by phuc
“Two forty-one,” Steve said.
“Okay"
They walked toward the elevators and Steve hit the UP button. When the elevator opened they got in, and Steve pressed the button for the second floor. The doors whisked shut.
The elevator deposited them on the second floor. They emerged, checking out the apartment numbers around them, and saw apartment two-fifteen. Daryl motioned along the north side of the building. “Up this way,” he murmured.
They headed along the upper hallway of the complex. The apartments looked out over a wide open courtyard, the edges well kept up with the appropriate topiary and shrubbery; there were areas set apart for outdoor barbecues, complete with large gas grills, tables and chairs. Beyond the concrete walkways that meandered between the barbecue areas and the grassy areas was a large swimming pool and Jacuzzi. It was a classy building. Daryl and Steve walked along the hallway, reaching their destination, which turned out to be at the end of the building.
Each apartment had a small patio that was situated beside the front door; the patios were fenced off by a four foot brick wall, leading into what was presumably the living room of the apartment. Beside each complex was a small walkway that led to each respective apartment. Daryl and Steve stepped into the walkway and knocked on the door to Two Forty-one.
There was silence for a moment; they knew they weren't expected and they had worked this plan out well in advance. Judging from the apartment complex this particular massage parlor was set up in, and the sophisticated system of setting up an appointment, these people would be on their guard. There would be at least one girl, possibly two, in the front part of the apartment. And she would most likely be wary when she opened the door, might even have ready access to a weapon. If there was a second woman (or man, Daryl reasoned) that person would most likely be hiding within easy earshot ready to call the police or come out blazing with a gun should their unexpected visitors be troublesome. Daryl knew they would open the door. They would have to. Unfamiliar people at your doorstep when you weren't expecting them usually meant one thing to these people: the police.
The door opened a crack and an attractive Hispanic girl peered out at them with big brown eyes. Her smile was wide and false. “Can I help you?"
Daryl and Steve had their shields out before the door opened. “LAPD, ma'am,”
Daryl said. “Can we come in?"
Feigning puzzlement, the woman opened the door and stepped aside to let them enter the apartment. “What's the trouble, officer?"
Ignoring her, giving the dimly-lit living room a quick survey, Daryl answered:
“We're looking for George Van Patten, ma'am. Which room is he in?"
The girl closed the door behind them and stood barefoot on the clean burgundy rug. She stood about five foot two, had shoulder length black frizzy hair, was dressed in blue jeans and a red sweater. She had a great body, wide hips, full breasts, a very pretty face that would have looked pretty even without the make-up she wore: blue eye shadow, red lipstick, rouged cheeks. She was smiling in wide-eyed innocence, the damsel playing the ignorant Barbie-doll. The living room they had stepped into was completely bare of furniture, the drapes over the windows drawn. “I don't understand,” she said, “I don't know any George—"
Steve interrupted her. “You're not in any kind of trouble, ma'am. But if you don't tell us which room he's in, we will bust you and the other girls working here tonight."
“In fact,” Daryl said, quick to add, “we'll have this place shut down before your boyfriend is able to bail you out of jail."
Steve smiled softly at the girl, his voice smooth and diplomatic. “We really don't want to bust you or your girls, miss."
“What's your name, ma'am?” Daryl asked. He was still checking the apartment out and was convinced that the attractive Hispanic woman who let them in was the only girl working the “lobby” tonight. There would be at least two other girls working in the bedrooms.
The girl's smile faded; she looked worried. “Sylvia,” she said, apprehensively.
From the kitchen, just around the corner of the living room, came the faint sounds of a small television where Sylvia probably camped out while the other girls earned their living.
“Sylvia, we aren't here to bust you or your girls,” Daryl said, addressing her directly. Still holding onto his shield, he stood before her, hands on hips, trying to look more like a fatherly figure than authoritative. Sylvia looked no older than eighteen. “In fact, if you tell us which room George is in, I'll guarantee that this establishment will never be targeted for a raid by LAPD. Never. You won't have to worry about a bust as long as you operate at this location. I won't be able to guarantee that same protection if you decide to move your operations to another facility, but you can operate here free and clear. Okay?"
That seemed to settle it for her. She nodded down the hall. “He's in the bathroom at the end of the hall with Maria,” she said, her voice a throaty whisper.
Daryl smiled warmly at her. “Thank you, Sylvia."
They headed down the hall toward the bathroom, which was visible at the end of the hall. The door was closed.
The two bedrooms along the hall and the one off the bedroom were closed, the faint sound of music emanated from behind the closed doors. With the additional job going on in the bathroom, it appeared that Sylvia and her girls did a brisk business.
Daryl and Steve positioned themselves on either side of the bathroom door. Steve pulled his gun and held it up. Daryl had his badge ready; his hand reached for the doorknob. He looked at Steve. “On three,” he whispered.
From within the bathroom came the muffled sound of rustling and the squawk of a chicken. A man's voice followed it. “Oh yeah, that's it, Maria. Do it!"
Daryl nodded on three, turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, Steve bursting in ahead of him, gun held out. Daryl held his shield up. “LAPD, stay where you are!"
