A Killer's Role: Erter & Dobbs Book 1

by Nick Keller

  William took a big breath and said, “The police only see dead dogs. They don’t see human victims. But they will. Someone has to do something now.”

  Bernie gave a sideways smirk. “Maybe. But there’s more to this.”

  William squinted. “What’re you saying?”

  Bernie scrutinized him with his fingers laced together, thumbs pounding a slow rhythm on the table. He finally chugged the whiskey and said, “Let me tell you a story. Back in the nineties—actually, this goes all the way back to the eighties—there was this guy. Family man. Middle class. Nice wife. Doting little boy. Real Ward Cleaver type. This guy traveled a lot for work. He went to cities all over the country. Baltimore, Boston, New Orleans, Dallas.”

  William stiffened. He tried to inhale, but couldn’t. He knew this story all too well. He’d lived it. His eyes locked onto Bernie as the big man talked on.

  “Well, every now and then, wherever this guy went, in whichever city he traveled to, lo and behold, people wound up dead. Now, no one knew who was doing it so you can imagine the headache this caused the state and local authorities. Wasn’t too long before the FBI got involved.”

  William stared at him growing dark, starting to quiver. His eyes glossed over, lips went in a frown.

  “I mean, what a shit storm? This went on for twenty years. Can you imagine? No leads. No weapons. Hardly any clues. This guy was good. All the feds had was a bunch of dead bodies. Whole families, in fact.” Bernie paused, eyeing William who only stared back, lowering his head slowly, imperceptibly. Bernie continued, “Now, this guy—this sick fucking guy—he had a calling card. Do you know what it was?”

  William pulled an enormous gulp off his bottle and answered. “He posed his victims. Portrait style.”

  “Yeah, had a feeling you’d know something about that,” Bernie said. “Well, you’re right. Made them look like family portraits, the kind you’d hang on the wall, all nice and pretty. Except for mommy’s entrails or baby’s brain matter. I bet none of them smiled. Not so nice, that.”

  William took another drink, slow and full of reflection.

  Bernie said, “He even included the family pet. Jesus, imagine that—dead families sitting on the sofa, Goldie the fish going around and around in his little fish bowl on the coffee table. Sick. Now, here’s the real kicker. Do you know how they finally caught this fucker?”

  William took a breath and said slowly, painfully, through clenched teeth, “Yeah.”

  “You bet you do. Jesus, what must that have been like, living with a guy like that, calling him daddy and all?” Bernie gave a whistle. William felt as if he was condemned. He was condemned. Bernie finally said, “So, here’s the real question. Why are you doing this whole thing, trying to catch a thief, as it were? What’s in it for you? Is this one of them conscience things, gotta redeem yourself for death-row daddy?”

  Through gritted teeth William said, “That has nothing to do with this.”

  “Some would disagree. Some would say that’s got everything to do with this.”

  William squeezed his fists until the knuckles popped. “My relationship—” He cleared his throat. “I keep it compartmentalized. It doesn’t touch the other areas of my life.”

  Bernie grinned sucking an ice cube into his mouth. “Compartmentalized, huh? That sounds like a Doctor Oaks word. But hell, I don’t blame you. God knows, I’d be a nutjob, too.” Looking away he added, “My dad was just a fucking drunk.” He looked back at William, leaning forward. “How many died in all that time, do you think?”

  William jerked his head away. He couldn’t go on hearing Bernie talk. He snarled, “Seventeen.”

  “Seventeen people? Or Seventeen families?”

  William pounded his fists onto the table shutting him up. Bernie hardly flinched, though. He just took a sip, grinning.

  “I know a story, too,” William said. “It takes place at night. Couple years ago. A big warehouse. There was a girl, about twelve years old.”

  Bernie’s expression melted away and he lowered his tumbler. “Watch it, motherfucker.”

  “She was calling for help, wasn’t she?”

  Bernie’s breath became audible—slow and deep. “I will rip. Your fucking. Head off.”

