Bill Harvey Collection

by Peter O'Mahoney

  Pitt didn’t respond. He looked to the ground, desperate not to answer the question.

  “I know there’s something else going on, Pitt. That’s clear. The prosecution is pushing so hard on this, more than they should be for a case of a murdered homeless drunk. There is something else at play. I need to know what it is so I’m not blindsided in court.”

  “He’s your estranged brother, isn’t he?”

  “He is.”

  “How are you coping?”

  “I want information, not emotional support. If I needed something to soothe my feelings, I would buy a good bottle of whiskey.”

  “If you need to talk to someone about all this, I can listen. Or better yet, my wife would love to help you. Bev would listen. This is more than just another case for you. This is family. You can’t just ignore the fact that he’s your brother. If you need to talk to someone, then there are people that can help you.”

  Harvey didn’t respond to the offer of compassion, instead staring straight at his friend.

  “I know the case,” Pitt conceded. “But it’s bigger than you think.”

  Harvey leaned against his car, his chest huffing up and down. “How so? What’s he caught up in?”

  “It’s not just one murder that they have him on the books for. Until yesterday it was eight unsolved cases, but it’s now nine. They’re trying to link him to the others, but they have nothing on him yet. It could be even more deaths, but that’s all they’ve got at the moment. Behind the scenes, this case is very big, and it’s generating a lot of excitement. The evidence is compiling quickly, and it’s going to be front-page news in the next few days.”

  Harvey shook his head. “You’re saying that Jonathon’s a serial killer that’s popping off the homeless guys?”

  “The very one.”

  Harvey ran his hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. “No. I don’t see it. I really don’t.”

  “But he’s your brother. You’d miss—”

  “I haven’t seen him in twenty years. This isn’t a close family connection that we’re talking about. This is me defending just another client. Nothing more. My judgment isn’t clouded.”

  “But he’s still your blood.” Pitt opened his hands, gesturing that it shouldn’t be overlooked. “He’s still connected to you. There’s still a bond between the two of you, Harvey. You can’t just overlook that fact. Family is family.”

  “In reality, I barely think he committed this murder. The man wouldn’t have it in him. He’s not cunning enough to pull that off. At worst, this is a mugging gone wrong. Gerard tried to mug Jonathon, and he defended himself.”

  “Or the other way round. Your brother isn’t a rich guy, he doesn’t have a job, and he lives in Skid Row. So maybe it was Jonathon that tried to mug Gerard.”

  “Maybe.” Harvey shrugged, open to all possibilities. “From the police report, I see that Gerard West’s wallet is still missing. Has that been located yet?”

  “Not yet.” Pitt rested his elbow against the car. “Is that what Jonathon’s saying? That this is a mugging gone wrong.”

  “No.” Harvey leaned his head backward. It was the first time that Pitt had ever seen Harvey’s shoulders slump. “That’s what I’m saying. I’m just looking at all the possible options for defending him. We have to look at every opportunity to beat this.”

  “Of course. You think he’s innocent and you want to beat the system.”

  “It’s not about beating the system; it’s about doing the right thing.” Harvey slid his hands into his pockets. “Any other evidence about the other murders? Is there anything that ties them together?”

  “The case is building. And it’s building quickly. They’ve got the best of the best on this one. It’s going to be high-profile in a matter of days. They’ve got something that connects all the murders together, but they need to confirm the evidence first. Rumor is that they’re very close.”

  “How close?”

  “At this moment, it’s all hearsay. It’s all theories. Nothing in concrete yet.”

  “DNA?”

  “None.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “None of those either.”

  “So what connects him to the other murders?”

  “Who was killed and the way they were killed.” Pitt looked over his shoulder, making sure no one else was around. “Word is that the eight other deaths were all killed the same way as the ninth one last night—strangled. All homeless men. All the same. So it’s now eight within a year. There might even be more. This is a serial killer knocking off Californian residents. If they can pin it on your brother, they will.”

  “No,” Harvey said softly, unconvincingly.

  “This is going to be big news when this comes out in a few days. Massive. It’s going to blow any other story off the front page. Even if some actor marries another celebrity on the first date, it won’t knock this story off the front page. This is a serial killer, and it will capture the nation’s attention. When this gets to trial, the whole country will be tuning in. He’ll be judged as guilty by the nation the second that they front the media.”

  Harvey shook his head. “I just don’t see it. He’s innocent. He has to be. He doesn’t have the look of a serial killer or killer at all.”

  “No, he has the look of your brother, and that’s why you’re missing the clues.”

  Harvey grunted, looking down at the ground. He didn’t want Pitt to be right, but he had nothing to argue with.

  For all he knew, the LAPD was spot on the money.

  “He has all the right characteristics, Harvey—he lives alone, had a violent youth, lived on the streets for many years, and has been a heavy drug user for most of his life. He’s strong and could easily strangle a drunk with his bare hands. He fits the profile perfectly.”

  “I just don’t see it,” Harvey whispered.

  “They’re all homeless drunks. This is more than just a coincidence. This is reality. This isn’t just media spin. He could be guilty.”

  “He can’t be.”

