THE DEVIL'S HOURS

A blood red dawn rises beyond the trees that line the road to Savage Canyon Landfill. A garbage truck lumbers up the street until it clears the trees and enters a vast wasteland of refuse and debris. Flocks of seagulls wheel overhead in the dawn light, scavenging for anything edible. The garbage truck rolls by a bulldozer with tank tracks, ready for another day of battle in an endless losing war.

The truck parks and the driver, Jose Carías, a hardy sanitation engineer, steps out of the cab. He pushes down on a lever, releasing the bottom tailgate latch. He flips the power switch for the body-lift on, and then pulls the control lever down into the dump position. Hydraulics hiss as the truck dumps its compacted load.

A ragdoll of a man spills out of the truck in a wave of garbage. Carías doesn’t notice until a gull lands on the ground, waddles over and begins to peck at a human hand buried in the debris. The driver registers shock at the sight of the gull’s beak picking at the flesh on one of the fingers protruding from the heap. Carías steps forward, shooing away the bird and attempts to dig the hand out.

“Dios mío!” exclaims Carías, staggering back when he sees that the hand is attached to a corpse with no head.

* * *

Downtown, cars line up to move ahead during the morning rush hour. Mía Reyes enters the expansive lobby of her office building through a revolving door and crosses to the elevators. Her heels echo with each step. She slips into the crowded elevator just before the doors begin to shut.

On the 10th floor, Reyes exits the elevator into the reception area. Above the front desk is the paper’s name in bold letters, The Los Angeles Bulletin. She walks down a hallway giving a quick ‘hello’ to her co-workers, and then she spots her burly snoop of an editor, Bill Foster, walking toward her.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Foster says, “Whatchya got?”

“Copy’s ready for proof on the labor strike piece.”

Foster keeps moving and just nods. Reyes stops.

“Why?” she asks, “What’d you got?”

Foster halts and glances down at a message in his hand.

“Got a garbage man who found a headless male corpse,” he says, holding up the note. “Want it?”

Without a word she snatches the note from his hand and walks back to reception.

“You’re welcome!” Foster calls after her, “Get art!”

Reyes waves her hand as the elevator doors open and she steps in.

* * *

An unmarked sedan pulls up to the curb of a three-story brick building. Detective Warren Blake exits the car and walks up the steps towards the entrance of the office of the County of Los Angeles Department of The Medical Examiner.

Blake’s clean-cut look in a suit and tie belies his true nature as a hunter of the most dangerous animal – man. He’s a relentless LAPD homicide detective, class II, with an investigator’s intuition and the stress that comes with the job.

Blake enters the lobby and is met by Dr. Nikolas Dharker, the bookish but compassionate coroner. They shake hands.

“We have a visitor, detective,” says Dharker, nodding to his right.

Blake’s head, always on a swivel looking for trouble, turns and sees it.

Mía Reyes is seated nearby talking on her phone. She looks sharp, like the poised and principled journalist that she is, in a white blouse under a black, one-button blazer, side-zip pants and suede pumps. Beautiful but hard; steel beneath flawless skin, under sable hair that cascades past her shoulders and runs in the deep currents of her hazel eyes. She looks up and meets his gaze.

Blake looks away first. He turns back to Dharker and says, “I told you no press.”

“Don’t look at me,” replies Dharker with a shrug.

Reyes puts her phone in her bag as she walks over. “Hey, Warren.”

“Mía,” says Blake, gesturing to the coroner, “You already know Dr. Dharker.”

“Don’t blame him,” she says, “I’m here because Bill, my editor, has lots of lil’ birdies singin’ for their supper.”

“I’m sure he does,” says Blake, “but this is an open investigation. The Department has no comment for the Bulletin.”

She looks at Dr. Dharker. “Did you I.D. the victim yet?”

“Unfortunately not—“ Dharker says.

“What does no comment mean, doc?” Blake snaps.

Dr. Dharker looks flustered and stares at his shoes.

“Easy there fella,” Reyes says, “Can I at least get a photo of the body?”

“Absolutely not,” Blake tells her.

“I can help you I.D. him,” she says.

Blake looks skeptical. “How?”

She reaches into her bag and takes out a little black notebook. She pages through it.

“The sanitation worker that found him…” she says, “José Carias, gave me a lead.”

“What lead? I interviewed him at the scene,” says Blake, “All he kept sayin’ was, ‘No tenia cabeza. No tenia cabeza.’ He doesn’t know anything.”

Reyes tilts her head, doubtful and asks, “Tú hablas español, ¿verdad?”

“What?” replies Blake.

“That’s what I thought,” she says, “You don’t have the ears to hear it—“

Blake rolls his eyes. “Oh, here we go!”

“You’ve got to know the language,” she says, “These are my people, the guys who mow your lawn and pick up your trash. I grew up with ‘em. I know all the hustlers; the back-alley pimps, the pushers, the prostitutes. They’re my sources on the street, and they talk to me… not to cops.”

“Good for you,” Blake sneers.

Reyes holds up one finger. “One photo.”

“You don’t give up do ya?” Blake says.

“Bill says I’m like a hemorrhoid,” she admits, “A persistent pain in the ass.”

Blake can’t help but smile. “I can see that.”

He pauses and then says, “Alright, on two conditions. One, no photos go public before I say so, and two, you share your lead.”

“Deal,” she says.

“Alright,” Blake says, “Come on.”

They all walk down the corridor with Blake leading the way. Dr. Dharker and Reyes share a look behind Blake’s back.

