by Blake Pierce
“Right now I’m scrolling through all your closed cases since you started with us. In the last two years alone, you’ve been responsible for putting away seventeen murderers, including several who made personal threats to you after their convictions. I count at least three of those.”
“I can’t keep track,” Jessie said. “Remind me again.”
“There’s Eliza Longworth, the woman who killed her best friend after discovering she was having an affair with her husband. She blames you for separating her from her children.”
“In my defense,” Jessie answered wryly, “I warned her about that possibility and her response was to try to kill me.”
“Don’t forget the plastic surgeon, Dr. Richard Kallas,” Ryan added. “His trial for killing his porn actress crush hasn’t even begun yet. You know he’s feeling raw about it. Plus he’s definitely proven himself to be the obsessive type.”
“And then there’s Andrea Robinson,” Decker piled on. “She was the first case you worked for the department, if I recall. Didn’t she almost frame her lover’s maid for killing him?”
“That’s right,” Ryan added. “And you two were starting to become besties. You even went to her house for a girls’ night of drinking and movies. Isn’t that when she tried to poison you?”
“I was new to the job,” Jessie said defensively. “And looking for friends. I may have made some poor decisions as I settled in.”
“She was a real sociopath,” Decker recollected. “We’ll have to double-check but I think she was sent to a psych unit.”
“Speaking of sociopaths, we haven’t even mentioned your ex-husband,” Ryan reminded her. “He doesn’t seem like the type to let things go either. You really know how to pick ’em, Jessie.”
She gave him a glare that he understood to mean, “I’m with you now so what does that say?” but she kept her actual verbal reply more restrained.
“Okay, I get it,” Jessie said, overwhelmed. “There are lots of people who might have a grudge against me. Once we get back to the office, we can go through every likely suspect and see who they’ve been communicating with. Maybe we’ll find that one of them recently got a visit from their hacker cousin or something.”
“That’s too many suspects for you guys to handle on your own. I count five credible ones. I’ll farm some of that out now to other members of the unit,” Decker said. “Then you’ll have less legwork to do when you return. Besides, we don’t know for sure that the tire incident and the hacks are even related. I need you two focused on the case at hand. Got it?”
“Yes sir,” Ryan said.
“And don’t forget, Hunt,” Decker added. “Keep that phone close. Media Relations will be reaching out to you soon.”
“I can’t wait,” she replied, unable to hide the sarcasm.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The drive to Bryce Laterno’s last known address was long. He lived in a run-down apartment complex in San Pedro, within sight of the massive Port of Los Angeles and the associated hazy, smog-choked air.
They parked a half block away and made their way down Laterno’s street, which was a mix of industrial buildings, cheap motels, and cheap motels that had been converted into apartment buildings.
“Lots of big warehouses, “Ryan noted. “I could see a guy looking at those and getting the idea that large, empty buildings under construction might be the ideal place to keep his captives.”
“Good point,” Jessie agreed. “But I’m not sure how Laterno would know all those sites were unoccupied. I looked at his file. He has no connection to Construction Associates. According to his parole officer, his only gig since getting out of prison was as a part-time welder at a metal shop in Long Beach.”
“So you’re saying we should be on the lookout for the guy to answer the door with a blowtorch?” Ryan asked jokingly.
Jessie looked at him, unamused.
“Considering how this day has gone, it wouldn’t stun me.”
They arrived at Laterno’s building. It too was a converted two-story motel. They walked up the rickety stairwell to the second-story unit and listened quietly. They could hear sounds inside but couldn’t discern what they were.
Ryan motioned for Jessie to stand behind him as he stood to the side of the door and knocked. He unsnapped the holster of his gun and rested his hand there.
“Who is it?” came a gruff voice.
“LAPD,” Ryan announced loudly and firmly. “Your P.O. asked us to check on you to make sure you’re okay.”
There was a second of silence before they got a response.
“You can tell him I’m fine,” Laterno said.
“You know that’s not going to cut it, Mr. Laterno,” Ryan replied. “We need to visually verify that you’re not under duress. And if you are all right, you need to explain why you’ve missed your last two appointments. Please open the door.”
They waited a good fifteen seconds before there was any reaction.
“Show me your badge and I’ll open the door,” Laterno finally said.
Ryan held it up to the peephole and a few moments later the door opened to reveal a thirty-something guy in sweatpants and a long flannel shirt that seemed way too warm for the weather. His long black hair, greasy and unwashed, hung in his face. He had about a week’s worth of stubble. His eyes were red and the room smelled strongly of pot. His hands were shoved in the pockets of the sweatpants and he swayed slightly, though he seemed unaware of it.
“Can you please remove your hands from your pockets?” Ryan asked. “Very slowly.”
Laterno followed the instruction. Ryan used the moment to step over the threshold of the door, making it impossible to close it without hitting him. Jessie stepped into view as well. Laterno gave her a half-glance before returning his attention to Ryan.
“You can see I’m fine,” he said, full of surliness. “Can you go now?”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Your P.O. needs a formal statement explaining why you missed your last two visits.”
“Aw, man, come on,” Laterno squawked. “I just forgot, okay. I got a little high. It happens.”