  “This case has the potential to blow up beyond your expectations, so you’d better be ready for it. They just need to prove that one piece of evidence that links them all together and then… boom! The case is enormous. The media will eat up the fact that he’s your brother, and you’ll be hounded from pillar to post. If they find something, anything, then this will put him on the front page, and your face right next to his. Be careful with this case, Harvey, it has the potential to destroy your career.”

  Harvey grimaced at the thought. “So they’ve got a serial killer on the loose, and they want to pin it on one guy just because two people saw him walk into an alley late at night?”

  “Your brother fits the profile that they built of the killer. The department has been working this case for six months, keeping everything very quiet, and when your boy popped into the picture, they figured they had their man. He ticked all the boxes that they need. The profiling team has already judged him as guilty, now they just need enough evidence to take it to court.”

  “That’s ridiculous. There must be a thousand people who fit the profile of the killer. Just because they have him in the same area as the murder, they think he’s a serial killer? That’s ridiculous, Pitt. What has your department come to?”

  “You know the type.” Pitt laughed. “They are all up there in their nice suits with their college degrees discussing criminals over a warm cup of coffee. Nothing replaces a cop’s instinct, nothing, but that doesn’t sit well with the people who make the decisions. They want all these reports and profiles and statistics. It’s about numbers, and what it says in a book. It’s not about real police work anymore. Nobody wants to get their hands dirty. They want to theorize that it’s this type of person or that type of person. It’s academic now.”

  “Well, that’s you out of the game then.” Harvey grinned.

  “And you’d be the best cop around.” Pitt laughed.

  Harvey laughed awkwardly, looking ba
ck at the ground.

  He was used to trouble.

  He was used to problems.

  But he was not used to the emotional turmoil stemming from life-long difficulties.

  “What do you think about this one?” He looked at Pitt, desperate for verification of his opinion.

  “Honestly, I haven’t had much to do with this case… but with what I have seen so far, I would say Jonathon’s innocent. At least, I don’t think he’s a serial killer. If he did this murder, then it was an accident, and not related to the other murders. That’s my profile report—based on years of walking these streets and understanding real people.”

  “You can’t replace that.” Harvey tried to smile, but the pain was making it hard. “Looks like this is going to be some sort of fight then. Thanks for your help, Pitt.”

  “Harvey.” Pitt stopped Harvey from getting into his car. “There’s something else you should know.”

  “Yes?”

  “The ninth body showed up this morning and was killed the same way. They also think it’s your client.”

  “But Jonathon’s incarcerated at the moment? He couldn’t have done it.”

  “The person was killed two weeks ago. Dumped in the water near Skid Row, and was just found by a jogger this morning. It has all the hallmarks of the same killer. It’s all going to happen soon. You don’t have much time before this blows up.”

  Harvey opened his car door. “Thanks, Pitt.”

  “And Harvey.”

  Harvey had one foot in the door, waiting for Pitt’s response. “What is it?”

  “The ninth victim was Harry Jones.”

  “What?” Harvey’s hand rubbed his forehead. “No. Not Harry.” The shock set in for Harvey. “What was he doing near Skid Row?”

  “We don’t know that yet, Harvey. We don’t know a lot yet. We haven’t even found Harry’s ex-wife yet, so keep that news in confidence for now. It’s a bit of a shock for us all. We all knew Harry. It was sad when it all fell apart for him, and what he did to that girl was terrible, but for it to end like this… It’s very sad. He was a good cop before he fell apart. I know he didn’t end his time with the force well, but after what he saw, that’s understandable. There’ll be a lot of sad guys in the department. A lot of guys out for justice.”

  “Strangled?”

  “Yeah. Harry was a strong guy, and it looked like he fought his attacker.”

  Harvey stared off into the distance, remembering the sparkle of life that he saw in Harry Jones the last time they met.

  “Harvey, I know you saw Harry a few months ago. You mentioned it when we had a beer last month. And you saw Gerard two days before his death…”

  “Wait.” Harvey stood up straight, stepping out of his car. “No. You’re not asking me that question.”

  “I have to. It wouldn’t be justice for Harry if I didn’t.”

  The anger disappeared from Harvey’s face. “Go on.”

  “Did you have anything to do with Harry’s death?”

  “No.” Harvey’s answer was short, blunt, and firm. The eye contact was unflinching.

  “When you last saw him a few months ago, did Harry say anything to you? Anything that could have given us a clue?”

  Harvey shook his head in disbelief. “We talked about cleaning up his life. He wanted to get back on his feet. He wanted to stop drinking and… he wanted to try again. I gave him a number to contact. Someone to help him. He said the same things as Gerard was saying. The very same. Are you sure it was Harry?”

  “I’m afraid so. When they start to piece his life back together, they’re going to want to come and have a chat with you, if you were with him a few months before. But I can keep that quiet if you need.”

  “No, no. Thanks but no. I have nothing to hide. We just talked, that’s all. You can tell them that you know we saw each other.”

  “I’m sorry, Harvey.” Pitt rested his weathered hand on Harvey’s shoulder in a sign of condolence. “If we find anything else, I will let you know.”

  Harvey shook his head in disbelief.

  Not his friend Harry Jones.

