The Hollywood Serial Killers: A Mike Kane Mystery Series

by Sands, Jordan

  “Is it a certain sergeant who visited us this morning?” I ask, pretty sure of the answer.

  “Yes, I’m almost certain it was him. But how did you know?”

  “Just a good guess. I’m coming down.”

  I take the steps and meet her in front of the station, right in front of the bronze firemen. “Let’s take a short walk.”

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “Just going to the apartments across from the police station.”

  We walk down De Longpre Avenue and cross Wilcox Avenue and go through the cast iron gate along the side of the street and take the steps up to the third floor of the gray stucco building. We walk towards apartment 307 and see the door is slightly ajar. Sharon presses on the door ever so slightly and opens it a little wider. I look in and see Randall O’Reilly changing shirts. I walk in first, followed by Sharon.

  “What, Sarge, a hot day and it’s not even half over, and you feel you need to change shirts?” I ask, and find a surprised look on his face.

  He looks down at the clothes hamper he just placed his police shirt in; he notices a sleeve is hanging out. He reaches down to put it into the basket.

  “That’s okay, just leave it,” as I walk towards the small bathroom that he is standing in. “I think I know what I will find on it.”

  Sarge tries to push me aside before I get to the bathroom. His double-wide bed is blocking one side and the dresser is blocking the other. I grab his wrist as he tries to hit me, turning it as I pull him down with his own weight. His body falls with a thud as the wind is knocked out of him, causing him to make a loud grunt as his head bounces once after hitting the floor. I place my foot on the small of his back, as Sharon comes over to put the handcuffs on him behind his back and reads him his rights as if he didn’t know them by heart. Together we stand him up and place him on his bed.

  “Just answer me one thing right now.” Looking straight at him. “Why, why did you do it?”

  “Mike, take a look around. This is where I live. I’m coming up for retirement, and my pension won’t be enough. My ex-wife gets half. It’s the money; it’s all about the money.”

  “I hope you think it was worth it.”

  As we walk him out of his apartment and down the stairs and across the street, some passersby slow down as they see a policeman being escorted in handcuffs.

  We walk over the stars of fallen heroes who are on the entryway that leads to the Los Angeles Police Department, Hollywood Station, and we go up the few steps into the station. The police commander sees us and wonders what is going on. Why are we parading one of his leading policeman in handcuffs? I call upon two other officers to escort him to a holding cell. They take him as Sharon, and I follow the commander into his office.

  “Okay, what the hell is going on?” The commander, John Purepot, asks in an arrogant manner.

  “He’s the one who was partly behind the killings of the Hollywood murders.”

  “He’s the best sergeant I have; how could he have been behind any of this?”

  “He helped with the forensics which made it difficult for us to find anything.”

  “And how do you know this?” the commander asks.

  “Well for one, he told us,” I proclaim.

  “I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t be so stupid,” John declares.

  “Go ask him,” I reply. “We both heard him.”

  The commander gets up sliding his chair back. “I will.” He leaves his office, very upset.

  I look at Sharon with a look of disbelief. “I can’t believe this,” she says. “He believes him. Believing he couldn’t have done this?”

  “You believe in your people. You have to. Otherwise, you can’t lead,” I answer.

  “But he’s taking his word over ours,” she points out.

  “I know, and that bothers me too,” I respond. “I think it’s time to leave.”

  We get up and head for our office. “I think we should have brought the sergeant over to our cells,” Sharon says.

  “Yes, that's what it looks like now. But the reason we didn’t was we didn’t want him talking with the others.”

  We walk into our office as Paul says, “Looks like something went wrong; what was it?”

  “Nothing. The commander is a bit upset with us.” Sharon replies.

  “Why, what did you two do to deserve that?”

  “Just arrested his sergeant and put him into his precinct’s cell,” I throw out. “That’s all.”

  “Holy shit,” Paul looks at me like my ass has been cooked.

