by phuc
“Daryl, you still back there?” Steve's voice, calling back to him. Daryl bristled at the sound of it, but deep down he knew Steve was simply looking out for him. He took a deep breath to compose himself, replaced his piece in his holster and headed out the room to join the rest of the Task Force in the living room.
Detective Daryl Garcia had just gotten back to Parker Center and was just about to sit down at his desk when Sergeant Dickinson called him. “Garcia! I need to see you please."
The tone of voice that Sergeant Dickinson used told Daryl that he meant business.
He wanted to see Daryl right now.
His mind still on the raid and his confrontation with Rodrigo Arroyo, Daryl headed toward Dickinson's office. The Sergeant looked up from his desk as Daryl entered. “Close the door, please."
Daryl closed the door, a small sliver of worry in his gut. He crossed over to a chair and sat down in front of Dickinson's desk. The hairs along the back of his neck crept up; it felt that everybody was watching them through the glass walls of Dickinson's office.
Private meetings behind closed doors with Sergeant Dickinson usually meant only one thing: you were fucked.
Sergeant Dickinson looked across his paper littered desk with red rimmed eyes.
He was a big man, with a barrel chest, a square jaw, and a crew cut that was rapidly turning gray. Prior to joining the LAPD, he had served in the Army and had done two tours of duty in Vietnam. He had brought his military expertise to the LAPD and he ran his division like a drill sergeant as well. Some of the other guys in the department thought Dickinson was a hard ass, but he wasn't any more strict than other supervisors Daryl had had in the past. It took a hard ass to do the job well.
“Do the names Rudy Montego and Frankie Rodriguez mean anything to you, Daryl?” Dickinson looked at him with cold, gray eyes.
Daryl felt his stomach sink. He tried to keep his composure strong in Dickinson's presence, but his heart was hammering hard in his chest. “Of course,” he said slowly.
“Steve and I busted them last year for the murder of that little girl in Echo Park. It was a drive-by thing, they—"
“I already know the case, Garcia, spare me the explanation.” Dickinson leaned back with a scowl. He looked pissed off. “What I don't seem to understand is why these two young men would suddenly level charges of police brutality against you and your partner? And furthermore, that you had planted evidence which implicates them in this crime!"
Daryl felt his blood boil and he fought to control himself. He felt that everything was falling apart around him. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the uphill battle.
He managed a smile. “I'm surprised at you, Dickinson. You actually believe a couple of twice convicted felons?"
“In this case, I don't know what to believe,” Dickinson said, his voice gritty. “All I know is that after sitting in the LA County Jail for almost a year, the DA has decided that they can't prosecute this case because they feel there is not enough evidence to convict.
Furthermore, defense attorneys for both defendants have brought it to our attention that the only reason they were singled out for the crime was because they bore a slight resemblance to the actual killer, that you—"
“There's more than that, Dickinson, and you know it,” Garcia said, feeling his blood boil. “They were picked out of line-ups by three witnesses to the shooting, the spent casings matched the gun found in their apartment, physical evidence in the vehicle they used to commit the shooting matches the crime, and—"
“They say you beat a confession out of them and that you planted a gun on them,”
Dickinson said, his square jaw set in anger.
Daryl sighed. “Look, they came at us, Dickinson. Yeah we might have roughed them up a little bit, but they resisted arrest, one of them actually assaulted Steve, and yeah, we bashed them a bit to get them under control. What the hell did you expect us to do?"
“I expect you to follow department procedure and give people the respect they deserve when they are being placed in custody!” Dickinson thundered. “I do not need a bunch of rogue cops in my department!"
“Rogue cops, huh? You think I like kicking ass on gang members because I ain't got nothing better to do?"
“I don't know what to believe,” Dickinson said, his face turning red. “But I do know that in the last year-and-a-half, I've received more complaints about you abusing people in your charge than any other officer in the field."
“Really? Why is this the first I've heard of this?” In reality, Daryl was only aware of one complaint against him, but that was three years ago and Dickinson had told him privately that the charges in question were bogus and that they weren't being pursued.
Daryl believed, however, that Dickinson knew he got medieval on some gang members asses at times, but looked the other way. Why he was suddenly confronting Daryl with this now was beyond him.
Dickinson leaned over the desk, his voice lowered. “The reason I haven't slapped your ass with charges before this is because I like you, Garcia. You're a hell of a detective. I respect the hell out of you, and the work you've done for the department has been exceptional. I've done all I can to cover your ass, but I can't do it anymore. I've got the DA breathing down my neck to have you brought up on charges of criminal abuse and—"
“You can't be serious?” Daryl suddenly felt sick.
“You bet your ass I'm serious!” Dickinson hissed. He jabbed a finger at Daryl.