  Not after Gerard West.

  He couldn’t let this killer walk free.

  Chapter 13

  “Not Harry Jones,” Harvey whispered into the glass, almost wanting the whiskey to reply. “Why Harry?”

  He drew a long breath, his eyes locked on the glass.

  Luckily, the narrow dive bar didn’t let any pesky daylight in through the small windows. It was dark enough to let the hardy customers disappear from the world outside. There was one long bench sparsely populated with loners staring into their drinks, six small tables to the side of the brick room, and a small television screen displaying a replay of the latest baseball game. The décor was dark, as were the somber emotions in the room.

  Exactly what Harvey needed right now.

  He’d seen enough death in his lifetime.

  Too many times.

  Despite the countless times he had dealt with death, it still made Bill Harvey’s heart ache. It first ached deeply when he lost his father to suicide, his mother to a heart attack not long after. When he lost his first wife to cancer, he didn’t have much love left for death.

  But when it comes knocking at Harvey’s door, he’d be ready—ready to punch death in the nose and tell it to keep walking.

  His father’s suicide hurt the most. That was when he was still a vulnerable young adult, in his late twenties, still with his heart open to the world. He spoke at the funeral, speaking of a man that inspired him, shaped him, and ultimately, hurt him.

  His father ate a bullet for breakfast, after years of fighting to get his youngest son clean, off the drugs. Harvey’s brother had his first hit of heroin at fifteen and became addicted within months. Within a year, he went from being the first-choice quarterback for his high school team to the junkie that didn’t attend school. His father, along with the rest of the family, tried everything to save Jonathon.

  Psychologists. Counselors. Social Workers. Rehab. Moving towns. Everything they knew, they tried.

  Nothing worked.

  The more they tried, the more Jonathon pushed them away.

  Not being able to help the ones he loved, not being able to save his family, was his father’s greatest failing as a man.

  It tore him apart.

  He felt like a fraud.

  Exactly one year after Jonathon disappeared, a year after searching for his son, his father gave up.

  He ended the journey with a bullet.

  “A pint of your finest pale ale, please bartender.”

  Harvey recognized the voice coming from the end of the bar. Slowly lifting his head, he looked across the room. Kate Spencer was sitting with a smile on her face, gazing at him.

  She took her pint and walked over to sit next to her boss, her friend.

  “How do you always find me when I try to disappear, Kate?”

  “Call it a sixth sense. I knew you’d be here, and I knew you’d need the company.”

  He knew she was right, but he didn’t want to agree.

  He liked the idea of sitting alone for many hours, glass after glass, bottle after bottle, drowning his sorrows until they were forgotten.

  Kate wouldn’t let that happen.

  She’d seen it too many times before.

  She slurped her beer, in love with the amber liquid. With four older, macho brothers, her love for beer was developed in her mid-teens. She spent many years in love with beer, fueling her party lifestyle. It wasn’t until she came to L.A. as a twenty-one-year-old that she learnt that classy girls weren’t supposed to love beer. Classy girls were supposed to sip cocktails and giggle at the alpha male’s jokes.

  She tried her best to fit in, but it just wasn’t her.

  Whenever she found herself in a dive bar, she couldn’t resist the call of a great ale.

  “Harry Jones’ body was found yesterday. Murdered a week ago. His body was dumped in the river.”

  “A
friend?”

  “An old friend. A school friend. He was a former cop. Worked closely with Pitt. A good man. A really good man. But…”

  “Let me guess, he was a homeless drunk in the end? Lived in Skid Row?”

  Harvey nodded. “He was a great cop until he walked into a family murder-suicide scene late one night. It hit him hard. Those are the sort of things no person should see. So, he turned to alcohol. It became his only escape. He couldn’t see it until it was too late, but he lost control. He couldn’t walk away from the demon drink, and it just got worse and worse. That was until one day he snapped after drinking all morning and beat an African American woman into the ground. Almost killed her. Put her in hospital. He said that she was trying to steal something from him, but it was caught on camera, and the footage went to all the papers. They had no choice but to fire him. It was a sad ending to his career, but he did the wrong thing. He knew that. He did the wrong thing.”

  “I remember that story,” Kate said. “Four or five years ago, right?”

  “That’s it. The thing is, I saw him a month ago—he said a lot of the same things that Gerard told me. Wanted to clean himself up, wanted to start again. We were good friends in high school, and I was happy to help him. Took him out for a coffee and gave him some numbers of people that might have been able to help him. He said he felt dead on the inside, and I tried to help. He said that he was better off dead anyway because he felt like he was. He knew he shouldn’t have beat that woman, but he couldn’t stop it. He was the walking dead. Alcoholism did that to him. It turns the living into the dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kate whispered. “Do they think it’s connected to your brother?”

  “The cops think so. The timeline fits. The body only showed up yesterday, but they think he was murdered a few days before they arrested Jonathon. Matches all the criteria for the serial killer.”

  “But?”

  “But his body wasn’t left in the alley like the others. He was taken somewhere and dumped in the river. There were still bruises around his neck, and he still died due to strangulation. But then, he was dragged somewhere else to cover the tracks. It wasn’t the same as the others.”