  “And it’s about a cop with a gun, isn’t it?”

  Bernie snagged him by the scruff of his throat and yanked his face down to the table with a bang. “You little son of a bitch.”

  “So, it’s true?” William snarled, his face planted into the oak surface.

  Bernie put his mouth up to his ear. “Fuck you. Fuck. You.” He released him. William sat back, eyes red, straightening his collar, regaining his breath.

  William finally said, “So there were circumstances. It was dark. There were shots fired. It happened fast. I get it. The report wants to call you killer—then fine. We both have ghosts, okay!”

  Bernie pounded a meaty fist on the table. “Where’d you get my file?”

  “Your past is no secret.”

  “You little I.A. son of a bitch.”

  “But that’s why I came to you,” William said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you have nothing to lose. You’re already at the bottom. Look at you. You and me—who are we? What are we!”

  Bernie got to his feet. “I don’t need this bullshit. I’ve been through this psycho-shrink-babble-bullshit already. I’m through with this bullshit.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I’m not I.A. I’m a school professor. Besides, it looks like we’re investigating each other.”

  Bernie pounded the table with both hands leaning forward. “I’m a cop. That’s my job.”

  “That’s why I want you to help me.”

  Bernie said, incredulous, “Help you? Are you out of your fucking mind? You’re a fucking lunatic.” He tossed a crumpled twenty onto the table and turned for the exit, lumbering off like an angry bear.

  William scooted out, in pursuit. “Who do you trust, Detective? Is there anyone?”

  Bernie smashed through the door, exploding into the parking lot.

  William followed, quick on his heels. “Your captain? Your partner? Your department?”

  Bernie threw open his car door but William came up from behind and slammed it shut with a foot—bam—yelling, “Do you trust anybody?”

  Bernie snagged him by the collar and wheeled him in a full circle, lifting him up off his feet and sliding him across the hood. William went flopping out of control onto the gravel lot. The taste of blood exploded in his mouth. He got to all fours groaning and patting his lip with a finger. He turned to see Bernie leering over him in the night.

  “Aw Christ. You alright?” Bernie said.

  William hoisted himself to his feet a bit dizzied. He shook his head and looked at Bernie. “Is that my answer—you don’t trust anybody?”

  Bernie didn’t answer, he just heaved.

  “Bernard, right?” William said.

  “Bernie!”

  “Bernie. Well, here’s another question, Bernie. Does anybody trust you?”

  “Bah!” Bernie huffed, waving a hand at the air, moved around the front and got in the car.

  Before he could crank the engine, William called through the passenger window, “I called you for a reason, Bernie. What’re you going to do about that?”

  Bernie sat frozen, thinking. He could hear William’s voice muffled through the glass pane, but he heard him loud enough. He cranked the engine and stepped on it leaving a rooster tail of gravel flying behind him. William watched him speed off in the night and said, “Dammit.”

  33

  The Lovely Iva

  Humping Iva was just like being back on the football squad. He felt powerful and merciless, pounding and slamming. He liked her up on her knees with her face flat on the pillow, pinning one of her hands behind her back at an agonizing angle, bracing himself with his other hand on her ass and humping away. Each pump caused him to purse his lips under his teeth tighter and harder.

  Iva had g
rown accustomed to his lovemaking. Bernie was an angry jackoff with a dangerous and thankless career and a moderately average prick. It made him violent, so she had learned to fake it for him. At least most of the time. It made him feel the way he wanted, powerful and merciless. So, she would give him a few screams and moans of sweet pain. On a few occasions, she even cried out that she was going to cum. She hardly did, but that didn’t matter. As long as Bernie was happy, she was happy.

  Afterwards, as they lay side-by-side, he’d always pass her a cigarette and talk to her about the current events in his life, most of which were glum. It was his routine. And she didn’t mind it. She almost liked it. It was the only moment in which it actually felt like a wholesome relationship. That almost made the whole thing worth it.

