Morbid Curiosity: Erter & Dobbs Book 3

by Nick Keller

Her expression never changed. She looked at him, cold. “You believe you’re a normal person, William?”

  He said, trying to hide his fury, “I am normal.”

  “Is that why you hung those portraits on your wall—and never once mentioned them in five years of counseling?” She grimaced angrily. “Why did you hide the truth from me?”

  The truth about hanging the family portraits in his living room of all his father’s exploits. They were people, entire families, murdered, arranged in a familial fashion on the sofa or around the dining table, as if posing for the camera, fathers with their arms around mothers, daughters sitting in parents’ laps, grizzly contusions and slit throats, blood everywhere, pieces missing, framed in ornate portraitures, right on his living room wall, in plain sight for the whole world to vomit over.

  Ah, and now we’re getting to the meat of it.

  “I didn’t tell you because those people—they’re the closest thing I have to a family. They …” he forced a swallow, “they are my family.”

  “But, they’re not, William.”

  He said, “Maybe not. But I owe them that much.”

  “Why?”

  “You ask me why?” William snickered bitterly. “Maybe that’s why I never told you about them.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question, William. Why do you feel so … responsible to them?”

  William’s face went grim. “My father gave me life. I am his son. But he took their lives away. They are his legacy.”

  “That’s guilt, William.”

  He squinted at her. It was more like envy. Nevertheless, he shook his head, said, “Yes.”

  “Guilt is a driver. It can drive people to … do things.”

  “Only if they’re insane, Doctor,” he rebuked.

  She said, “Okay, so what about …” she cut off her own question. It made William wait, growing anxious. She finally whispered, “What about Ruthi?”

  His heart went ka-chug. It made his throat close up, neck swell.

  Ruthi.

  “Ruthi was …” he closed his eyes, “evil.”

  “You loved her,” she said, teasing him toward an explosion.

  His eyes closed tighter squeezing together.

  Don’t sneer at her. Don’t threaten her. And for God’s sake, don’t reach across her desk and strangle her.

  He opened his eyes. “Yes, I loved her. I still love her,” he admitted. He turned to face her. “I love my father, too. So, what does that say about me, Doctor Oaks? That I’m evil, or that I’m loving?”

  “That’s the question, William.” She tilted her head quizzically. “And what was Ruthi? Was she loving, too? And your father—Oscar—would you say he was a loving father?”

  William went numb. His knees started to buckle. He collapsed into the chair across from her with his eyes looking away, seeing nothing, focusing on zero. He murmured, “Can’t evil love?”

  3

  New Recruit

  Mark Neiman got a text on his phone. It was from Captain Heller. It read: She’s in the gallery. He grinned, devilishly curious. He checked his watch. It wasn’t eight o’clock yet. And he hadn’t even had his coffee.

  Entering the Central Division Police Department building he flashed his badge at the clerk bypassing the metal detector, took the first stairs down to the armory and stepped into a large, narrow admittance lobby. The muffled pounding of a dozen firearms greeted him through the separation wall. The early risers were in there banging away at their respective targets. He needed his coffee.

  He checked in at the front desk, received his sound protection earmuffs, swiped his security badge and stepped into the personnel loading area behind the shooters’ bays. Strolling easily down the row of shooters and wearing a sideways smirk, he scanned with his eyes.

  There she was, all five foot two inches of her, back to him, standing in the supported position, shoulders squared toward her target, one foot slightly in front of the other, arms forward, both hands on her weapon, hammering away at one shot every second sending rounds thirty-five yards down range at a paper target.

  Detective Nia Helms.

  He looked her up and down—small, muscled back, narrow, chiseled hips, a fatless body, perfectly fit. When she was done, she cocked her elbow back releasing the clip from her firearm and catching it, stuffing it into a clip holder at the back of her belt, barrel smoking. It was an impressive show. She pushed the withdraw toggle and the target slid toward her on its cable pulley. She’d hit her mark well leaving a nine-hole pattern in tight formation. Mark had rarely seen a better shot.

