JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps

by phuc

  Rachael shrugged her shoulders. “What's so odd about it? He works with gang members at the church, doesn't he?"

  “Yes, but that's different. He works with them, counsels them, acts as a big brother to the younger ones. But he doesn't associate his off-hours with them. At least not in the way he normally does. The young gang members we interviewed stated that Danny actually paid a visit to Felipe earlier in the evening. He actually stayed at the house and socialized for an hour or so. Then he left about fifteen minutes before Felipe took off for wherever it was he went."

  “You don't think Danny has anything to do with this, do you?” Rachael asked, concerned.

  Daryl shrugged. “No ... but the coincidence is odd. Danny knew three of the victims, two of them rather personally. The others all came from the area with the exception of two. And Danny has a car, which theoretically makes it possible for him to have driven to Riverside and the San Gabriel Mountains to make those other two killings.

  As for the local ones, he surely knows the area like the back of his hand. The only thing missing is that he doesn't fit the profile at all."

  Rachael took a sip of beer. “I was just thinking the same thing."

  “Danny is bright, and I'm sure if he were capable of it he very well could have carried out these crimes. But the forensic evidence clearly shows that the perpetrator has a definite knowledge of human anatomy, maybe even some medical training, which Danny surely doesn't have."

  “Could he qualify as an accomplice?"

  Daryl shook his head. It was an intriguing possibility. “Much as I'd hate to admit it, I'd say yes."

  “But you have reservations?"

  Daryl sighed and took another swig off his bottle. “Maybe I do. I don't know how else to explain it, but the best way would be that it's a gut feeling. And it tells me that Danny Hernandez has nothing to do with the Butcher murders."

  “You think the person responsible might also have killed those people in Indiana?” Rachael asked.

  Daryl nodded. “Yeah. I think so. So far not much has been done in checking that angle out. Me, Bernie Haskins and another FBI agent flew out to South Bend a year ago to check out that angle and basically came to the conclusion that there is a possibility that our killer started there. But since then the focus has been on Los Angeles."

  “Nobody has tried doing more work in Indiana?"

  “Nope.” Daryl shook his head. “Haskins and the rest of the agents heading the case feel we need to concentrate on LA. He's operating here now and the trail is fresher.

  Besides, the budget is stretched so tight that I don't think it'll allow for anymore poking around in Indiana."

  “How about if I did some?” Rachael brought this up with a trace of apprehension.

  Daryl looked at her. “You?"

  Rachael touched Daryl's arm. “I could do it off the record from my job. They won't need to know anything and I can use my press credentials to get information. It can just be to help you. Kind of like an independent investigator."

  Daryl nodded. He liked the idea but he had concerns. He told her so. “But I'm behind you on it. In fact, I can even help. I can give you copies of the reports in the case files that might help."

  “I would like that.” She placed her beer on the nightstand on her side of the bed and faced him. She looked excited and eager. “I can fly back to Indiana myself at some point using your files as a reference point. There's got to be something I can find back there that relates to all this."

  “Like when?"

  “You said yourself that two of the murders here don't fit in many ways. The Riverside victim and the unidentified man found in San Gabriel. And what about the black male from ‘89?"

  Daryl nodded. He knew what Rachael was getting at, but wasn't sure if she could link them all together. “But the only thing that ties them all together is MO. And even then, the San Gabriel victim doesn't fit. He was killed where he was found."

  “That's right,” Rachael said. She reached for her beer. “Damn, I forgot about that."

  “I don't want to stay so narrowly focused in LA, which the FBI wants to do right now,” Daryl said. “I want to keep an open mind to this case. If he's killing in other jurisdictions we need to know about it."

  “I agree. And I think if I were to go to Indiana and at least investigate those murders, I might find something."

  “Like what?"

  Rachael shrugged. “Anything. Background on the victims always helps. Weren't two of them prostitutes?"

  Daryl nodded.

  “And the local police investigations didn't get very far?"

  Daryl sighed and drained the rest of his beer. “I'm afraid not. It's a sad fact of life in cases like this."