Cold air hits them as they open the double doors to the morgue. The room is dark, with the exception of a lamp illuminating a corpse on the slab under a white sheet.

They gather around the exam table. Dr. Dharker blows into a pair of latex gloves and fits them on his hands. He uncovers the sheet revealing the pale man with no head.

“My God,” Reyes whispers and clasps her hand to her mouth.

“Wrongful death from decapitation,” Dharker says, “Due to sharp force trauma to the neck, but the weapon used wasn’t a knife or saw. See how clean the cut is?”

“The blade had no serrated edges,” says Blake, “Like a sword?”

Dharker nods. “Perhaps.”

“You ran his prints?” Blake asks.

Dharker nods. “No hits on NGI.”

“That’s unusual,” Blake says.

“What’s NGI?” asks Reyes.

“Next Generation Identification,” replies Dharker, “A nationwide database of all civil and criminal fingerprints.”

“If he had a rap sheet or even a driver’s license, we’d get a hit.” Blake says.

“He could be foreign,” Dharker speculates.

Blake looks up at Dharker as he leans in toward the corpse.

“What about DNA?” asks Reyes.

“I took a blood sample,” Dharker says, “I can order a test but an antemortem DNA record must exist to get a matching I.D.”

“That’s a long shot. Turn him over,” Blake says.

Dharker rolls the corpse on its side. Blake inspects it.

“No visible birthmarks or tats,” Blake observes.

Reyes flashes a photo with her phone.

Blake gives her a look. “Turn off that flash.”

Reyes nods and switches the camera to video.

“What’s this, doc?” asks Blake, pointing to the blistered skin on the corpse’s hand.

“Let’s see. What have we here?” Dharker says, “It appears to be second degree burns on the right hand and forearm. Hmm. Let me get the UV light.”

Dr. Dharker retrieves a handheld light with an extension cord. Reyes looks curious.

“This SPEX Forensics HandScope enhances the visibility of any subcutaneous bruising,” Dharker says, “or bodily fluids such as semen—”

“Yeah, doc, we get it.” Blake looks over at Reyes and rolls his eyes.

Dharker turns off the exam table lamp and switches on the UV. He holds up the UV light and moves over the body. The corpse immediately begins smoking.

Dharker is astonished. “Extraordinary.”

“Turn it off,” Blake says.

The corpse bursts into flames! Reyes screams and ducks down.

“TURN IT OFF!” Blake shouts.

Dharker flips off the UV light just as the fire alarm rings out. Automatic sprinklers go off and high-pressure water sprays down, extinguishing the fire. Blake just stands in the downpour looking at Reyes.

“What the devil was that?” Blake says.

Reyes shakes her head, speechless and soaked to bone.

Dharker removes his glasses and wipes them on his sleeve. “What the devil, indeed.”

They all look at the corpse, which is now charred black, but still smoldering with an oily residue of grease and ash.

* * *

Later, Dr. Dharker, Blake and Reyes are gathered in the state-of-the-art crime laboratory – a sterile, white room lit by fluorescent lights.

Reyes examines her phone, grateful it’s waterproof. Blake dries off with a towel. Dr. Dharker studies a slide under a microscope.

“What happened, doc?” Blake asks.

Dr. Dharker looks up from the microscope and says, “I’m not exactly sure.”

“There is a rare condition called MCAS,” he adds, “which may be the cause of spontaneous human combustion, and there are known blood disorders such as EPP, that can cause the skin to become very sensitive to light, but I’ve never heard of a postmortem case. I need time to process the blood sample and run the DNA.”

Blake tosses the towel. “Alright, call me when you’ve got something. Let’s go, Mía.”

Reyes looks up from her phone. “What? Where are we going?”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Blake says, “I’m escorting you out, for your own safety. You’re gonna share your lead, and I’m gonna run it down.”

Reyes stands up. “I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not. You’re a civilian. Not my partner,” Blake says emphatically.

“You both should take a look at this first,” Reyes says, holding up her phone.

Reyes plays the video. It shows Dharker and Blake in the morgue standing over an empty exam table. There doesn’t appear to be a corpse on the slab. As the video continues, Dharker turns off the table lamp and switches on the UV light. Seconds later a pale man with no head becomes visible and bursts into flames. Off-camera Reyes screams. The video shakes wildly and ends.

Dr. Dharker and Blake look at each other in shock.

“Excuse me, gentlemen…”

Reyes freezes. Dr. Dharker and Blake turn in the direction of the voice.

A stranger stands in the doorway to the laboratory. His appearance seems rather ordinary. He’s about six feet tall with a pale complexion and silver hair, well dressed in a grey overcoat and polished dress shoes. But the gaze of his eyes remains hidden behind oval sunglasses, and in his hands he holds a leather briefcase.

“My lady,” the stranger continues, “please forgive my intrusion. I have a proposition.”

“Who are you?” Blake asks.

“Let’s just say I represent interested parties in the matter of the deceased in question,” says the stranger, “Specifically, I have been instructed to negotiate for the return of his body, any blood collected from his corpse, and any other evidence… including that video, madam. I can assure you, money is no object…”

The stranger puts the briefcase on the counter, opens the latch and then the lid. Inside are twelve stacks of $25,000, all in one hundred dollar bills, or at least $300,000 in cash.

Dr. Dharker, Blake and Reyes exchange looks of disbelief.

“And if you will permit me another trite phrase,” says the stranger, “There’s more where that came from.”

* * *