The Case of the Severed Head

FOREWORD

During the riots that followed the unpopular verdicts in the Rodney King beating trial, a group of skinhead punks preys on the Gay Community of West Hollywood. In the course of this they unwittingly set in motion a series of events that places them in the role of the hunted. They rape and nearly kill a young man who is more than capable of seeking a just revenge. They incur the wrath of some leathermen, and they cause a grusome murder that results in the severed head being found in a dumpster behind a fast food hand-out. Through all of this, a homophobic detective struggles to find the answer to one crime, before the next occurs to overwhelm him. He is also forced by the circumstances of his investigations to rely on the advice and help of the very men he despises. And in the end, they are all brought face-to-face with the inadequacies of the criminal justice system, as one man tries to overcome its failings.

* * *

Thursday, May 7th, 1992: 4:00 a.m.

It was the first week after the riots—the “civil unrest”—that had followed the acquittals in the infamous police beating trial. In fact, the curfew had been lifted only the previous Monday. Traffic through West Hollywood had been heavy ever since, especially along Santa Monica Boulevard—as if people were trying to make up for time lost to the protesters, or pseudo-protesters, who had used the unpopular verdict as an excuse to loot and vandalize businesses, burning some to the ground.

Although this area had been spared the worst of the destruction, Sheriffs patrols were more evident than usual. Desmond Alan Powell III observed all of this from his cubbyhole behind the deserted fast food structure. The once-popular stand had been closed by the city a number of months before, because the place had become a magnet for drug dealers and other petty criminals. Desmond had appropriated the prime space just as soon as the operators had abandoned the property. It had been necessary to kick a few asses to retain title, but no one had ever been a serious contender, really. Desmond Powell was a very large, very aggressive young man, who appeared very mean—as angry young men often do. The fear and timidity that lurked just below the veneer of self-assurance were his, and his alone, a condition totally divergent from all outward appearances. But on his own turf or in circumstances where he clearly had the advantage in size and posture, he did what was necessary to maintain his reputation as a tough customer, and thereby conceal his own guilty little secret.

At this hour of the morning, even in the aftermath of the riots, no one was around to challenge him. He had polished off a liter of wine around sundown and promptly settled down to sleep. But now he had come wide awake. It was a conditioning to his present way of life. He always awakened in the heavy darkness that preceded the dawn. It was a time he especially liked. The streets were nearly deserted, with only an occasional car zipping past. The hustlers and cruisers and other street people had all gone home—to whatever that term might imply. Even the police patrols were few and far between, cut down at the 2 a.m. shift change.

Desmond crawled out of his bedroll, leaving it in place, knowing it would not be touched during the few minutes needed to make his customary rounds of the trash bins behind the nearby businesses. This was another reason for his liking these early morning hours. No one else was up and about, either to steal his stuff of to compete with him for the treasures in the dumpsters behind the CosmoBurger, the florist, or the bicycle shop. The latter two businesses were not likely to produce much to interest a scavenger, but people living in the nearby apartments would occasionally cross the alley in the dark to throw away their larger discards. Since this was generally a late night activity, it often meant a profitable foray for Desmond.

He checked the dumpster behind the CosmoBurger first. The place closed at 2 a.m., and the cleanup generally lasted until three. Whatever had been thrown away at the close of business would likely still be there. He carried a plastic liner, and began his careful examination of the trash bin. There was always plenty of bread: hamburger rolls, the big flour tortillas they used to make burritos—all a little stale, but no worse than the stuff he used to buy from the day-old bakery outlet. The new chef didn’t like “bums,” so he didn’t pack the various left-over fillings and desserts into the well-sealed plastic containers as his predecessor had done.

Desmond continued scrounging through the highly fragrant collection until he came upon a well-wrapped, circular object, about the size of a basketball. It didn’t seem to be part of the restaurant garbage. It was covered in newspaper and tied with brown twine over several layers of plastic tape. Desmond cut the string, and carefully began removing the tape. Whatever lay concealed inside the package seemed firm and fairly heavy. He remembered the time he had discovered an urn in the trash bin around the corner, another time when he’d found a ceramic figurine that he’d sold for fifteen dollars. It also had been wrapped in newspaper and carefully tied, as if the owner had intended to transport it—ship it, maybe—and somehow forgotten it.

He reached an inner layer of plastic, the package down now to barely half its original size. Desmond used his pocket knife to free the final bindings, noting a peculiar odor as the plastic fell away.

Then he was running…blindly, in terror, the package and its sickening contents coming to rest on the pavement, spinning briefly from Desmond’s having kicked it in his panicky haste. He rounded the corner, into the alley from the parking lot and was suddenly blocked by the gleaming hood of a black and white Sheriffs car. The lone driver shouted at him, but he paused only long enough to careen around the side of the vehicle.

Puzzled, the young officer made no attempt to stop him. He knew who he was, and where he stayed. But the man’s obvious terror communicated itself to the deputy, and he drew his weapon as he exited the car, moving cautiously around the corner of the building. It took him a moment to find the source of the other’s uncontrolled horror. Then he felt his own stomach contract. Staring up from the tangle of plastic and newspaper was a severed human head.