  “I'd like to see those autopsy reports and the original crime reports. I would bet the answer lies there."

  “But honey, the FBI has already opened those cases up again."

  “And?"

  “And what?"

  “Where has it gotten them?"

  “Well...” Daryl didn't really know. He remembered making the trip out to South Bend himself and being positive that those three unsolved homicides were related to what was currently going on in Los Angeles. But the beaucracy of the case bogged down any further investigation in that avenue. He had left it to the FBI to find some answers. And so far none had been found.

  “Nowhere, right?” Rachael asked.

  Goddamn but Rachael could be a persistent woman. That's what spelled a good reporter. And a good detective. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have her poke around.

  “Listen,” he said, speaking carefully. “I would love for you to help. But only if you want to."

  “I do."

  He looked at her, trying to convey the seriousness and caring he felt in his tone and gaze. “I want you to know that I appreciate it. I really do. But I want you to not only be extremely careful, which I know you will, but extremely discreet. More discreet than you would normally be. Because if somebody finds out about you and me and sees you poking around, it might mean trouble. I could not only get fired, but my career might be at stake."

  Rachael's features deflated a little. “Damn, you're right. Christ, why does everything have to be so goddamned political?"

  “I don't know.” He took Rachael in his arms and they held each other for awhile, content to bask in the peacefulness of their embrace.

  After a moment Daryl broke the silence. “I do think if you find something on the Indiana angle that it might help."

  “I think so, too."

  “The victims in Indiana were two prostitutes and a vagrant,” Daryl said, softly rubbing Rachael's shoulders. “If we believe the common thread, he didn't strike again until 1989 when he killed Leroy Brown in LA, a black gang member. Then a five year gap before the Lady of the Ocean turns up. Since then it's been a pretty steady stream of bodies, most springing from the same geographical location and sociological background.

  The question is, why the long gaps in the early years? And he's established such a strong pattern with gang members here in LA, why a vagrant and two whores in Indiana?"

  “Maybe they don't have gangs in South Bend,” Rachael said.

  Daryl chuckled. Rachael laughed with him.

  “I think he made his first kill in Indiana,” Daryl said. “I think his first kill was one of the hookers, and he did the other two soon after. I think he was ashamed at what he did and buried the bodies so they wouldn't be discovered."

  “I think he's from Indiana,” Rachael said. “Quite possibly South Bend itself."

  “I think that's a possibility."

  “Why would he come here, though?"

  “Why does anybody come to LA?"

  “To be a movie star."

  Daryl laughed. “I can see it now. Headline: ‘Eastside Butcher captured. Is found to be a burgeoning actor in Hollywood'!"

  “Or a major actor,” Rachael laughed, getting in on the joke. “'Extra! Brad Pitt is the Eastside Butcher'."

  Th
ey burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

  When the laughter died down, Daryl resumed his hypothesis. “Whatever the reason, he's here now. The question is, why did he settle in East LA?"

  “Maybe he didn't. Maybe he works in East LA and lives somewhere else."

  Daryl nodded. “That's possible."

  “We know he's very smart and that he has a car to transport the victims,” Rachael continued. “And that he probably lives alone. Do you think he has his own home?"

  “I don't know.” That was a tough call.

  “He might have been in his late teens or early twenties when he killed those people in South Bend. Most serial killers start at that age. That would make him in his mid-to-late thirties now."

  “Right."

  “Hookers, transients and gang members."

  “Yes."

  “Two of which are very easy to procure."

  “True."

  “But why gang members? That's what gets me. Is this a personal crusade? A mission of his to root out gangs and the problems they cause by killing them?"

