Morbid Curiosity: Erter & Dobbs Book 3

by Nick Keller

  “Of course,” Oscar said matter-of-factly. “You got my blood in you.”

  “What about …” William said.

  “Your mom?” Oscar said, approaching the subject. “Oh yeah.” He looked William in the eyes. “Your mom—she’s been more of a conscientious objector, I guess. She knows. She’s known for years. How could she not? But she—she’s never faced it. Not really. That takes a son.”

  Oscar stepped into the closet and tapped a mop bucket with his foot. It was empty of any water so he turned it upside down, set it down and took a seat sharing a moment with William. He finally said, “I’ve always known my role, buddy, but I’ve never known why it was my role. Now I do. It’s you.” He smiled warm, only the way a father could. “Thank you.” He fished up his cell phone from a pocket and auto-dialed a number. He offered it to William. “Take this.”

  William took the phone shakily in his hand. He could hear the call ringing through so he put it to his ear. A voice said, “This is Mathis.”

  William said, “Um, I don’t—Who?”

  “Agent Mathis, FBI, Los Angeles field office. Who is this?”

  Oscar said, “Tell him he was getting too close to the truth, even if he didn’t know it.”

  “What?” William said.

  “Tell him, son.”

  William said into the phone, “You were getting too close to the truth.”

  William shot a look at his dad. Oscar said, “Tell him you saved his life.”

  “Huh?”

  “Tell him.”

  William swallowed and said, “I—I saved your life.”

  “Who is this?”

  Oscar said, “Tell him you saved his wife Sherry, too. Tell him you saved his daughters, Kirsty and Lidia. Tell him his family was going to be next. He should know.”

  William closed his eyes and said, “Your family was going to be next.”

  The voice went, “What?”

  Oscar said, “Names, son. Give him names.”

  William took a breath and said, “I saved Sherry. And Kirsty. And,” he looked to his dad.

  Oscar whispered, “Lidia.”

  “Lidia.”

  Mathis barked, “Who the hell is this?”

  “Go on, son,” Oscar coaxed him. “Tell him everything.”

  William closed his eyes, took a breath and said, “My name is William Erter. I know who Portrait Killer is. He’s …” He looked up. “He’s my dad.”

  Everything purged in a single, spasmodic heave and water sprayed up from his mouth. He gasped hard pulling life back into his body, choking and hacking. He contorted himself over and vomited one last lungful of water feeling breath flood back into him. When he was done, he flopped back down on his back and lay there breathing. Breathing. Thank, God. Breathing.

  “Will! Will!” someone shouted in his face with a refreshingly familiar voice, and shaking him violently.

  He blinked, looked around. He was free from the table. Someone had bolt-cut his restraints off in a frantic attempt to free him, and then beaten the crap out of him in an equally frantic attempt to save his life. Everything hurt like hell—his face, his chest, his whole body. Apparently, they’d been successful.

  A police car was smashed into the far wall, the big aluminum warehouse door having been sheared from its frame, and the enormous plexi tank had been jarred over onto its side like a huge bucket. Thousands of gallons of water was everywhere, dripping off the warehouse surfaces and pooling across the floor. Someone had driven the squad car at ramming speed right through the rollup door and smashed the tank over spilling everything out, including William.

  William looked up, blinking. The big man was on the floor next to him, looking hysterically down at him. Of course. Who the hell else would ram a squad car through a warehouse on a hunch? It made William smile. He said in a drunken slur, “Bernie. Fucking. Dobbs.”

  Bernie laughed until tears of joy found their way down his cheeks. He said, “Yeah, it’s me kid, it’s me—Bernie. Fucking. Dobbs.”

  48

  Another Round

  “Officer Neiman’s final moments were,” William paused in sad reflection and murmured, “painful.”

  Heller stood at the foot of his hospital bed with his arms crossed, looking glum. A woman who’d been introduced as Detective Nia Helms stood next to him, identically. Upon hearing William’s report of Mark’s final moments, she turned her head away, her face taught with emotion. They had found Mark’s body in a similar vein as the Newman girl—tortured, having faced multiple death scenarios, and dumped by the river. That had been five days ago. It was an unceremonious death for a good man. The funeral happened amidst the investigation. It was rushed.

