needed to be done…I’d do it.

I see. How long had you worked for Mr. DeMarco?

Six years…come January.

"I take it you live on the premises?"

Yeah. I got me separate quarters…out in back.

"Did DeMarco employ a housekeeper, Mr. Jennings?" Rodriguez interjected.

Yeah. Mrs. Garcia has a place downtown… downtown L.A. She don’t work weekends—

I eyed Jennings closely. "When was the last time you saw Mr. DeMarco? Spoke to him?"

Around noontime yesterday. I was leavin’ to go out to the track. Santa Anita. He tole me he was a-goin’ to a dinner party last night…in Beverly Hills. Said he didn’t need me—

So…you spent the day at Santa Anita. Were you alone, Mr. Jennings?

Nope. I had a lady-friend with me…

I tossed him a grin. "You win, by any chance?"

"Nope. Lost three hundred big ones…goddamnit!"

Our cursory interrogation of Jennings was suddenly interrupted by noise and activity emanating from the stairway. All three of us glanced in that direction. Two coroner’s assistants, dressed in white uniforms were coming down the stairs carrying DeMarco’s shrouded body on a gurney. DeMarco was a big