The chicken that had made the squawking sound fell from Maria's lap where she had been sitting in the bathtub. It fluttered on the floor, short wings flapping. She held her hands up, her heavy breasts falling to her stomach like two pendulous udders. George Van Patten had been sitting naked on the toilet seat, his right hand already stroking his limp member when Daryl and Steve burst in, and now he jumped back in surprise. Daryl flashed the shield so that both of them could see it, then motioned to George. “Put your clothes on. We're going for a ride."
“Why, what did I do?” George protested, his voice stammering. Despite his size, his voice was soft, almost effeminate.
“That's what we're going to find out,” Daryl said. “Now let's go."
“We weren't doing anything,” Maria said, standing up in the tub now. She looked like she had once been a beautiful woman but had let her looks go in favor of high fat foods and beer. She had a fat ass and a flabby belly. “He's my boyfriend, we were just—"
Steve had replaced his service revolver in its holster and had already produced a pair of handcuffs. He turned to her curtly: “If you don't shut up we'll haul you in for not only prostitution but cruelty to animals."
“Cruelty to—” Maria stuttered.
Daryl brought out the butcher knife used for George's chicken fetish out of the folds of his clothes. He held it up to George, a faint smile playing on his face. “Cruelty to animals,” he said, echoing Steve's statement. “You know damn well, Maria, that you'll be off this evening if we bust you for prostitution. With animal cruelty you're looking at a minimum two years in jail. Hell, the law protects animals more than it does human beings, Maria. I thought you knew that?"
Maria stopped protesting.
Once George got his clothes on they escorted him out of the massage parlor and into Parker Center for questioning.
It had taken her almost two weeks to get a date with him, but when she finally did Daryl Garcia proved to be every much the gentleman that she thought he was. Once they connected via telephone the last weekend of October and she asked him if he'd be interested
in going out for dinner, he was completely agreeable. In fact, he was almost too agreeable. But then so was she. Because for the last three weeks she had been thinking about Daryl Garcia almost constantly.
It surprised her; thinking about Daryl Garcia at all hours of the day, all these thoughts coming suddenly and without warning. It was like being back in high school again when you became infatuated with the cutest boy in school and spent all of your downtime fantasizing about what it would be like if he just noticed you. Back then her heart would melt at the mere thought of such a thing happening. Now that she was older and much wiser she simply wondered what it would be like to spend an evening with Daryl Garcia immersed in intelligent conversation. With the hopes to see where it would lead.
Therefore, when she finally talked to Daryl after a week of playing phone tag, he was more than agreeable to a date. The problem was getting their schedules to match: he had a meeting Wednesday evening on the 7th, she had a session with her personal trainer on Friday evening. He was driving up to Cambria over the weekend to visit his father, who owned a house up there-Daryl's mother succumbed to breast cancer, and Dad had retired up to the small coastal town. The following Monday through Thursday were no good for her due to a looming deadline; likewise for him, since he was flying to Indiana to check out a lead in the Butcher case; Friday night wasn't good for him as well because he had a prior engagement of dinner with a friend from the department. But they both had the following Saturday evening open.
So Saturday it was.
Rachael wasn't comfortable playing the traditional submissive female who waited at her place while her date picked her up. She told Daryl that she would pick him up at his place. He said that was perfectly fine. She asked him what kind of food he liked. He said he liked pretty much anything, but he loved Italian. That worked fine with her because she knew of a good Italian Restaurant called Dominicos that was right in Daryl's neighborhood. She made reservations for seven p.m. on Saturday evening and requested a booth in the back of the restaurant.
On the Saturday of their date, Rachael rose late in the morning and spent the early part of the afternoon reading the newspaper and drinking coffee. When she felt fully alert and awake, she worked out for about an hour to the brutal assault of Slayer pumping through the stereo. Then she took a shower. When she was finished showering she sat in front of her computer in nothing but a pair of panties for an hour and a half working on her book—she had just started her piece on the Eastside Butcher and was already on the first chapter. Then she went into the bathroom and spent the next hour and a half getting ready for the evening. She spent twenty minutes agonizing over what to wear, and changed outfits four times. Finally she settled on something she felt comfortable with; a pair of loose fitting black pants, black heels, a white low-cut blouse, and a black blazer.
She left her condo at six-fifteen to pick up Daryl.
Rachael lived in South Pasadena, so it would take her only a few minutes to reach Daryl's place in Pasadena. As she turned down his street and began searching for the street address she noted that most of the cops she knew that worked for the LAPD lived either in the Valley or in the outer conclaves of Los Angeles—Santa Barbara or Simi Valley. No wonder some of them felt such a sense of despair at times, leaving the peaceful tranquility of the suburbs and driving into the jungle every day to soothe the savage beasts.
Daryl met her at the front door of his home, which was a nice three bedroom tract home in a middle class neighborhood. He looked stunning in dark khaki's, a loose black shirt, and black shoes. His hair was combed back nicely, his mustache neatly trimmed. He smiled warmly at her. “My don't you look nice. Hope you didn't get lost.".
“Not at all,” Rachael said, blushing from the compliment. “Finding my way around places is second nature to me. It comes with my journalism training."