  William said, “I’m sorry.”

  Heller looked over at William’s doctor. “Will he be able to make a statement?”

  “He’s under strict, medical observation. I’ve never seen a person go through as much as he has and live to tell about it. You’ve got a strong body, Mr. Erter,” he said. “A strong will. As for a statement, that’s up to his psychological health. We’ll have to confer with the therapist.”

  William said, “I can offer a statement. I would very much like to.”

  “That may be so, but again, we’ll confer with the therapist.”

  “Let us know,” Heller said, and with one last look at William, he left.

  Nia turned to follow, but William called, “Detective Helms?” She stopped and turned back. “You and Mark were close?”

  She nodded withholding her emotions, but finally said, “We were partners.”

  “There was more,” William said.

  Nia looked back at the door. There was no one there. She said, “He had my deepest respect.”

  “When I was with him, he had me under the impression he was fighting for something, fighting for more than freedom. Was it you?”

  Her lips tightened, eyes watered. “I hope so.”

  “That must be it, then,” William said. “He was a good man, and a good cop.”

  She grinned at him. “Yes, he was.” She nodded and left.

  “Public endangerment. Fleeing a scene. Unlawful use of a motor vehicle. Everything from speeding and exhibition, to assault on a law enforcement officer. You’ve got problems, Mr. Dobbs,” D.A. Harold Eyvers said. He had his own reasons for wanting to burn Bernie Dobbs.

  “Would you be referring to the same cop that shot him? Excessive force would be easy to argue,” the public defender, Mike Book, said. He was a young guy, not even Will’s age, but he was a shark gunning for his own firm one day. He was sharp as a blade, and not to be trifled with. If anyone was a worthy adversary for D.A. Eyvers, it was this kid. “You’re looking at a countersuit that could inundate Central Division in a media storm that’ll make your head spin.”

  Bernie sat at the arbitration table surrounded by top-level police administrators and sharks from the legal system, all wearing suits. He’d never been on this side of the table before, defending himself against the P.D.’s accusations. He was a defendant, now. It made him uncomfortable. He looked down at his feet.

  His bullet wound had been caused by .38 round that glanced off the upper humerus bone and took a few ounces of flesh with it. It required minor surgery to treat and close, but he was expected to fully recover, in time.

  D.A. Eyvers grinned as if enjoying the exchange and said, “Our office deals with countersuits on a basis so frequent it would make your head spin, councilor.”

  Mike Book grinned back. “Let’s not forget, my client also stopped a murder and solved the case, something the L.A.P.D. couldn’t seem to achieve with greater resources. Do you deal with that with much frequency? Oh, and,” he laughed in a sardonic way, “it’s not the first time my client has put the P.D. in that position, is it?”

  Bernie shot him a look. Mike Book was referring to the Parks case from a year and a half ago, in which Bernie was able to solve a crime the P.D. could not. But the more he pushed the issue, the more he might uncover the truth be
hind the Starlet Killer case from just six months ago, as well. And that was something the P.D. did not want to reopen. His words were more of a threat than even he’d intended.

  Bernie looked across the table at Eyvers, trying to hide his grin. The prosecution team’s faces reflected their guilt clearly. Throats cleared. Eyes glanced around. The department’s lies were sitting on the table waiting to be uncovered, and they involved the FBI. They’d be better off dropping the charges against Bernie.

  “We’ll recess for now,” Eyvers said. “But we’ll be in touch.”

  Out in the hallway, Bernie shook hands with Mike Book and parted ways. Heller was several paces ahead. Bernie flagged him down. Heller’s face was grim, showing Bernie’s betrayal to the department he’d served for over two decades. Now his defense team was threatening a countersuit. He had nothing to say to Bernie.

  “What do you want, Bernie?” he said.

  “I didn’t want this, Cap.”

  “But you got it, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t leave. I was fired.” Bernie said.

