by D. V. Berkom
Good God, Peter thought. The man could obsess. What about him? Didn't the senator owe his illustrious career to Serial Date? He'd still be the Mayor of Podunk, California if Peter and the show hadn't given him a platform by agreeing to tie everything in with the California penal system. It had been a pain in the ass, working with the State and Runyon, but in the long run it was a win-win for everyone. Peter accepted the occasional request for a tour of the set from the wardens, and looked the other way when a favored ex-con was promised a slot for the next season.
“As I said, the LAPD assured me that they'll keep information about the investigation to a minimum for as long as they can. No one has to know about your involvement with Mandy.”
“What about your people? You have a lot of employees running around on that set. What if she talked? Can you absolutely guarantee that this won't hit the tabloids?”
Peter had been stressing about that himself, but it wouldn't do any good to convey that to Runyon. Peter answered with a voice that sounded much calmer than he felt. “Everyone's on board, senator. Don't worry. I have a tight rein on my people.”
“You damn well better.” The senator pulled out his phone. “I'm calling Shank. He'll know what to do with this pile of shit.”
Jack Shank was a high-powered attorney to the stars whose specialty was helping his clients avoid unnecessary publicity and/or jail time. Ever since he'd worked his magic for the internationally known televangelist with a penchant for smoking crack and banging male prostitutes, he'd been the go-to guy for anyone with a serious problem. He had his hands full with Runyon.
“Jack? Buzz here. Yeah, fine, fine. Jack, I got a problem I'm gonna need you to run interference on. What? Yeah, it's about the murder.” Runyon glanced at Peter. “He's right here. You want to now? Hold on.” He held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
Peter took the phone. “This is Peter.”
Jack Shank's soft voice slithered through the earpiece.
“So the shit finally hit the fan.” There was a faint click in the background followed by a deep inhalation. “I warned the senator it was only a matter of time until something went wrong, but he wouldn't listen. Should never have gotten involved with the show.” Shank started to cough like he was about to hack up a lung.
The coughing subsided and Shank's voice came back on the line.
“Talk to me.”
Peter told him about the murder and what the LAPD said about the investigation. Jack Shank listened in silence, the occasional damp cough punctuating Peter's sentences. When he came to the part about the senator's involvement with the victim, Shank cleared his throat, but didn't say anything for a moment. Peter fidgeted in his chair.
“Well? What do you want to do?” Peter asked.
There was a long pause, then, “I'll tell you what you should do. After I do that, I want to speak to the senator.”
Shank ran down a list of comments Peter could use when the media got hold of the full story, and explained a few other options. “And Peter? When they run with this,
and I guarantee they will, then you roll with it. Spin it like there's no tomorrow. I'll take care of the senator.”
Peter handed the phone back to Runyon, pushed his chair back and stood. The waitress returned with his second shot of vodka. Peter indicated she leave it with the senator. He waited for a moment, but Runyon was so absorbed in the conversation with Shank that he didn't look up or acknowledge Peter.
He left without saying goodbye.
***
Detective Santiago Jensen slapped the folder on the desk in front of him and sighed.
Nineteen years old. What a waste. He flipped open the file and glanced at the crime scene photos of Amanda Milton. Peter Bronkowski had some kind of pull if he'd been able to operate the set of Serial Date with only Gene Dorfenberger as security. Jensen rubbed his eyes. It was a damned miracle something hadn't happened before now.
He'd had Garcia pull files on every ex-con even remotely associated with the show. Both he and Putnam were amazed at some of the lowlifes Bronkowski employed. Their rap sheets ran the gamut of burglary, assault, domestic violence. How did the show ever get enough female contestants? Yeah, they got paid, but it wasn't a huge amount. At first blush they thought these guys were serial killers. He shook his head. Apparently, the all-American guy wasn't cutting it for the modern American woman.
Bronkowski made them all sign a waiver that explained who they'd be working with and that the show couldn't be held responsible for anything that happened outside the confines of the studio. He'd been floored when Bronkowski told him maybe one out of fifty contestants opted not to sign.
Putnam was certain Graber did the deed, but Jensen wasn't so sure. To add to everything, there was mounting pressure from above. Murders were up twelve percent in the city of Los Angeles alone. The Mayor and the City Council had been climbing all over the Chief's ass to bring the numbers down. Departments were stretched tight.
Election years sucked.
Jensen thought about Leine Basso, the woman Bronkowski hired to beef up security. Her most recent gig had been working as an insurance investigator. He'd read something in her file about doing security for a couple of government hacks, but Jensen got the feeling if he dug a little deeper, he'd find out a lot more about Ms. Basso.
She'd been married briefly to a successful businessman named Frank Basso, but ended up dumping him. Jensen wondered why she'd leave such a dick gig. Huge house in Bel Air. Influential friends. Bi-annual trips to Vegas, Europe, New York. Most women he knew would climb over the bodies of their dead grandmothers to snag a rich husband like Frank, and it intrigued him.
She carried herself the way his buddies in Special Forces did; relaxed and calm on the exterior, like nothing could phase her. Jensen sensed another kind of tension in her, more emotional, one that pulled at the calm exterior. She exuded mystery.
