"Sarge," I ask, "did you find any witnesses that saw anything?"
"No, Mike. It seems like everybody had their eyes closed, or they didn't stick around to offer any assistance. You would think someone would've seen something.”
"Yes, it's a shame people don't want to get involved nowadays. This generation just doesn't seem to care, compared to when we were growing up. Things were a bit different back then."
Just then, a young man walks up to the tape. "Hey, mister. Hey, policeman, I need to talk to you."
Sharon and I both turn to look from where we hear the voice. We walk over to see what he wants.
A young man of around 16 years of age, in need of a haircut, stands with his arms open and the sleeves pulled up, says, “I saw everything. I saw him dump her off like a sack of potatoes and then drive off."
"What did he look like?" I asked as this might be our first proper lead.
“I didn't get to see his face." He motions with his hands towards his head. "He had his collar up."
"What color were his clothes?"
"Black, I think, black or dark blue," was the reply as he rubbed his chin.
"How tall was he?" Sharon asks.
"About the same height as she is, maybe a little taller." Pointing to where the victim was.
"What was he driving?"
"I think a four-door black or dark blue sedan."
"What make?"
Again with his hands to his chin, "I don't know, it's one I'm not familiar with, but it looked expensive."
"Did you catch a license plate?"
"No, but I don't think it had one."
"What time was it, do you know?"
"About an hour ago while looking at his watch.”
"Let me ask you something, are you on something?" I try looking into his eyes.
"Man, here I am trying to help you guys, and you're accusing me of smoking crap or shooting up. Dude, that's not right." He shakes his hands down in disgust.
"Okay, okay, here's my card, if you do think of anything more specific, give me a call."
I turn around and walk back over to where the victim had been. Look to see if I can find any telling signs of what could've happened or was left behind. I look around, noticing most people who had gathered have already dispersed. Just a few stragglers were still watching.
I know she was not stabbed here and was placed in a posed position. Just like the other three women, Gracie Tan, Barbara Akin, and Patricia Wright, which were propped up in a similar manner, thinking: Why would she be by herself? Was she meeting someone? If she was, did the person not show up? I look up and notice the street cameras on several poles. I call it into Paul to have the tapes ready for my viewing when I get back to the office.
Chapter 4
The phone rings, as Stephen Gray crawls across the bed, over the voluptuous naked blonde lying next to him and reaches over for the phone. Still straddling her and almost dropping the phone onto the floor: "Yeah, who is it? There better be a damn good reason for waking me up this early." Stephen has been in theater and a short-lived television series. He has been nominated for an Oscar in a supporting role, for his work in Nobody's Perfect. He didn't win, but it did help him jump-start his faltering career. Up until then, he even thought, maybe this line of work wasn’t for him until he got that gem of a part.
"This is Joel, where in the hell are you?" asks Joel Trajan, Stephen’s agent for the past ten years.
"Just taking some time off, what the hell do you care?"
"I just got a call from Fox; they want to put together a TV series following the format of the murdered actresses. They called me up hoping you would be available and take one of the lead parts."
"You know I'll do it. I need the money and exposure."
“I was thinking as much, but I thought I’d better check with you first. When can you be here?"
"I can be there tomorrow if need be. Why? What’s the hurry? They can't be ready to shoot already."
"They’re ready to start shooting. They started writing the script right after the second murder. They were figuring or hoping it might turn out to be a serial killer. They're prepared to start next week. They want to get this into production while it is still hot and on the news."
"I'll be there in plenty of time. Get the script ready for me to read. By the way, what part am I playing?"
"They want you to play the serial killer."
"God, I would've never guessed that when you first called, I thought it would be maybe the lead detective."
"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing when they gave me the call. But when they got into it and went over the idea of the script with me, I thought you being the serial killer would be a better fit."
"Thanks, I'm not sure how to take that. I'll see you in a day or two." He rolls back over, and this time, he has dropped the phone onto the floor and went back to sleep. The blonde grunts and tries to move him off of her, but gives up and falls back asleep.
Chapter 5
Candace Wright, a news reporter for the daily tabloid, the Hollywood Reporter, walks into my office. "Well what have you got for me, anything new, anything different, anything I haven't already heard on the tube or read in the L.A. Times?" She edges over to the coffee and pours herself some, adds some cream, stirs it with a swizzle stick, and makes herself at home by pulling up a chair, taking a seat and crossing her legs.
She was a former runner-up for Miss L.A. coming from high society, upper crust family. Her father owns the paper she works at and, for that matter, almost runs. He also owns two of the city's 23 television stations, one being Channel 22 and the other Channel 11. He also holds a large stake in Fox Incorporated.
Candace is looking even better than she did some ten years ago. Her 5 foot 9 inches slender, perfect frame made the dress she was wearing look great. She had that California blond hair. She wore it shorter now than she used to. I like the new look, and she doesn’t look like she aged a bit.
"Sorry, Candace, I'm sorry to say the same thing as the last three victims. There is nothing new to go on. No one saw anything, or at least no one's coming forward with any worthwhile information."