“They're royally pissed at you and Steve, and for good reason, too. You and I both know that you kicked the shit out of those two punks to get them to confess to the crime. I know you planted that gun on Rudy, too. Despite the fact that the evidence you presented is a clear match to the crime, the fact is that the tactics you used in apprehending them is a clear violation of their rights as—"
Daryl felt himself growing angrier by the minute. “What about the rights of that little girl who got her head blown off while she was sitting in her fucking living room!"
“I understand how you feel about the victim, Daryl,” Dickinson said, less intense now then before. “Believe me, I'd like to see nothing more to have those two little bastards locked away to rot forever. But there is protocol we have to follow, or the DA can't do a thing about it. When they started looking at the evidence, they found that they could probably convict. But when it came to their testimony on how they were apprehended, it differed vastly from your deposition. At first they didn't say anything, but later after some encouragement they told us what really happened back at Rudy's apartment. Then it all fit."
Daryl felt himself sinking. First Rachael telling him she wanted to take a break in their relationship a few weeks ago, then almost blowing up at that raid when he finally saw Rodrigo Arroyo for the first time in God knew how long, and now this. He felt that his entire world was collapsing around him. “What happens now?"
Dickinson regarded him from behind the massive desk. “I don't know. Technically I should put you on administrative leave, but with this Butcher thing going on I can't lose you. We're short on men as it is, and you're one of my best detectives. I just wish to God you had used better judgement last year in following up on the Montego lead."
“What's done is done,” Daryl said, his voice hollow and empty. Time to face the music. “If you want me to turn in my badge now, I will."
“You know I don't want that,” Dickinson said, leaning forward again, his face serious. “What I do want is for you to lay low. Let me talk to the DA. I don't know what the fuck I'm going to tell them, but I'll think of something. I can't have you taken off the Butcher case—you guys are doing a great job on that, and I can't even begin to think of who I'd replace you with. The FBI guys really like you, and I want to keep that working relationship between the Feds and us open. Is that clear?"
Daryl nodded.
“For now, lay low. Rudy and Frankie just got released three days ago, and the DA is dropping charges against them. I've got to try to convince
them not to press charges against you and Steve. In the meantime, there is the possibility of a civil suit against you and Steve for this little stunt."
Daryl raised his eyebrows. “I didn't know street hoodlums retained high-priced lawyers."
“Can the bullshit, Garcia. Their defense attorneys will only be too happy to refer them to some ambulance chaser that will sue you at the drop of a hat. Frankly, I'm surprised you haven't been sued before."
“Just my luck I guess,” Daryl mumbled.
“And just your luck that I'm stepping up to bat for you again,” Dickinson said. He leaned back in his chair. “Lay low, Garcia. Not a word of this to anybody. I'm keeping you on this Butcher thing until it's over, and when that happens we'll talk."
Daryl stood up and headed for the door. “Thanks."
“Oh, and Daryl?"
“Yeah?"
“Send Steve in here, please."
With a heavy feeling in his chest, Daryl exited Dickinson's office and headed toward his desk, feeling lucky that he wasn't being fired, but at the same time feeling a huge sense of despair.
Chapter 14
Night.
With the smell of blood in the air, he took a deep breath, willing the trembling in his body to calm down.
The trembling in his limbs was of both excitement and fear.
He had gone and done it again.
Stretched out on the floor of the bathtub before him was the body of a male Hispanic with dark black tattoos along his chest and arms. He had engaged the man in conversation earlier that evening—had used the same technique in getting this man to feel comfortable enough to come to his home in fact—and when the man had been good and intoxicated, he had struck. In fact, he had struck when the man was in a very prone position; on his knees in the bathroom, vomiting in the toilet.
They had both been drinking. That much was evident. He had tried holding back on the drinking, but his victim had insisted they keep drinking up, and persisted in pouring shots of Tequila for the both of them. He had complied and now he was reeling from the affects. It was a wonder he had been coordinated enough to carry out his plans.
As it stood, he almost didn't get his chance. He kept waiting for a chance to emerge, but none came until his host became ill and stumbled toward the bathroom. That was when he knew he had to act.
He had followed his guest in the bathroom with the butcher knife behind his back.
Bent over the porcelain toilet bowl heaving his guts out, his victim didn't have a chance. He stepped behind him as he was vomiting into the toilet. With a quick motion he grabbed the man's head with his left hand, pulling it toward him to expose the throat, and with the right hand drew the knife across the tight skin, spilling blood into the toilet bowl and down the front of the man's white t-shirt. The man immediately began to flay in pain.
He tried to scream, but the first cut had been precise, severing the carotid artery, jugular vein, and the larynx. He had leaned into him, holding him in position over the toilet as he flayed weakly beneath him, his lifeblood running out of him and into the toilet. A minute later he stopped moving.
After the man was dead he went into the kitchen and brewed a strong pot of coffee. He was almost falling down drunk, but thankfully he didn't feel sick or dizzy. Just off kilter, his equilibrium shot to hell. He had to sober up if he wanted to continue without the smell of blood making him sick.