  “This isn’t Central’s fault, Bernie, it’s yours—Jesus!” Heller scoffed, and turned to leave.

  “Hey,” Bernie said sharply. Heller turned back around. “You want to pin me for all that shit and put me away for seven-to-ten, go ahead. Yeah, I’ll fight it, but—but I won’t countersue claiming police brutality. That’s just lawyer talk. I couldn’t do that.”

  Heller gave him a curious look. “Why?”

  Bernie tried to say something, but couldn’t. He tried again and it slipped out. “Central Division’s my home, Captain. It’s my home.”

  Heller shared a moment with him, melting a bit. Bernie’s sentiment was mutual. There was understanding.

  “You did get shot,” Heller said.

  “I’ve been shot before.”

  Heller tried not to grin at him, but he couldn’t help it. “Okay, Bernie,” he said, and walked off. But he stopped and turned back around. “See you around.”

  “Yeah, see you around, Cap.”

  Forty-eight hours went by like a crawl. They’d poked and prodded on William like Graves had. After his blood tests showed malnourishment, they issued him a bevy of IV drips. When his heart stress test results came back showing a borderline performance, they pumped him with more vitamins and nutrients. After detecting traces of heroin they injected him again. Everything was tested, recorded, monitored—even his sleep. He was in good hands. And, yet again, he was trapped on a table.

  There was a knock on his hospital door. Before he could look up, it swung fully open and Bernie strolled in powerfully, eyeballing him. He didn’t do anything subtle or small. “Well, well—” he declared, “look who ain’t dead.”

  William grinned sideways and said, “Thanks to you.”

  Bernie took his fedora off. “Yeah, you owe me one, junior.”

  William looked him over. His arm was in a sling. He hadn’t noticed his injury earlier in the warehouse. “I see you got shot again.”

  “I was just in it for the pain meds,” Bernie said, avoiding any unwanted sympathy.

  William murmured, “Bernie, what happened?”

  “As much as I hate to admit it, it was the kid. Little bastard—he coerced me. I’m glad he did, though. Wouldn’t have found you without him, and well,” he said apologetically, “you’d be dead.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  They stared at each other in silence for a long while. They hadn’t spoken in earnest since Ruthi Taylor’s funeral. That was six months ago, but it felt like years. Since then, both of them had picked up a lot of pieces, started putting them back together. It hadn’t been easy on either of them. There was a lot of pain shared. Bernie looked down fidgeting with the fedora’s brim pinched between his thumbs and forefingers, then he looked back up. “Yeah. That’s a whole ‘nuther conversation, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Bernie’s face drew taught. He said, “After Iva,” he took a beleaguered breath, “I was—I was just lost, Will. Took a lot, you know.” He stared at him begging for relief. He finally blurted out, “That’s all you’re gonna get for now, Will, but I’ll tell you what. You get out of here and buy me two drinks, I’ll tell you the whole goddamn story.”

  William smiled sympathetically. “I can do that.”

  “Besides, your story’s more interesting than mine. How was the loony bin?”

  “I believe you once called me a nutjob. Now it’s official.”

  Bernie nodded. “That’s perfect.”

  William gave him a curious squint. “I have a feeling you mean that sincerely.”

  “I, uh—” Bernie strolled to the window putting his thoughts together. He spun back and said, “I was thinking I could use a good, solid nutjob like yourself.”

  William’s curious squint deepened. “Can you explain that?”

  “Believe it or not, Will, I’ve been busy lately, and as it turns out,” he winced, biting his lower lip, then blurted out, “I’m a rotten, stinking private eye.”

  William thrust his head forward, shocked. “You, a P.I.?”

  “I know, sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? Nevertheless, it’s true.”

  “Do you have a service?”

  Bernie gave him a so-so gesture, said, “Well, it’s up; it just isn’t running. Truth is,” he struggled with his next words. “I could use a partner.”

  William gave him a mildly cynical look and said, “Are you asking me to be your partner, Bernie?”

  “If that’s the way you want to put it,” he said bitterly. He didn’t like having to ask for anything. Then, with interest, he said, “Why, you in the market?”