Jessie and Ryan exchanged looks. Either Laterno was too stupid to have possibly kidnapped four women and gotten away with it or he was one of the most convincing performers they’d ever encountered.
“You know that missing a scheduled meeting with your parole officer is cause for re-arrest,” Ryan said. “As is taking drugs, which you just admitted to. We could haul you in right now.”
Laterno slouched pathetically.
“But,” Ryan continued, “we might cut you a break if you can answer a few questions. Mind if we come in?”
“No, man. You need a warrant for that,” Laterno whined.
Jessie glanced at Ryan, wondering how he wanted to handle this. They were investigating a murder and could reasonably claim this was an exigent circumstance that would allow them to enter his place without a warrant. But she could sense Ryan wanted to avoid playing that card for as long as he could.
“That’s fine,” Ryan said. “Then we’ll just take you in now.”
“What?”
“Those are your options, buddy. You can either welcome us in for a friendly chat and let us take a look around or we can take you to the station, where you’ll definitely spend the night and maybe a lot longer. It’s your call.”
Laterno, looking defeated, waved them in. They entered and Ryan motioned for the man to join him at the small kitchen table. Jessie didn’t follow them, instead choosing to take a look around the apartment.
“Where were you last night?” Ryan asked.
As Laterno fumbled for an answer, searching the inner regions of his apparently bong-resin-addled brain, Jessie scanned the living room, which was a collection of strewn-about socks, half-empty bowls of cereal, and fast food wrappers. If Laterno was faking being a stoner, he had really committed to the bit.
“I was here, man,” Laterno insisted after several uncertain seconds. “I was right
on that couch watching some shows.”
“Was anyone with you?” Ryan asked.
“Nah, man. I was alone.”
“What did you watch?” Ryan pressed.
“I don’t remember, man. Reruns?”
You can do better than that,” Ryan prodded.
As they went back and forth, Jessie opened the door to what she assumed was the bedroom. It was a sad excuse for a room, basically a large walk-in closet separated from the rest of the apartment by some thin drywall. There was a futon bed against the far wall with a tiny end table. A half dresser was shoved in the corner.
As wretched and depressing as the room was, that’s not what drew Jessie’s attention. Taped to the other wall were a series of papers and what looked to be photos. She turned on the bedroom light and moved over to get a better look.
What she saw made her blood curdle.
“Ryan,” she called out to the other room. “Cuff him!”
*
When Laterno was safely tied to the floor heater in the living room, Jessie showed Ryan what she’d found. The wall was a detailed compilation of the movements of Janey Mills, the woman who had accused Laterno of kidnapping her before he was later arrested for stalking.
There were photos of her leaving her home in Carson, only seven miles from here, as well as shots of her entering work, at a Starbucks, and multiple other locations. He had a piece of ripped, spiral notebook paper with her daily schedule scrawled on it.
Finally there were the drawings in the form of comic book panels. They were crude but it was clear what was going on. In the first one, a woman who looked like Janey was naked, getting out of a bathtub. In the next, she was lying in bed, still naked, in an embrace with a long-haired man who looked like Laterno. In the third, she was still lying in bed, but this time she was bloody with a knife sticking out of her chest. The Laterno figure sat on the bed beside her dead body, a smile on her face.
Ryan called Harbor Station’s CSU and they returned to the living room. While they waited for the unit to arrive, Ryan read Laterno his rights.
“Now that I’ve read these rights to you,” he concluded, “would you agree to answer some questions?”
“What’s in it for me?” Laterno demanded belligerently.
“You’re in a tough spot, Bryce,” Ryan said simply. “If you can give me an explanation for what we just saw in your bedroom, maybe there’s a way you don’t go right back behind bars. I want to help you if I can.”
“Hard pass,” Laterno said, looking away petulantly.
Ryan looked over at Jessie and shrugged as if that was what he’d expected. When the locals arrived to take custody of Laterno, Ryan and Jessie asked them to check the GPS data on his phone to see if he’d gone anywhere last night. Then they headed back downtown.
“I don’t think it’s him,” Jessie said after several silent minutes in the car.
“Why not?” Ryan asked, though he didn’t sound like he needed much convincing.
“He’s fixated on Janey. I think we potentially stopped something terrible from happening to her, though I’m not even sure of that. He could have set up that wall as a fantasy plan. I wouldn’t be surprised if he never intended to act on it.”
“We don’t know that,” Ryan countered.
“No we don’t,” she agreed. “And of course it’s better to be safe than sorry. But there was nothing in that place about any of the other victims. And I read his notes. It was basic stuff. I just don’t think he had the capacity for the elaborate planning that was required to abduct four women and hold them for multiple days. Whoever did that was meticulous. Bryce Laterno is not that. He can barely organize two consecutive thoughts. He’s not going to be our guy.”
“Assuming you’re right,” Ryan said, sounding crestfallen, “we’re back to the drawing board.”
“I’m not even sure we have a drawing board to go back to,” Jessie replied dejectedly.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Caroline Gidley had to pee.