  “It’s been a long week, think we will cut out early today,” I say, looking over to Sharon to get the car.

  “TGIF, see you Monday,” she says, as she's dropping me off at my home.

  After several hours, just as I was settling down to eat my dinner, I get a call. “Mike, Mr. Tan, and Martha are gone from their cells,” Paul tells me in a hurried voice.

  “How in the hell did that happen? And where are they?”

  I call Sharon to come back to pick me up and we rush back to the office. She parks the car in front as I run up the stairs. Paul is standing there at the top.

  “How the hell did they get out? Get me the night supervisor,” I say in a frustrated voice.

  “He’s waiting for you in your office.”

  I walk in and see Officer Johnny Johnson. “Johnny, what the hell happened? Where are they?”

  Quickly standing, I say, “Sir, Sergeant O’Reilly walked in saying the commander needed to speak with the prisoners, so I let them out. I didn’t think anything was wrong until Mr. Peller asked me where they were just as I was getting off.”

  “Didn’t you know that Sergeant O’Reilly was arrested?”

  “No, nobody told me. What did he do?”

  “He is involved with this.”

  “Oh, that’s not good.”

  “Didn’t you think something was wrong when they weren’t brought back?”

  “No, sir, I just figured they put them into holding cells over there.”

  “Shit! Come on!” I yell to Sharon as she is walking into my office.

  We run over to the precinct and rush in. “Where’s the commander?”

  The response I get is “It’s after five. He’s off until Monday.”

  “Hell, I know it’s after five. Hasn’t anyone called him to let him know all of the prisoners are missing?”

  I motion to Sharon to go to the cells and see if Stephen is there. As she walks back, she asks the inmates who were in the adjoining cells where he is. They all tell her the Sergeant took him out, saying he was going to talk with him. She asks when that was, and they answered, just a couple of hours ago. She turns around in disgust and heads back to meet with me.

  “Well?” I ask.

  “Gone, same as Mr. Tan and Martha.”

  “Sarge?” I already know the answer.

  “Gone.”

  I look around and see most of the desks are empty. “All right.” I raise my voice to get everyone’s attention. “Everyone, does anyone know where Sergeant O’Reilly is?” No response from anyone. “Or where Stephen Gray is?” Still no answer. “Shit, does anyone in here know any fucking thing?” Everyone looks back down to their desk.

  I walk back into the commander’s office and up to his sergeant on duty.

  “Is the commander coming in?”

  “I called, but he didn’t answer, so I sent him a text message. He hasn’t called back saying if he was or wasn’t coming back, ” the sergeant says.

  “Back to the office.” We walk out the front door, hang a right, and start down Wilcox Avenue as a car passes by, and we get shot at with four rounds from a gun with a silencer. One hits Sharon in her left arm as she dives for cover. Raising my head from my position, I glance, trying to get a license plate, but none is to be found on the back of the car. It's a black Chevy with white walls, dark tinted windows with no decals on any of the windows. I raise my gun but can't get a clean shot off as there are t
hree pedestrians on the sidewalk.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’ve been hit, but other than that, I think I’m all right. It’s just a scratch,” she says as she looks down at her arm. “Who the hell was that?”

  “I’m pretty sure I know, but we won’t get any information out of here, but I believe we have a dirty commander and a disgusting sergeant.” As I help her up.

  “I was starting to think the same thing. Two dirty cops.”

  Chapter 68

  As we walk back into our office, I say, “Paul, check and see if any private flights have left. Check more closely on Mr. Tan’s two planes that we know of, even the one that is supposed to be in the Caymans.”

  Paul yells out, “Mike; they haven’t left yet. They are still on the tarmac and are getting fueled up.”

  “I’m on it. I’ll meet you out front,” Sharon says as she heads for the door.

  I get on the phone and order all available police cars to get to the Santa Monica Airport and stop that plane. I rush down the steps and jump into the car, and we are off to the airport.