"That doesn't help me at all, I can only write a short paragraph about what I've heard, and I need something different, something no one else knows. I already put in the paper tonight that it is the serial killer, and what to look for in a profile of one."
"It seems that way. She was killed just like the others," is my response.
"Thanks, loads; that doesn't help me one little iota. Do you know of anything being taken? Did she still have her rings? Was anything missing, maybe a necklace, anything, anything new?" she says in frustration.
"Doesn't seem like anything was missing, but we have to check with her roommate."
"Can I come with you?" she asks in a pleading tone with her forehead wrinkled and her lips slightly open.
"No," was my simple reply.
Years ago, Candace and I had a relationship. It was hot and heavy. We had been seeing each other for almost four years. We had gone to Paris, to see the Eiffel Tower; I took her to Honolulu, to show her where I grew up, and to Australia and New Zealand. We also went on two cruises, one the inside passage to Alaska and one to the Caribbean. I had thought, at one time, we were going to get married. The only reason we broke up was her parents introduced her to a man, closer to her age and who they felt were more suitable for her, but more than likely, for them. Her father told her if she did not go out with him, he would disinherit her from his will. She felt that was her best move and broke off our relationship.
The time between her and the new suitor lasted only a short while, but she did not call me to renew the relationship. I think she felt too embarrassed at the thought that she had betrayed me.
These Hollywood murders have brought us back together, but only in a professional setting. Although I still have strong feelings towards her, I haven’t pressed for us to get back together. I thought I wanted to, but felt it better to keep
it for another day.
Chapter 6
As we leave the office, Sharon takes West Sunset Boulevard, turning left onto North Cahuenga. She eventually gets onto the ramp to US 101 North, gets off at Sepulveda, and then goes a short distance east of Dickens Street. As we approach the two-story tan townhouses where Michelle Borne lived, she parks the car in front of a fire hydrant and walks with me towards the front door. Flowers, about two feet deep, cover the sidewalk, along with many draped over the black wrought iron fence that is in front of their apartment, all dropped off by fans. A television camera crew was parked outside, along with a few photojournalists. Cameras start flashing as we walk toward the front gate, the clicking of some of the cameras keeping pace with our steps as we get to the landing. The night sky is lit up by the TV crew's lights, as I press the doorbell.
"God, you would think she would have lived in a nicer place than this, not that this is bad. I would love it, but with her being a Hollywood movie star and all," Sharon says, eyeing the neighborhood.
"Remember, she was just up-and-coming, and probably since that was, I believe, only her second movie, maybe she didn't make that much."
I could see a shadow approaching the front door, by the light from behind, you could tell someone was looking through the curtains. The door opens slightly; the gold chain blocks the door from opening all the way. A young woman opens the door; you can tell she had been crying, her eyes swollen, as she peeks around.
"Are you Michelle’s roommate?" Sharon asks, catching only part of her face.
"Yes, are you the detective that called me earlier?" Without asking for identification, she unhooks the chain and opens the door and asked us to come in.
As soon as we step in, I say, "Don’t you ever, ever let someone in without showing any valid identification. You don't know for sure who we were; we could've been the press or the killer."
"Sorry, sorry, I wasn't thinking. I'm just so mixed up right now. I can't believe she's dead." She is very apologetic and a bit fidgety.
"First, to start out with the obvious question, do you know of anyone that would have wanted to harm her? Did she have any death threats? Did she have any unusual phone calls or mail?"
"No, no, nothing I'm aware of. Everyone loved her. Didn't you watch the Oscars, and see the audience's reaction to when she won? She and I sat next to each other, and I was so excited when she won. We hugged each other, like sisters."
As we look around, we notice several moving boxes are taped up and stacked throughout the home. They’re marked bedroom, front room, hallway, and kitchen.
"Were you planning on moving?" I ask, looking around and pointing towards all of the boxes.
"Yes, she and I had talked about it." She raises her bloodshot eyes to meet mine. “If she won the Oscar, we were going to buy a home which we had looked at and own our own place.”
“Did she have a boyfriend, anyone that she was seeing?” Sharon asks.
"She had a boyfriend, but they broke up about two months ago."
"What was his name?"
"Mark Jacobson."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"He lives in Malibu on Birdview Avenue, I believe. Has a mansion there, I was told it was one of the largest estates up there."
"And what does he do?"
I don't think he works; I think he lives off of his trust fund. Michelle said he was loaded and didn't need to work. She mentioned he kind of does and goes wherever he wants to."
"Do you know where she went tonight? Was she meeting anyone?
"She wasn't here when I got home. Usually, she leaves a note on the refrigerator door, but tonight, she didn't leave one."
"Has anybody stopped by tonight?"
"Yes, there were lots of reporters, but I noticed who they were when I looked through the curtain, I didn't answer the door." She answered with her head bent down with her arms crossed over her chest.
I ask, "Is it all right if we look through some of her things?"
"Yes, sure, fine, whatever you need."
"Which room was hers?"