Normally that would not be a big deal. But trying to get from her hospital bed to the bathroom with a broken leg was no easy undertaking. Still, she was sick of bedpans and didn’t want to call the nurse again. Besides, she told herself, she’d recover faster if she made a conscious effort to be self-sufficient.
Caroline was trying hard not to let what happened to her in Griffith Park incapacitate her. She kept reminding herself that she was a survivor, not a victim. She’d escaped the clutches of a woman-hating psycho. She’d rescued herself.
Now if I can just stop flinching at every unexpected sound and breaking down in tears every few hours, I’ll be well on my way to reclaiming my life.
Going to the bathroom alone was a literal and figurative step in that direction. It took a good two minutes, but eventually she was able to swing her legs off the bed and stand up. The massive cast encased her right leg from hip to toe and navigating her way the twelve feet to the toilet took both energy and balance, each of which she was sorely lacking these days.
She was just about to begin the journey when her phone buzzed. It was her fiancé, Shane. He was running late to visit her because one of the dogs had dug up part of the small backyard garden. He suspected that it was because of anxiety over her having been gone for so long. Caroline tended to think he was just after the carrots embedded in the dirt. Either way, his lateness would give her more time to finish the adventure she was about to undertake.
She was almost to the open door of the bathroom, ignoring the effort-induced sweat coming down her forehead, when she heard something inside. She couldn’t identify it. It might have been heavy breathing or a repeating, low grunt. Suddenly her whole body seized up with the fear she’d managed to keep at bay for the last few hours. She froze in place, trying not to breathe.
Caroline glanced back at the hospital room door. It was only five feet away. But there was no way she could reach it before someone hiding in the bathroom got to her. She looked around for something to defend herself with but there was nothing.
From where she stood, she could see an extra bedpan resting on the bathroom counter. It was only two steps away. If she could grab it, maybe she could hit the intruder with it and get out. And if she turned on the bathroom light, maybe she could temporarily blind the attacker to get in that swing. It was a sad plan but the only one she had.
She took one more small step, trying to stay as quiet as possible, and prepared to take the last, large one that would get her to the bedpan. When she was in position, she stood still for a moment, girding herself for what was to come. Then, when she couldn’t stall any longer, she moved.
Grabbing the door handle with her left hand, she swung it open hard and fast as she stepped forward and flicked on the light switch. Then she grabbed the bedpan and lifted it high over her head.
She saw no one. The bathroom was empty. Even with the frosted glass, it was obvious there was no one in the shower stall. She stood there, breathing heavily, dumbfounded. And then she heard it again, the repeating sound from earlier.
Only now it became clear that it wasn’t grunting or heavy breathing. It was a drip from the shower head. Every two seconds, there was a small plop which echoed in the stall. To an active imagination it could be mistaken for a soft grunt.
Caroline breathed a massive sigh of relief and leaned back, resting her exhausted body on the bathroom counter. After a moment, she bent over, turned on the faucet, and splashed water on her face. She was so relieved that she almost forgot her original reason for entering in the first place.
After taking care of that issue, she made the long trek back to the bed, deciding that next time she wouldn’t be too proud to ask for help. She was halfway across the room when the nurse came in.
“What are you doing?” he asked in dismay, his high, squeaky voice sounding slightly panicked as he hurried over to help her.
“I tried to be a hero,” she admitted sheepishly, allowing him to wrap his arm around her waist and ease her back to th
e bed.
“Don’t do that anymore,” he insisted as he guided her back to a prone position.
“I’ve learned my lesson,” she said, smiling. “Don’t tell the other nurses. Where is Ella, by the way?”
“She’s on break,” he said, lifting her legs back onto the bed. “I’m just helping out, doing the dirty work. You can call me Joe. Some folks call me Average Joe.”
Something about the phrase jogged something unpleasant in her memory. It took her a second to realize that it was just that the nurse had inadvertently said the same word her abductor had used so often: dirty.
He had constantly described her as unclean, sinful, debased, and yes, dirty. If she never heard the word again it would be too soon.
“Is everything okay?” Joe asked. “Your face just turned white.”
She shook her head as she rested her head back on the pillow.
“It’s nothing. You just said something that brought back a bad memory.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said as he pulled the top sheet up to cover her legs. “What did I say so I don’t make the same mistake again?”
“Don’t even worry about it,” Caroline said. “It’s no big deal.”
“Was it the word ‘dirty,’ Caroline?”
She looked up at him. The tenor of his voice had changed. The high squeak was gone, replaced by something deeper, more familiar.
“What did you say?” she asked.
Her chest was suddenly gripped by a panicky tightness. All her extremities began tingling at once as if she’d been injected with a shot of adrenaline.
The nurse smiled down at her, revealing his discolored teeth.
“I was asking if the word that bothered you was ‘dirty.’ Would you prefer I said something else? Impure? Polluted? Because those describe you equally well.”
Caroline, though she couldn’t catch her breath, opened her mouth to scream, but his hand clamped down before she could get anything out.
“Do you recognize my voice now, Caroline?” he whispered. “It’s your old friend Average Joe, though I prefer Avenging Joe. Have you been using your brief stretch of freedom productively, Caroline? I hope so, since it’s coming to an end.”