  He tapped her shoulder gently. She turned revealing a light Afro-chocolate face, balanced features and large, dark, healthy eyes. She was extremely pretty, very girl-next-door, but swimming underneath that tight, shimmering skin was a street warrior. She nodded and stepped out exchanging positions with Mark. He loaded another target sheet and sent it down range, thirty-five yards. Once done, he stared at it for a second throwing his shoulders back and setting his joints. In a sudden motion, he whipped his nine-millimeter from his rear holster position, aimed and began hammering away, all in one seamless motion—BLAM BLAM BLAM!

  Once done, he drew the target sheet in, snagged it and turned to show her. He emulated her pattern almost identically. Except for one round. It was off by an inch or so. She put her finger through the hole giggling triumphantly. He grimaced, wadded the sheet and discarded it into the trash bucket.

  “So, I haven’t had my coffee yet,” he yelled over the firing and the ear protection. She rolled her eyes at him with a grin and headed out. He followed. They returned the earmuffs and checked out of the gallery. Rounding the corner with the popping of firearms fading in the distance he said, “Fifty rounds in the morning, Detective?”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  He chuckled, challenged. “No cream and sugar for you, then.”

  “Not even black, Sarge.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Sounds lonely.”

  She gave him a sideways look.

  They took Mark’s Camaro from the station headed down East Sixth Street. The street was crowded, lined with street side buildings—one with a construction effort going on, a web work of scaffolding eight stories high, graffiti slathered across the plywood barrier at street level. “So, last time it was all about Oakland, growing up with a single mom, three siblings, no pop, dodging gangs …”

  Nia spied the scaffolding as they drove by making a familiar face and said, “Like I said, it was an exciting neighborhood.”

  “Never a dull moment, I’m sure. I think the words you used before were …”

  “Hood rat,” she said quickly.

  “Right, hood rat.” His words had a dubious intonation. “Lettered in track in high school. Sprinter, right? Really tore it up. First in state, all that jazz?”

  “Helped with my foot speed,” she said.

  “Fair enough. Did more than that, though. You scholarshiped. Grantham U.?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Navy fast track.”

  “Three years.”

  “An officer’s candidate at twenty-one?” He whistled, impressed.

  She smiled at him. “Like you said, I’m fast.”

  “You’re a fucking gazelle.” He stomped the accelerator making the Camaro bark around a corner, then he let off. “So, what’d you study?”

  “Org com. Psych dub.”

  He nodded. “Uh-huh, what about English?”

  “Say again?”

  “Org com. Psych dub? The hell does that mean?”

  She grinned. “Organizational communications with a psychology double.”

  “Oh, I see. So basically, you point out nutjobs at the workplace.”

  Her grin widened. “I did my time in the JAG office. Three-and-a-half years. I was a consultant.”

  “Consultant?”

  “Section Eight. My duty was to profile active service members and recommend potentials for a Section Eight status.”

 
“You discharged them?”

  “That wasn’t up to me. I just made my recommendations.”

  He looked at her with a squint, another dubious look. “Sounds like a candidate for Internal Affairs to me.”

  “Watch it, Detective,” she said, making him grin.

  “So then you got out at twenty-six, and it was back to Bump City. Four years at the OPD. How am I doing so far?”

  “You can obviously read,” she said referring to her case file.

  Mark laughed, but tried not to. “So, how’d you like beating the streets?”

  “It was a stepping stone.”

  “You wanted Detective,” he said with an accusatory tone.

  “Didn’t you?” she shot back.

  Mark took a breath and admitted, “Yes I did. And so here you are.”

  “Here I am.”

  Mark ordered his coffee at The Coffee Bean Café off Rosecrans Avenue, and slid into the booth across from Nia. He sipped smacking his lips. She’d ordered a bottled water. “So,” he said, continuing their conversation, “back in the Navy—the JAG—when you were pointing out Section Eights, how busy were you?”