They made small talk on the drive to Dominicos. Once seated and with drinks served—white Chablis—they seemed to settle into conversation easier. Rachael had gotten over her initial nervousness that had befallen her earlier on the drive to Dominicos.
For a moment she felt tongue-tied, as if she had nothing to say and was facing a long night that would only end in disaster. What should she say to get conversation going?
What could she do to make herself sound like she wasn't such a fumbling idiot?
Best of all, how could she make it appear that she was attracted to Daryl without coming off like a slutty tramp?
Thankfully there was an easy answer to the third question. The twinkle in Daryl's eye, the smile on his face, the way he paid attention to her every word, told her that Daryl was interested in her. This put Rachael at ease. From there, conversation went easy.
They began dinner conversation with Daryl telling Rachael the latest developments in the Butcher case. “...so after six hours of interrogation it was obvious to me that George Van Patten wasn't the Butcher. We did a thorough check on the guy.
Checked his house, his car, place of employment. Hell, we even checked his parent's house. He isn't the killer, even though he seemed like a very likely suspect. You would think that anybody capable of ... well, doing what he liked to have these prostitutes do for him would surely be capable of some of the things the killer did to his victims. But when we showed George morgue photos of the Butcher's victims he actually became visibly ill."
Rachael bristled. “Hell, I think even I'd become visibly ill at the sight of those photos."
“Well, trust me, they're not pretty. And George's visible illness at the sight of them, and the opinion of our police psychologist who observed the interrogation, assured me that George isn't the Butcher."
“Anything new come up since you've ruled him out?” Rachael asked, sipping a glass of wine.
Daryl shrugged. “Not much.” He sipped at his wine and picked up a piece of bread from the basket that had been placed at their table. He broke the bread in half before taking a bite. “We have a special hot line set up with four detectives checking out the tips that come from calls. Most of the calls coming in are from a paranoid public.
Neighbors suspecting neighbors, women suspecting their husbands, that sort of thing.
People are also suddenly finding bones all over the city."
Rachael perked up. “Bones?"
“Yeah, bones,” Daryl said, a slight grin cracking his rugged features. “Damnedest thing. People will call and say that they've found a pile of bones in a field or in a parking lot or garbage dumpster and claim that they're human, usually coming up with some story about suspicious activity being seen in the area shortly before the bones turned up. In every case the bones turn out to be the remains of animals—usually chicken bones. A hobo's meal or something. In one case we found the bones of what turned out to be a St.
Bernard. In another, a Chimpanzee."
“A Chimp?” Rachael exclaimed.
“Yeah. Don't ask me how, or why, but it's true."
“What about your trip back to Indiana?” Rachael said.
“Ah yes, that,” Daryl said. “That has proved most interesting.” His dialogue was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter.
They ordered their meals—chicken marsala over pasta for Daryl, vegetarian lasagna for Rachael. When the waiter left Daryl took another bite of bread and resumed.
“That's the strangest thing about this case, the four murders that don't exactly fit the profile we have."
“And what's that?"
“Here we have seven people, nine if you count that black kid who was killed in
‘89, and the Riverside county victim, and all of them but the Riverside victim and the still unidentified number six have gang ties. They're all decapitated, and in some cases dismembered. Furthermore, all of them had pretty much resided within a ten or fifteen mile square area of each other. All of them showed some signs of being sexually violated post mortem—sorry, I didn't mean to get so graphic."
“No problem,” Rachael said. At the mention of sexually violated she had spilled
wine in her lap. She grabbed a cloth napkin and dabbed at the front of her blouse and slacks, chastising herself silently for being so clumsy. Thank God the slacks were dark.
“I'm just naturally clumsy."
Daryl smiled. It was enough to melt the anxiety right out of her. “The basic thing is that all eight murders within the last two years are related. There's also a possibility that our unknown killer may have actually started this series back in ‘89 with the murder of our lone black victim. With me so far?"
“Yep,” Rachael said. She dabbed at the last of the wine on her blouse, folded the napkin up and replaced it on the table. She smiled at Daryl to show him that everything was all right.
“The FBI has linked the Riverside victim killed in June to our man, as well as three unsolved murders in South Bend, Indiana. These killings occurred in 1985, maybe 1984. A hiker found the first body, partially buried beneath some bushes in a wooded area about one hundred yards from the main road. The victim was male, naked and decapitated. He had been dead for about a month. A search was launched for the head but guess what they found instead?"
“Another body?"
Daryl shook his head. “A head, but not the head of their victim. What they found was the head of a pretty blonde girl who had gone missing three days before. She had been a prostitute. She had been dead about three days. They never have found her body, or the head of the first victim."
“Did they identify the first victim?” Rachael asked, breaking off a piece of bread and taking a bite.
“He turned out to be a male hustler. Can't remember his name now, but his story was familiar. Was kicked out of his home when he was a teenager because he told his parents he was gay. He tried making a living at legitimate jobs for awhile, but dipped into male prostitution. Got involved with drugs. He had a minor police record. Nothing much else distinguished him from other murder victims like him who often fall prey to serial killers. The homeless and the destitute, as well as prostitutes, are always a serial killer's favorite victims."