  “I don't know,” Daryl shook his head. “Believe me, you're right when you say that most people could care less if we catch this guy. And while I hate to admit it, I harbored those same feelings myself. Part of me still does. I hate gangs and the destruction and pain they cause more than anything. Gangs and gang violence have cost me plenty.” He paused, reigning his emotions in. Now was not the time to go careening back into the world of self-pity and yearning for Shirley again. He had put that all behind him. Besides, the more he got going down that track, the more he thought Rachael was beginning to have second thoughts about him. The first time the subject had come up where they had mused that a cop could be responsible for the murders was only the tip of the iceberg. “He does more then just kill them.” Daryl resumed, starting at the wall in front of him. “He does much more."

  They were quiet, each thinking their own thoughts of the madness that lurked in the mind of somebody out there in the city.

  “You're right,” she said. “He isn't killing gang members out of some personal crusade for society."

  “No."

  “He's attracted to victims of both sexes."

  “Yes."

  “He's most likely bisexual."

  “Yes."

  “He gets a supreme thrill out of doing what he's doing."

  “I would think he does."

  “And he kills gang members because they are just as easy for him to get as transients and prostitutes."

  Daryl nodded.

  “Which means he must live somewhere in the East LA area."

  “Right.” Daryl lifted the empty bottle of Rolling Rock and wished for another beer. “The problem now is, how do we find him?"

  Chapter 17

  January 20, 1998, 5:30 p.m.

  The much heralded El Nino had begun doing what weather forecasters had promised several months ago. Southern California was in the midst of a ferocious storm.

  It had already rained all day, with many areas of Los Angeles and Orange County receiving an inch of rain. Temperatures were in the mid fifties, dropping down to the low thirties at night. The lower foothills of San Gabriel and San Bernadino were getting snow.

  Charley shivered as he drove home from work, the windshield wipers whisking the rain away. The heater in his pickup truck had blown out several weeks before and he hadn't fixed it yet. Hopefully if this weather let up he could take it in to the dealer and have them look at it.

  At least the floor heater at home was working. His mother would have raised holy hell if it was broken. She raised holy hell anyway, and he sighed as he drove home.

  Another night with mother. Another night of repression and frustration. And rage.

  She had been worse the last few days. She had become both more clinging and over protective of him in the last few months. She was even this way when his older brother was at home to visit. But never to him. Oh, his brother complained about her just as much as he did, but in reality it was Charley she doted and fussed over more. That was because she saw his brother more as a man, and Charley more of a thing, a freak of nature. Charley scowled as he thought about his brother. He had every reason to not refer to him by name. Mother always preferred his brother over Charley anyway, so why acknowledge him? Screw him.

  Charley's scowl set into a frown as he drove, paying close attention to his driving as he piloted his truck through the rainy streets of Los Angeles. People couldn't drive worth a tin shit in L.A. when it rained. Instead of being cautious, they drove like maniacs.

  No wonder why they skidded all over the goddamn roads like they were in the Indy 500.

  Charley hated driving in the rain. He felt he wasn't in control. He knew that at the whim of some idiot who didn't know what they were doing that he could be reduced to scrap metal and mush in an instant.

  He knew what he needed to relax him—a few videos in the privacy of his room should do the trick. He was thinking about what to watch, what fantasies he wanted to play out, when he approached a bus stop on his right and saw a familiar figure huddled inside from the rain.

  He approached the intersection and stopped at the red light. He looked toward his right at the bus stop and saw that the familiar figure was Carmen Aguirre, from Top's Burgers.

  Without thinking, he honked his horn.

  Carmen turned toward him and he leaned toward the passenger's side and waved.

  She approached the truck cautiously and when she saw that it was him, her face brightened. She approached the passenger's side door and he unlocked it on his side for her. “Need a ride?"

  “Do I ever!” Carmen got in and shut the door. “I'm glad you came when you did. I missed my bus and have to wait for the six-fifteen bus to Echo Park."

  “I can take you home,” Charley said.

  “Thank you.” She smiled sweetly, white teeth flashing, pink lipstick sparkling invitingly. Her big brown eyes twinkled. “I really appreciate it."

  The light turned green. Charley stepped on the gas.

  “I hope I'm not putting you out of your way,” Carmen said. She brushed her wet hair back from her face

  “I just live in Highland Park, a few blocks down,” Charley said. “But I don't mind giving you a lift home."