  It was always a Camel. He used to smoke the filterless ones. Sometimes he still did, but not as much. She thought perhaps he was trying to cut down, get fit.

  He flipped open the lighter, lit his own cig first, and while the flame still flickered fat and greasy-looking from the Zippo, he reached over and lit hers. They inhaled together, exhaled the same. Smoke lifted up all blue in the dim light of the bedroom.

  “Thank you, baby,” she said.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  “How’d that court thing turn out?” she asked, after puffing a mushroom cloud of cigarette smoke straight up.

  He knew what she meant. The Richard Rothwell trial. He had told her all about it the last time they humped. Then she helped him with his necktie before he left for court. He hadn’t mentioned it since. As sweet a gesture as it was for her to ask about it, he didn’t want to talk about it. “It didn’t,” he said, taking a drag.

  “Shit…”

  “Yeah, fuck it. If they want me in the Dead Bin, then…” He shut up realizing he was opening the door to a whole conversation he didn’t want to step through.

  “Dead Bin. What’s that?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  She shrugged and puffed on the cig, but kept quiet. She knew if she didn’t say anything then he’d start talking about it. It’s what she wanted, to hear about his day and all the current events in his life. It would give her that feeling like they were in a wholesome relationship. And she was right. After a few seconds of saying nothing to him, he finally blurted…

  “Fucking Dead Bin. It’s a slush pile. Unsolved cases. Missing persons from the eighties. Anonymous drive by murders from the nineties. Unsolved white-collar bullshit from the two-thousands. Bunch of stupid bullshit. No one gives a shit. I sure don’t.”

  “Why you, then?”

  His lips went tight and he made a disgruntled sound like, mmmph. “It’s a bust down, that’s why. Fucking cocksuckers busted me down. Fucking assholes.” He puffed. The cig was about down to the filter.

  “Why they do that?”

  He thought rolling the cigarette between his finger and thumb. With a frown he grunted, “Truth scares ‘em.”

  “Huh. Could be interesting, you think?” she offered.

  He puffed on the cig, realized he was down to the filter and smashed it out in the glass ashtray to the side, “Nope.” He offered her the pack with a herky-jerky motion that popped a single cigarette half way out of the pack for her. She took it. Then he fingered his own smoke out, lit it, then lit hers again. “Got this one thing, though,” he said, puffing his smoke. “So, this guy tracks me down, I don’t know how, but he does. He calls me at the precinct. He’s kind of a nutjob. Possible loony, right? So, I go meet him…”

  “A loony?”

  “Yeah, city’s full of loonies.”

  “A crack head?”

  “Nah—”

  “Schizoid?”

  “Nah—college professor.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah—anyway, he says he can help solve this case we have.”

  “A—what’s it called—a Dead Bin case?”

  “Well, no. It’s a current file. He says he can help, but I don’t believe him.”

  “He’s a college professor.”

  “He’s psycho.”

  “Baby, we’re all psycho. But at least this one’s interesting.”

  “Mmm, maybe.”

  “So, what’re you going to do?”

  Bernie didn’t respond, just shrugged rolling the cigarette over and over between his fingers watching the smoke get all braided as it rose.

  “I think you should let him help,” Iva said softly.

  “Why?”

  “Because he wants to. When’s the last time anybody wanted to help anybody?”

  He didn’t respond. He just looked at her from the side of his face, interested, thinking.

  She rolled over and looked at her watch over on the side table. “It’s late, sugar.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. He sat up taking his billfold from the bedside table, opened it, rifled through it, and plucked out a few hundred bucks. Turning back to her, he handed it over. Their eyes met.

  After a few seconds, she sighed and collected her pay. “Thank you, sugar.”