  She said, “It was the military. There were plenty of Section Eights. The majority of them were Marines. Hot blood and all.”

  “Real killer attitude, then.”

  “Mmm—real killer attitude,” she agreed.

  “Well, this is L.A. Central. There aren’t many nutjobs like an L.A. Central nutjob,” he said, and sipped again.

  She sat back in the booth eyeballing him, and said, “I’ve been around the block.”

  Her defensive nature made him giggle sardonically. “You don’t have to sell yourself to me Officer Helms. You’re already in. Captain Heller gave you high marks. Your test scores hardly even chart. I’m just trying to break the ice.” He leaned toward her and said playfully, “And you’re very icy.”

  She returned the sentiment, “Keeps me cool.”

  “Ha!” he said. Sipping his coffee they enjoyed a silent moment absorbing the other’s company. He thumbed the edge of the paper cup and finally asked, “So, what’s the philosophy you bring to all this?”

  Her eyes blinked once, then stared into him, seriously. “I want to find the guilty before they victimize again.”

  “You act fast.”

  “I’d like to think I’m graceful about it.”

  “Hmm,” he said, nodding. “I wish there was more room for grace here.” He slid the coffee aside, and said, “This is what I think. People say the world is a dark place. It’s not. There’s only light. Some people have more than others. Some people have none. People like us—it’s our job to make the world a lighter place. It’s what we do. But here’s the trick, here’s what you got to be aware of—we either make the world lighter. Or we let the world take our light away. Simple as that.”

  Her face broke into a large, impressed smile. She said, “That’s Goeth.”

  He jerked back. “That’s what?”

  “Goeth. He wrote The Theory of Color. He said there is no darkness. There’s only light … or the absence of light.”

  He squinted at her, intrigued. “You don’t strike me as a hood rat.”

  “What do you think a hood rat looks like?”

  “I don’t know.” He sipped his coffee, said, “They generally don’t know Goeth. Gold teeth and a bad attitude, maybe.”

  “Oh, so hoopties and twenty-fours—gotta drape my ride sort of thing?” she guessed.

  “Nah—that’s the hip-hop homeboys.”

  “Tats and teardrops?”

  “Nah—that’s the southside chivatos.”

  “A badge and a gun?”

  She caught his gaze, froze him cold. There was a pause. He forced a congenial grin and said, “They all cross-pollinate.”

  She grinned back, maintaining eye contact.

  Mark’s phone chirped breaking the moment. He checked it. Captain Heller. “Captain,” he answered.

  “You with the rook?”

  Mark’s gaze went to Nia. “I am.”

  “Good. He’s at the location. Just arrived.”

  “What’s the lowdown?”

  “The lowdown? Cut it with the impressions bullshit and get to the location, Mark—Jesus.”

  Mark grinned a little defeated. “On our way.” He looked at Nia and said, “Okay, he’s there.”

  “What’s the story on this guy?”

  “Dar’quann Dash. He’s got multiple accounts. Real sweet guy. A parolee. Keeps skipping out. Court wants him apprehended. Simple in-and-out.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a job for Blues?” she asked.

  “Blues and rookies.” He gave her a confident, if not superior, smile. “You ready?”

  She rolled her eyes, said, “I’m ready.”

  4

  Floppy

  They entered Compton moving south from the 105. The scenery changed from nice little thousand square foot homes with manicured yards and well-kept visages to concrete yards and wrought iron fences. Mexican and black blue-collars sat out on the curb next to work vans smoking cigarettes. Hitting East Twenty-sixth Street they passed a run-down housing facility with high-occupancy units crammed in, eight to a building, all laid out in rows. The place was busted up like a collection of soffits and rooflines smashed together at increasingly sagging angles. The doors were all close together and the grass was brown. Low hanging power lines etched the yards going from pole to pole. The place had probably been built in the fifties. It was all Section six, low income housing now. Hoopties sat out on the curb.