  “Are you sure?"

  “Yeah, no problem. I did kinda want to swing by the house first for something, but it can wait."

  “I wouldn't mind if we did,” she said, fidgeting in her seat. “I gotta pee."

  “Okay. It's settled then. We'll swing by my place first and then I'll take you home."

  “Great!"

  With a flutter in his stomach, Charley smiled in anticipation as he cruised slowly home with Carmen Aguirre in the front seat of his truck.

  The bedroom was dark. On the widescreen TV a woman was being disemboweled with a pair of garden shears. She screamed shrilly during the re-enactment, and a moment later the woman's body was gutted like a deer, the flesh pale white.

  Charley sat on the sofa nude, gripping his penis in his right hand and picturing the woman on the screen as Carmen. It had been four hours since he had picked Carmen Aguirre up from the bus stop. Four hours after everything turned to shit.

  He pressed the off button and stopped the tape, the need building in him again.

  When they had pulled up to the house he was sure his mother wouldn't be home.

  Wednesdays she usually went to church with his brother, who picked her up. But she had been home.

  And she hadn't been too pleased to see Carmen.

  The minute Carmen disappeared into the bathroom mother started in on him.

  What did he think he was doing bringing that slut into the house? Did he see the way she was dressed? That tight sweater and those tight jeans and that make-up, and she wasn't going to let her boy be corrupted by that whore of Babylon and—

  And then Charley had lost it. He saw red and flew into a blind rage. He didn't remember what he said, but he remembered y
elling and screaming at her, not even aware that he was crying, and then Carmen had come out of the bathroom looking embarrassed, saying, look, why don't we go? I don't want to cause any trouble with you and your family, and Charley had spun around and began herding her into his room. “No, you're a guest in my house and if I want to have guests over I can. Come on.” And he had escorted her to his room and slammed the door behind him, trembling with rage at the scene his mother had caused.

  And Carmen, that bitch, had started to whine that she didn't want to be the cause of any trouble with his mother, she just wanted to go home.

  And Charley saw what she really meant, what her true intentions were. She was laughing at him inside. She had seen the secret part of him, had seen that he lived with his mother, who ruled his life, wouldn't let him bring girls home, saw that he was less then a man. She laughed at him because she knew he had a crush on her, and had still been flirting with her even when she had given him a few not so subtle signals that she wasn't interested in dating him. She had seen all that, and now had seen this and saw him for what he really was—a pathetic excuse for a man, a momma's boy, a geek and probably a virgin who was scared of girls because he knew he would never have one because mother said he couldn't. Mother said it was naughty and he always minded her.

  Charley had told Carmen to ignore his fucking mother. It was his house, too, and that's when things got fuzzy. He had been angry at his mother, and was growing more angry at Carmen as the scenario escalated. But the gist of it was this: Carmen had said that she didn't want to intrude on anything at the house, and then she had opened his bedroom door and walked out. Her last words to him were “Thanks for the ride, Charley, but I'll manage on my own.” Then she was gone.

  Charley had sat in his chair in his room, his vision clouding black. He hadn't felt so enraged in ... well, since mother had laughed at him four years ago when he had finally gotten up the courage and asked Shelly Plant out on a date. He and mother had met Shelly at church one Sunday morning, and she had talked to them after the service. She had been a nice woman, around Charley's age, and he had taken to her quickly. They saw each other at Mass for the next few weeks, and then one Sunday while mother was talking to a couple of ladies that she always talked to (easily distinguishable by their under five foot one height, their stooped shoulders, their gray hair pulled into a tight bun or cut short, and the matronly dresses they wore) Charley asked Shelly if she would like to go out to dinner or the movies. Shelly had smiled and said she'd like that very much. They had traded phone numbers and Charley had been giddy with excitement on the way home. He had been so excited that he had told mother; it had just slipped out nonchalantly. He had been expecting mother to either ignore the news or perhaps greet it with some exclamation of