"It’s upstairs and down the hall." She points to the stairway. “Hers is the one on the right." Sharon and I walk up the stairs to her room; I open the door and switch on the light. The Oscar she had won just a few weeks earlier was sitting on her mantel. Pictures which were taken on that night are taped to the wall, along with several studio shots, both in color and black and white. The room is neat and clean; nothing lavish at all. Other than the Oscar, you would never know one of the Hollywood's up and coming movie actresses once lived here, living a simple life. The room looks as if it hosts a simple, non-pretentious, and down to earth style of living.
I look around for a computer, as most young adults put their hearts and souls into different programs on the Internet. I find it placed neatly in the top right drawer of her dresser. She had 2 USB memory cards, both marked with different dates. I hand Sharon the computer along with the memory cards. "How good are you with these things?"
"I'm pretty good. I know my way around the computer. I know the difference between a hard drive, RAM, and Gigabyte. Give it to me, and I'll try to find out what you want to know."
Sharon turns on the computer, after setting it down on the desk. She pulls out the chair as the computer comes to life. "Mike, what do you think her password would be?"
"I don't know. It is something simple. Something a woman could easily remember."
"That sounds sexist to me," Susan says, looking up with a smile.
"I didn't mean it that way. Maybe something around the room would trigger what she would want to go ahead and use as a password."
"What was the name of the movie she was in? It was The Dark Midnight or something like that?"
”Midnight Blue."
Sharon types it in. "No, doesn't work, but what was her name in the movie?"
"Amanda," I throw out.
"Yes, that was it." Then Susan types in the password. "No, not it."
"Hold on. Maybe the roommate knows." I walk out, and down the stairs, toward the kitchen where the roommate is still seated. "By any chance, do you know what her password was on her computer?"
"She just changed it last week. Try ‘Oscar.’" She wipes her nose with an already wet napkin.
"I should have thought of that, then " I walk back into the bedroom. "Try ‘Oscar.’"
"I already am,” I hear her say. “yes, it’s coming up. Now let's see what's on the computer. You know, Mike, this may take a while; we should probably take this back to Paul. I know he could find whatever we are looking for in a nanosecond.”
"You're probably right. "I proceeded to the kitchen and get a small plastic bag. "We’re going to take the computer and check it out back at our office. Do you need anything? Do you feel safe here? Do you have some place where you would rather stay? We can give you a ride if you want to go somewhere," I mention to the roommate, who is now sitting at the dining room table.
"No, I'll lock the door after you leave and won't answer it in case anyone comes." She’s shaking her head.
"Okay, we’ll be out of your way shortly."
We proceed down the steps carrying the computer, as the TV cameras follow us as we get into our car and head back to the office.
Our offices are not in the main Hollywood Police Station on Wilcox Avenue. Theirs is a two-story, bland, light blue building which didn’t have enough room for what I want and needed. But behind it, in the classier fire department’s tan, brick, two-story building lined with brick and wrought iron fencing all the way around the compound. I like our building much better than the mundane police one for several reasons. I have half the second floor, enough room for all we have and need, and there are a lab department and morgue already in the basement.
As Sharon drops me off, "Take this up to Paul." I hand the plastic bag with the memory cards and the computer to Sharon. "I'm going to check in with Susan."
Chapter 7
“Susan, is there anything new? Please tell m
e you have something.” I walk through the sliding glass doors into the city morgue. She’s in her white smock and wearing rubber gloves and a scalpel in her hand, standing over the lifeless body of Miss Borne.
"Mike, just as I suspected, it is different. I now think there is more than one person doing these killings. Look here?” pointing to the back of her neck. “I’m sure it’s from an ice pick, or a device very similar. On all the other women, you could tell the insertion was straight and precise. But on this one, it looks as if the individual missed his mark the first time and had to pull the pick back a little and move the pick while still inside. See how the puncture is lower on the neck than these pictures of others and the bruise are on the back of her neck? Someone pulled her down hard and onto the ground. This woman had felt some pain before she died. Not like the others; they probably felt nothing." She is leaning over the corpse, which has been dissected but not stitched up yet.
"I was pretty sure I was right, but at the scene, I didn't want to say too much. How about any evidence left behind?"
"Sorry, same old thing, same old thing, everything exactly the same, nothing new. No DNA, no nothing. I can't believe these people can be so clean and not leave any clues. Mike, they are going to be hard to find."
"The only things we can hope for is they either quit, make a mistake, call in and confess, or—we catch them."
I leave her office and take the stairs up to mine. The main room is filled with several large TV screens, one being four 60-inch screens put together. There are three computers and several printers.
"Okay, what do we have from the cameras? Let me see it up on the screen." I slide onto a tall chair on wheels, wheeling myself in front of the screens.
"Mike, we have nothing," Paul Peller, my technician, says. "All we have is snow from the feed during the times of the drop-off. Look, this is the timeline where we’re sure she was dropped off. This is right before the last clear shot of the picture. As you can see, it ultimately goes blank; snow covers the screen, and when the screen clears up and comes back, there she is."
The Hollywood Serial Killers: A Mike Kane Mystery Series Page 2