And he really wanted to fuck her.
“Hey Santa.” Putnam tapped him on the shoulder, breaking into his thoughts. “They got some kind of letter down at the freak show. Bronkowski sounded pretty messed up.”
Sighing, Jensen slid Amanda Milton's file in the desk drawer and grabbed his badge.
Showtime.
***
“There. It's right there.” Peter Bronkowski jabbed his finger at the offending piece of paper on his desk. “Fuck. He's going to do it again, isn't he?”
Jensen slid on a pair of latex gloves before he picked up the letter and read the wandering manifesto. When he finished, he handed it to Putnam and gave Bronkowski his serious, calm look. Putnam finished reading and stepped back, remaining quiet.
“We're doing everything we can, Mr. Bronkowski. He won't be able to get to any of the other contestants, not now.” Security was tight. The contestants couldn't visit the toilet without a shadow. Luckily, the women lived together in a house a few blocks away from the set while taping the show, so it would be easy to keep an eye on them all. Especially since the house was already wired with cameras everywhere except the bathrooms.
Jensen re-scanned parts of the letter, looking for something that might give him answers to the writer's identity. The letter went on at length about how watching reality shows and eating factory farmed meat killed off people's brain cells and made everyone stupid and fat. The loss of intelligence would be devastating to the country's brain-trust as a whole. According to the author, this couldn't be tolerated.
The obvious remedy was to foster public awareness by eating younger, free-range meat that hadn't experienced the long term, adverse effects of heavy metals and toxins absorbed from the environment. Although, not too young. The author preferred some seasoning to his protein, and referenced Ms. Milton as a prime example.
Enter Serial Date, the perfect outlet for his protest. His reason being if he culled the contestants from the most offensive show, it would bring attention to the plight of the television-watching public. As an added bonus, the contestants, being healthy and fit specimens
, allowed him to make his point succinctly, while exercising his right to enjoy a healthy, delicious meal. He apologized for not taking more choice cuts from the body and leaving so much waste, but had been unable to remove it from the prop closet without being seen.
Wonderful, Jensen thought. A cannibal with a social agenda.
Leine Basso walked into the office. “You called?” she said to Bronkowski. Jensen tensed.
Bronkowski pointed at the manifesto. “The killer sent a letter. He's a fucking cannibal…”
“Mr. Bronkowski,” Jensen warned, his voice terse. He looked pointedly at Leine and Peter. “This isn't general knowledge and is key evidence, unique to this crime. You can't discuss this with anyone outside the investigation.”
Putnam added, “If this is leaked to anyone, we'll hold you both responsible and file charges. Do you understand?”
“You won't hear it from me, detectives.” Leine's gaze swept over Jensen.
A surge of electricity headed straight down his belly and into his dick. She wore her dark brown hair loose and it fell just below her shoulders. Sexy.
Definitely have to follow up on this one, Jensen thought.
“No, no. Of course not. I don't need this getting out any more than you guys do.” Bronkowski waved at the air, dismissing their concerns.
“Is there anything I can do?” Leine asked, looking first at Jensen and Putnam, then Bronkowski.
“If you find out anything about an ex-con or contestant, no matter how inconsequential it may seem, my partner and I would appreciate it if you'd let us know.” Jensen picked up the letter and placed it into an evidence bag. “We pulled the personnel files from both seasons, but nothing beats a visual—it'd be great if you could keep an eye on everyone else on set and report any suspicious activity. The more bodies we have looking out, the better.”
“Of course, detective. Anything else?”
Everything about her said “business only.” What would it take to get those panties off? Jensen smiled his most disarming smile. Piece of cake, he thought. Turn on the ol' Santiago charm. Make her think she's part of the investigation, get close to her. A little wine, a little dinner… then, look out, Mamacita. Give her some red-hot salsa.
“That's all for now, Ms. Basso. We've got your number.”
CHAPTER 6
“THAT'S THE LAST one, Edward.” Peter set the moving box on the dining room table and wiped his forehead with a tissue.
Edward raced to the box, opened it and checked the contents. With a deep sigh, he visibly relaxed once he'd made sure nothing had broken. Peter felt a twinge of sadness. The new meds didn't seem to have much of an effect.
“Edward, I need to ask you something important, okay? It has to do with the blackness.”
Edward stiffened. He began to rock back and forth and shake his head. The humming began almost immediately. Peter put a hand on his arm. Edward quieted.
“Don't worry, it's a simple question. You only have to answer yes or no, all right?”
Edward nodded, though he still acted wary. Peter knew anything that had to do with what Edward referred to as the blackness could set him back months, and he didn't bring it up lightly.
“Edward, I need to know if you've experienced it recently and whether you've told anyone.”
Edward shook his head. “No, no, Peter, not recently. Not recently. The blackness isn't here anymore.” Peter took in Edward's agitated hand movements and the telltale facial tick, and his heart sank.
“Edward, are you still taking those pills Doctor Shapiro prescribed?”
Edward rocked his head up and down. “Yes. I take them every day, just like you said.” He opened a box next to him and proceeded to search the items inside.