  Only three patrol cars are there as we arrive. Sharon notices it looks like his plane is getting turned around at the far end of the tarmac. I radio the patrol cars to race down the runway and try to stop that plane. All three cars pull across, taking up the middle of the tarmac as the plane is starting to rev up its engines and is beginning to race down the runway.

  “Oh my God, are they going to try to take off again with us blocking the runway?” Sharon mentions in astonishment.

  “Looks that way, but this time, they are not going to make it. The cars are a lot closer.”

  On board the plane, a voice barks out: “Fly over those bastards.”

  “We won’t be able to, they're too close,” replies the nervous pilot.

  “I don’t give a shit, just fucking do it and there will be a shitload of money for you once we get where we are going.” A hand presses down on the forward throttle, moving the plane forward at a rapid rate of speed. The pilot takes over the controls by shoving Martha’s hand away from the throttle, and the plane races down the runway and starts to lift. As it rises, the front wheels begin to leave the ground. Upon approaching the patrol cars, the front tires clips the top of the middle patrol car, causing the patrols flashing lights to throw shards of glass and metal debris up into the plane's right engine. The plane’s engine sputters and explodes, starting on fire almost immediately. The plane begins to roll onto its side as it slips from the sky. It does a partial somersault at the end of the runway only to cross a road and explode into a ball of fire on the Rose Street Golf Course.

  “Oh shit, did you see that? Did you see what happened?” Sharon yells out.

  “Let’s get over there right away.”

  We head out and, within a few minutes, we are close to the scene of the horrible accident.

  “Let’s hope and pray no one got hurt on the golf course,” I mention to Sharon in a whisper.

  Flames are covering the golf course which resembles lakes and rivers of flowing fiery lava from one end to the other. Luckily the plane was taking off west-southwest instead of the opposite direction. If the same thing happened in the other direction, dozens of homes would have been hit, and many more lives would have been lost.

  I call Susan to get here as soon as possible, and right after I call for several ambulances and the fire departments to get to the golf course as soon as they can. Sharon and I walk towards the burning plane where vast areas of burning greens and trees are on fire. We try to get as close as possible.

  “No one could have survived that,” Sharon tells me.

  “You're right.” We are looking for anyone outside the perimeter of the flames who may be injured and need our help. I see two across the way who are sitting on the ground with their heads bent down. We rush over and ask how they are doing. They look up at us dazed and confused.

  “What the hell happened?” one asks in a total state of shock.

  “A plane crashed on the golf course,” I tell them as Sharon bends down to check out their injuries. She has brought the emergency case from our patrol car and takes charge with bandaging them up the best she can under the circumstances. Two patrol cars arrive, and I call over to them to see if they can find and help anyone who may be hurt. They wave back to me in acknowledgment and sweep the golf course going around the fuel-filled pockets of fire. Susan soon arrives as well as the additional ambulances and foam-filled fire trucks from the airport. In total, we find eight others who were in need of medical attention. Some are telling us their golfing partners were in the midst of the accident. From where we stand, we see several charred, burning bodies. The smell of burning flesh you never get over, it stays with you in your nostrils for hours and even days at a time, as well as sticks to your clothes. One fireman hands me a hand held fire extinguisher as I go to two of the burning bodies and put them out. Pretty soon, the fire department has the flames under control except the mainframe of the plane itself. They keep flame retardant going onto the cockpit, finally putting it out.

  Susan comes over to where I am. “Mike, it’s going to be hours before I can even get to the bodies in the plane.”

  “That’s all right. The first things I want from you is to see how many were on board and who they were.” Reassuring her, time isn’t the pressing issue, “They're not going anywhere.”

  Sharon and I walk up the golf course, checking up with the paramedics and firefighters who are on the course helping the injured or putting out some brush fires. Many the trees on that end of the golf course went up in flames from the fuel drenching them upon the crash. In time, all fires are put out and now for the body count. Nine known civilian golfers are found among the dead, mostly as charred bodies. There are possibly more, as the plane may have landed on some, as they could still be under the wreckage.