  Mark parked on the street next to a wrought iron security fence and said, “I know this place. Been here before. Watch what you say.” He got out scoping the area. He heard Nia’s door open, then close. She joined him at the fence.

  A group of black dudes watched from one of the stoops, one of them getting to his feet with a dark look in his eyes. He wore a white wifebeater tee and pants slung low. He moved toward the fence followed by the others. Mark waited, sighing. There were half a dozen of them. He grumbled low, “This might get nasty.”

  Homeboy stopped at the fence eyeballing him. He put his hands up to it wrapping his fingers through the bars. He said, “Yo, you that cop?”

  “Come on, Darius, you remember me,” Mark said, flashing his badge.

  “Told you before, we don’t allow no cops, man.”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Man—you mutha fuckas is trigger-happy on us niggas.”

  Mark gave him a confident smirk. “C’mon, D, everybody shoots everybody. You know that. Look, I need a favor, just this once. Can you do that?”

  “I ain’t doing nothing for no cracker-ass pig.”

  “Shareena Johnson,” Mark said. Darius’s eyes went curious, focused. “You know her? Little girl, about six. Lives in this building. Upstairs. You know who I’m talking about.”

  “Yeah, I know her. I know her moms, too,” he said, and sniggered devilishly. The dudes behind him joined in, chuckling low.

  “Good, I want you to give her something,” Mark said. He went to his trunk, popped it, reached in and pulled out a stuffed puppy dog with large floppy ears. He went back to Darius. “I want you to deliver this to her. Promised her I’d bring it back. Belongs to her.”

  “It’s a doll, man,” Darius said.

  “She’s a little girl. Little girls like dolls.”

  Darius’s deep eyes went back to Mark. “What I get?”

  Mark smiled showing teeth. “My appreciation, D.”

  Darius swiped a hand at him. “Man, please. I don’t give a shit about no appreciation bullshit.”

  “Humility, then,” Mark suggested.

  “Say what?”

  “You get humility,” he repeated, “for knowing you did something good to help a cop make a little girl a little happy. It’s a good thing. What do you say, buddy?”

  Darius started thinking, puckering his lips. His eyes glided over to Nia, looked her up and down. “Yo—who’s the pie
ce?”

  “She’s my partner,” Mark said still holding the stuffed puppy.

  His eyes went back to Mark. “Why you here, cop?”

  “Looking for somebody. Just have some questions. That’s it.”

  “Who?”

  “Dar’quann Dash. You know him?”

  “Maybe.”

  Mark made a congenial face. “C’mon, Darius, take the cute little girl her cute little puppy, and let us in.”

  Darius looked at him skeptical. A moment passed.

  “We’re coming in anyway, bro,” Mark said. “It’s up to you how. Let’s keep peace, man. We ain’t here for none of that other stuff.”

  “Aiight,” Darius said. He pointed at Nia. “She can come in. You can’t.”

  “No deal, brother,” Mark said.

  “No,” Nia chimed in. “It’s a deal.”

  Mark looked at her growing angry, feeling his ears go hot. He paced to his car, then back, looking at Darius with fire in his eyes. “Fine. She’s under your protection, though. Anything happens to her, and something’s going to happen to you.”

  “Thought you was just here for questioning.”

  “We are. So what?”

  “Better be.”

  Mark held up the doll and said, “And his name is Floppy.”

  5

  Dash

  Mark pulled around to Dar’quann Dash’s door number. It was upstairs. He watched Nia move up the lawn, take the steel stairs up to an exterior walkway. She located the door and knocked, looking back.

  Mark got out of his Camaro and stood there, leaning against the door, and watching through the wrought iron fence. He was ready to jerk his nine mil at the drop of a hat.

  Upstairs, Nia heard someone call through the door, “Yeah.”

  She stepped back and to the side. “Dar’quann,” she said, “this is the Los Angeles police. We have a few …”

  BLAM BLAM!

  Splinters flew. Nia dropped to a knee, gun in hand in a flash.

  Mark hissed, “Awe fuck!” and started over the fence.