Peter sighed. He knew the move to a new place would screw everything up, probably send Edward off his meds, but he couldn't chance the police finding out about him. Peter had worked diligently to keep his younger brother under wraps ever since he'd found Edward at the age of sixteen, standing over their stepfather's dead body, holding a bloody baseball bat. A brutal alcoholic, their stepfather enjoyed ambushing Peter when he came home from his afternoon job at the local newspaper. On one occasion, he nearly broke Peter's neck. This did not sit well with Edward who had a near reverence for Peter. Peter had been the only one who understood why Edward punished the mean dogs in the neighborhood. In Edward's mind, killing his stepfather counted as payback for Peter's friendship.
“Edward, you know you have to take the pills or the blackness comes back, right?”
Edward avoided Peter's eyes and continued to dig inside the box.
Peter went into the bathroom and came back out with a full bottle of pills in his hand. Edward backed away, shaking his head.
“No. You can't make me take them. They make me someone else inside, Peter. Please don't make me take them-”
Edward described the blackness once as being trapped in a dark basement with only a small glimmer of light visible overhead. His thoughts during this time scared him and as a result kept to himself. People passed him off as extremely shy. He told Peter that when he was around, sometimes the door to the basement opened and the light poured in and he felt normal. As Peter became more successful and had less time to spend with Edward, the blackness became more prevalent, until it could only be controlled with medication.
Peter placed the bottle of pills on the table.
“You have to take these. Something happened at work and there are cops all over the place. If they find out about you and what you've done, they're going to come down hard, believe that you're the bad person they're looking for.”
Peter took a step forward. Edward edged back until the wall stopped him.
“You haven't been on set again, have you Edward? Like at night when everyone's gone home?”
He shook his head. “No, Peter, I only did it that one time, I swear. I never do it anymore because you told me not to.”
Peter nodded. Edward was covering something up, that much was obvious. He knew if he looked in the freezer, he'd probably find plastic bags filled with small animal parts, but he didn’t feel like looking today.
“Fine. I believe you. But you have to promise me you'll take your medication every day.”
Edward broke into a relieved grin. “Yes, I will take the medication, Peter, I promise.”
CHAPTER 7
LEINE WATCHED AS Billy maneuvered in for Tina's close up, using a handheld camera to achieve the show's signature documentary feel. Personally, Leine got a queasy stomach whenever she watched the playback. She didn't do so well in the back seat of a moving car, either.
“It’s an incredible adrenaline rush to think that I could be next,” Tina said with a breathy sigh. She turned to look at Javier and playfully wiggled her petite foot at him. On cue, Javier looked into the camera and grinned. He lay stretched across a layer of cream-colored satin pillows as he painted Tina’s toenails shell pink, bobbing his head and shoulders to the incessant beat of techno dance music.
A sultry Asian beauty with dark, kohl-lined eyes, Tina's shock of white-blonde hair and sparkly, hot pink mini dress contrasted sharply to Javier's dark good looks, black tux and flawless tan. The magic of body makeup.
They were filming Tina's 'confession' for that week's show. She appeared unperturbed as she recited her lines on camera, although Leine noticed she alternated between gripping the arms of her chair and smoothing her hair back.
The process of shooting a reality show may be interesting to some people, but the well-scripted performances put Leine in escape mode. She'd had enough lying and subterfuge in her old life and deception now set her teeth on edge. It didn't matter that the audience was more or less complicit.
Then there were the contestants. X-ray thin, the way they stared at a hoagie made Leine eat her lunch off-site. What would make a young, attractive woman take a chance on making a love connection with a known felon? Sure, they knew the men weren't actual serial killers once they signed the waiver, but still.
Leine couldn't imagine her daughter being quite so naïve.
The bachelors didn't do much for her, either, but she watched them closely. Her gut told her the killer remained nearby, curious to see the effect of his actions. She'd never been tempted to stick around. Once she'd completed a job, she disappeared.
But that was business. This type of kill was personal. Leine never let things get personal.
Tina finished her piece and Billy handed the camera to a grip. Javier said something to her and laughed as he walked away toward the concession table.
Billy sat down in the director's chair and slid what looked like a script from his back pocket. One of the electricians walked up to him and started chatting. Leine waited until they were finished, then made her way over and sat next to him.
“Nice work.”
Billy nodded, smiled. “Thanks.” He eyed her for a moment, then, “You're Gene's friend, right?”
“Yeah.”
“He said you worked as a bodyguard for some government agency.”
“Something like that. Have you always been a cameraman?”
Billy shifted in his chair. A strand of dark, wavy hair fell across his face and he tucked it behind his ear. “No, but it's my favorite, so far. Right up there with director.”
“From what I hear, you're pretty good.”
Billy smiled and looked down, obviously pleased with the compliment.
“What did you do before this?” Leine figured it took years to become proficient in handling a video camera and he didn't look all that old. She guessed late thirties.
He shrugged, looked into the distance. “I tried teaching. Couldn't deal with the bureaucracy. Then I experimented with a couple of other gigs that didn't work out and here I am.” He returned his attention to Leine. “It's a shame about Mandy. What are you planning to do about it?”