  “Yeah. I’m just gonna go and…” he got up brushing the sheets away from him and went into the bathroom. The light made him blink and adjust. It was harsh and white. He turned to the mirror. It revealed everything, hid nothing. Broad, sloping shoulders, one with that old football scar. Barrel chest veined with black hair. Man tits starting to sag. A potbelly, most would call it a beer gut. A flaccid dick, pathetic in its proportion to his three hundred and twenty pounds. Each time he looked into that image all he saw was that stupid college puke that dreamed of being a pro athlete get further and further away. Ten years. Fifteen years. Twenty. That kid had all the assets, too. Talent. Skill. Ability. He had all the potential in the world. And now he stood in a cheap hotel with a three-hundred-dollar hooker named Iva who had to fake orgasms with him just to get him off. Even she was past her prime. A late-thirties escort starting to age around the edges — how the fuck did it come to this?

  He splashed water on his face angrily, wiped with the towel and went outside. She had just pulled her stockings up and straightened her skirt. Fluffing her tits like they were pillows, she moved to the door. Looking back, she said, “See you again, baby?”

  He said, “I know you fake it with me.”

  She perked, her attention caught. A look crossed her face—a defensive look, as if she’d just walked into a snake’s den. She went into her default woman-of-the-night mode, a seductive smile, laughter designed to evade a situation, and said, “Not with you, sugar.”

  “Stop!” he said sharply. She jerked and looked at him, perfectly vulnerable. “Faking it’s one thing, Iva. But lying’s another. You can fake it with me all you want. But don’t you fucking lie to me.”

  She swallowed putting her back against the door and asked, “What’re you going to do to me, Bernie?”

  Showing her a huge fist, he muttered, “I’ll fuck you up.”

  Her demeanor softened. She knew she was caught, but somehow, she didn’t care. Bernie was her favorite. Sure, he’d never believe it, so she’d never say it, but at least here and now, she could tell him the truth beyond the truth. She chanced a few steps toward him, their eyes locked, and she said, “Bernie, I don’t fake it with you. And you can fuck me up if you want.”

  Bernie blinked, lowering his fist. He staggered back a step, had to catch his breath. She kissed her finger and placed it to his lips, then moved back to the door. As she opened it he called out to her, “Hey!”

  She turned back.

  “You know I’m in… I mean… you know how I feel.”

  Her grin was eternal. “Keeps me coming back, sugar.”

  34

  Beginnings

  When the visitor buzzer went off William clicked on the surveillance software window on his computer. He jerked back in his desk chair when he saw it was Bernie. He went into the outer hallway, down the three steps to the entry gate and opened the door, not sure what to expect.

  Bernie looked
him up and down, and grunted. “How’s your face?”

  William squinted at him. It was the Bernie Dobbs version of an apology. William prodded his sore lip with a finger and said, “Fine, thanks.”

  They stood in awkward silence for a few seconds before Bernie said, “You want to talk?”

  William stepped aside, “Come in.”

  Bernie followed him down the hall with heavy, thumping footsteps that echoed in the tiny space, and into his unit. Bernie came to a stop, absorbing the area. Everything was wide open, no walls or rooms, just a long open space that used to be a warehouse. There was a kitchen in the center, a TV area demarked by a rug, a sofa, and an entertainment set, and off to the back was William’s study—a desk with freestanding bookshelves stuffed with learning materials. Bernie clicked his tongue walking past the kitchen area and toward the study space. Arranged across the study wall was a carefully hung collection of portrait-style pictures, each framed and meticulously placed, almost like a picturesque shrine of his father’s exploits.

  Bernie had to squint at them.

  They were family portrait-style photographs. On first glance, they showed whole families arranged on sofas or around dining tables—fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters—but none of them smiled. They all stared forward through blank, dead eyes and empty expressions, some gorier than others. It was life from lifelessness. It made Bernie shiver. He said, “Are those…”

  “Family,” William said quickly. His voice was cold and without depth.

  “Family,” Bernie said disgusted.

  “They’re reminders,” William said sounding pushed.

  “You leave them up?”

  “I look at them long enough, all I see are people—in a picture.”

  Bernie looked at him from the side of his face wondering for a second what was sicker—leaving those images up on his living room wall, or forgetting it ever happened. At least William had made his choice. He chose to remember.