So he had sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and thinking back on the man in the bathroom he had just killed.
He had been doing some grocery shopping when he saw him. His victim had made eye contact with him and smiled, and that smile was recognizable. It was a smile of flirtation. He had smiled back and engaged the man in conversation. After they had made their purchases and were standing outside the grocery store he had made his pitch: come on over to the house. We'll party. It was the perfect opportunity and his victim had taken it.
The minute they had gotten to the house, his victim had made a fumbling advance to him. He had engaged the man in light foreplay, rubbing his crotch as they kissed. The man's beard stubble rubbed against his cheek, feeling rough and grainy on his skin. When the man tried to remove his shirt he had backed off, suggesting they drink a little first.
The man had been only too eager to comply.
Between drinks they had paused for more light foreplay. They had given each other oral pleasure. They had kissed some more. And they had drank some more. And the more they drank, the easier it became to control his victim.
Except for the two hours it had taken to get his victim intoxicated enough to let down his guard, the evening had gone perfectly. All he had to do now was sober up and continue.
He drank two cups of coffee before attempting to go back into the bathroom and deal with what he had started. When he rose to his feet he did so with a steady gait. He didn't wobble or lurch drunkenly, although he still felt drunk. He felt strong enough to continue, so he walked back into the bathroom and started to work.
Now with the body stripped in the bathtub, he paused to survey his handiwork. He had stripped down himself and had already cut his victim's head off, which rested in the sink. Most of the man's blood had splashed into the toilet, which he flushed away.
Therefore, when he began cutting there wasn't much blood to deal with.
The need to take some more drinks while he engaged in his fantasy hit him and he indulged. He brought the almost empty bottle of Tequila in the bathroom and took swigs from it as he worked. It helped tip him back into drunkenness as his mind and body swam with lust.
His vision blurred from the effects of alcohol, he nonetheless began to get aroused.
He continued to be fully aroused as he bent down over the bathtub and immersed himself in his fantasy.
Daryl Garcia sat in front of his desk with two big files in front of him. It had been a long day, but his work was far from over.
It was two days after the Echo Park raid and his talk with Sergeant Dickinson. He and Steve Howe had just wrapped up their preliminary investigation into the latest discovery of the Eastside Butcher case, which was already making headlines on the local news broadcasts. The raid from two days ago and the evidence taken from it, had amounted to nothing except jailing three of the individuals rounded up on various parole violation charges, including Rodrigo Arroyo. Reporters from all over the country were now calling Parker Center begging for information on the latest murder. Public Relations held them off for as long as possible; all they released was that another body was found near the vicinity of the Los Angeles River and that it was still too early to tell if it was the work of the Butcher. Daryl, of course, knew differently.
The body that they found was no doubt the work of the Butcher. He was sure of that, despite the curious mutilation that had been performed on the corpse.
A little before seven o'clock this morning, a warehouse worker had called the police to say that he saw two burlap bags resting along the runoff of the LA River. The river, which cut a wide swath through the middle of Los Angeles and ended at the harbor in San Pedro, was dissected by numerous smaller flood channels that cut through various parts of the city. Most of the water ran through underground pipes and currents, but some were constructed deep into the floor of the Los Angeles basin, their concrete walls high and running wide. Most of the time the bottom was barren in the summer, but on occasion there was enough water running down to allow for it to run along at a brisk pace. The water was at this level when the warehouse worker, suspicious of two burlap bags at the bottom of the river, phoned the police.
Upon arriving at the scene, officers fished the bags out of the drainage ditch with the help of two employees from the Department of Sanitation. When they opened the bags they called Parker Center to have somebody from the Butcher Task Force be sent out pronto.
Daryl had been driving to the office when the call came through. Hank Wilkson called Daryl on his cellular phone and told him to get his ass over to Seventy-first and Avalon immediately. Daryl was
the first detective from the Butcher Task Force on the scene.
What the officers had pulled out of the drainage ditch was the remains of a man in two burlap bags. Each bag contained one half of the man's torso, minus the arms, legs and head. One of the torso halves was wrapped in pages from the Los Angeles Times from two weeks ago.
When Steve Howe joined them thirty minutes later, the area was already being scoured by other members of the Task Force and other police officers. A search was launched immediately for the missing body parts, and when the drainage ditch was found to contain no further remains, orders were issued to begin searching the drainage ditches that fed into the one on Eighty-First and Avalon. A search of the LA River was launched as well, since it was initially surmised that the killer might have dumped the remains into the river where they would have drifted downstream and eventually into one of the drainage ditches. Or so the theory went.
The press descended on the scene like vultures to a kill made by a lion. Daryl found himself scouring the faces of reporters and television news people for Rachael, but he didn't see her. She was probably at her office. No doubt she had heard about the discovery on the police scanner but she was staying away. He hoped it was still out of respect for him and their relationship and not because she was slipping away from him as he feared.