  One golfer told me his three buddies were killed right around him and he didn’t get a scratch. A piece of metal severed the head of one, and the plane's tire killed the other two, as he was standing next to them waiting to tee off. The tire hit them like splitting bowling pins in a bowling alley and then went through the fence, hit a parked car, and rolled out onto Rose Avenue. He also mentioned, as he was waiting to take his next shot, he saw the foursome ahead of them have fuel splashed over their bodies as a wall of flames engulfed them. He said he would never get that out of his mind for as long as he lives.

  We come across one who is still in the cart, charred to a crisp with hands still on the remains of the steering wheel.

  Susan has called L.A.’s medical examiner to assist her with so many deceased. They arrive and take over with the golfers on the course so she can work on the ones in and around the plane. Phil is taking pictures along with Susan, who has finished dressing several injured golfers. Neither one of them has ever seen such carnage, but then, neither have I, with the exception of a burning hotel that had this many bodies, but that seemed different. Maybe it was because it was a long time ago and this is now. They have to take pictures of unbelievable moments in people’s death by fire, one of the worst ways to die. After they take the photos of the smoldering bodies, Susan has the firemen bag and carry the bodies back to a van, where they will be taken to her lab for identification.

  ”Mike, I can’t tell you yet how many bodies were on the plane, I have asked Phil to get the manifest. But, even then I will have to do DNA and dental records on almost all of the bodies to find out who they are,” she explains as she overlooks the devastation that is before her.

  “You have your hands full for the next week or so; keep L.A.’s medical examiner with you as long as you need him, I’ll clear it with his supervisor.” I try to give her some support with the unseemly task that lies ahead.

  I thought: The whole day has been a nightmare, especially this afternoon. So many people died and for what, money. They say, “Money is the root of all evil.” That’s not true; the money in the wrong hands is the root of all evil. Mr. T
an’s hands. He has manipulated and paid for this whole nightmarish occurrence. And what happens? He ends up dead, so what good did his money do for him? Nothing. Nothing but help kill a lot of innocent people. His death couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.

  It is well into the early morning the next day. Although the golf course has left its lights on, several portable lights are set up, mostly around the mainframe of the plane, which split apart when the plane went down. One wing is still attached, but the other dislodged and went sliding right up to the lodge, leaving a deep furrow along the way. It caused the windows to shatter as it slid up to and hit the base of the patio. Other than some minor cuts, none of the patrons were hurt other than having the scare of a lifetime.

  Susan and Phil have been working hard on this site for almost eleven straight hours, and have been awake for close to twenty hours. I walk over to them, stepping over broken pieces of metal shards as they are inside the broken cabin frame. “All right, they are not going anywhere; I had my motor home brought to the site so you can get some sleep. Someone here will keep an eye on the site. You two are too tired and need to rest.”

  I get no argument about that, as Susan looks up at me with her tired-looking bloodshot eyes. They finish what they were working on, get up, take off their masks, and walk out, with Phil bending low to miss the jagged edges of the plane.

  “Mike, we have several more hours of work here, we should finish by late this afternoon or this evening,” Susan says looking at her watch as she is walking away towards the motor home to take a much-needed rest. “Wake us up in about four or so hours; I want to finish this.”

  Sharon and I walk over to the clubhouse. I pull up a chair and sit, placing my feet on another chair, I fold my arms across my chest and lay my head down to take a short nap. “Take the car and go home and get some rest; come back around seven.” My head is already down and too tired to look up at her.

  “I’ll just lie down over there.” She walks over to the side of the wall, where she stretches out and falls asleep almost as fast as I did.

  The beam from the morning sun wakes me up, along with a noise of a large diesel truck bringing in a heavy-duty crane. The NTSB has arrived and is looking over the wreckage as I walk over to them. They too are taking pictures but of a different sort in mind.