  William crooked his lips in thought. Let me count the ways: Jobless. Bored. Not sure what I do next. “I am definitely in the market.”

  “So, what do you say?”

  “I say it sounds like fun.”

  “Partners, then?” Bernie held out his hand.

  “Absolutely partners.” William shook his hand, firmly.

  “Good. It’s done. I’ll have my sign guy get started on it.”

  William took an enormous, cleansing breath. For the first time since Ruthi’s funeral, he felt good about something. He said, “Dobbs and Erter. Yes—I like the sound of that.”

  Bernie clicked his tongue, critically. “Mmm—I’m not too crazy about that one, Will. Doesn’t roll off the tongue very well. I was actually thinking something more like,” he looked over at him and said, “Erter & Dobbs.”

  Thank you for reading!

  If you enjoyed MORBID CURIOSITY

  be sure to pick up

  ERTER & DOBBS BOOK 4:

  GAMES OF LEVERAGE

  Coming Soon!

  About the Author

  Nick started writing creatively at a young age, right about the time he figured out how to use the complete sentence. Though his many interests range from community thErter, playing competitive air hockey on the worldwide circuit, and studying film, his real work happens at home, in the dark, usually in silence, hunkered over a glowing keyboard.

  He lives in Fort Worth, Texas where he loves big cheeseburgers and can occasionally be seen dancing the night away at this spot or that. He is a father, son, brother and friend to an eclectic cadre of humans, all from whom he pulls a great deal of inspiration, camaraderie and love.

  Become a subscriber to the NKBooks email list and get a FREE copy of COMPOUNDING INTEREST, a Bernie Dobbs novella

  www.nickkellerbooks.com

  nick@nickkellerbooks.com

  It’s Review time!

  To all you readers out there: Your readership is of the utmost importance. Who else would we share our voice with? But now, it’s your turn to speak, and my turn to listen.

  Feel welcome to leave a review of

  Morbid Curiosity.

  I would be very interested in reading it.

  I’m also at nick@nickkellerbooks.com. Let’s chat!

  Books in
the Erter & Dobbs thriller series

  A KILLER’S ROLE —Available Now!

  PATTERNS OF BRUTALITY—Available Now!

  MORBID CURIOSITY—Pre-Order Now!

  GAMES OF LEVERAGE—Coming Soon

  MODUS OPERANDI—Coming Soon

  COMPOUNDING INTEREST—A novella

  from the case files of Bernie Dobbs. FREE for signing up at www.nickkellerbooks.com.

  Enjoy this opening excerpt to Compounding Interest: A Bernie Dobbs Novella

  TODAY. A SATURDAY.

  One minute after midnight.

  Ah, sleep. Christ, he hadn’t slept in days. What had it been—sixty, maybe seventy hours? Was that even fucking possible?

  Bernie had never had a problem sleeping. Sleeping was easy. You just close your eyes and allow all those images of babies found in dumpsters, wives mangled into knots by alcoholic hubbies, and decomposing suckers dragged up from the bottom of the L.A. river, to just drift away. Yeah—that and a whole lot of Jack Daniels black label. A whole lot. Throw in a pack of Camels and sleep was inevitable.

  Oh, and according to Bernie, never fall in love. You won’t ever sleep, plus that shit will kill you faster than a bullet. Following his own rules, he slept like a baby… most nights.

  Yet, here he was, hadn’t slept in days. It was killing him. He was too goddamn big to exist for long on shooters and Camels alone. His three-hundred-and-twenty-pound six-and-a-half-feet needed sleep—good healthy sleep. Well, here it was. Finally.

  He sank into his big, fluffy bed grinning, perfectly content. It was damn near orgasmic. He’d never been so tired in his whole life. Not ever. His body was quitting all on its own. He had hallucinated about shit that wasn’t even there. He was lucky he made it home. Furthermore, shooting a few Jack doubles up at Murphy’s Bar or Shankley’s Port & Sport hadn’t even occurred to him. Most nights that was all he thought about. But not tonight. No self-medication necessary.