JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps

by phuc

  The day after that she drove to the red light district herself. She walked the streets past the filthy denizens: pimps, hookers, hustlers, black dudes lounging against bars as they tried to look cool for her as she strolled by. She walked into the Blue Lady saloon, a bar that Howard had frequented, which boasted a large gay clientele. Chuck had told her the bar had changed owners since the murders, and true to form the new bartender couldn't tell her anything about Howard Manheim. From there she went to an X-rated book/peep show where Alice had worked at briefly, then the massage parlor she had worked at over on Lincoln Way. Nobody would talk to her despite her assurances that she was a journalist working on a book, not a cop.

  And then today she had driven out to the woods where the bodies had been found.

  She started at the red light district, driving around the streets, trying to picture where the killer would have started out. It would have had to be somewhere close by; these were street hustlers he had killed, people who would have directed him to an alley a block or so away from where they were picked up or a motel room in the area. Of course, maybe the killer kept lodgings close by. She made a note to check out the motels in the area, and from the red light district drove to the outskirts of town where the bodies had been buried.

  It was a twenty-minute drive.

  She made a note of that.

  Trudging through the hard packed snow, she had tried to visualize what it would have been like for him. She had parked her car in the little grove where Chuck theorized the killer parked his own car, and headed down to the spot on foot. She sat on the stump of a tree and looked out at the woods, her mind racing. He would have had to carry the bodies into these woods, once again suggesting that this killer was the Eastside Butcher.

  Remember the second and third victims in Echo Park found at the bottom of the gully?

  she thought. Those were carried quite a distance, too. She rubbed her gloved hands together, shivering in the cold as her thoughts turned over in her mind.

  And then she had headed back to the red light district where she'd spent the last hour walking the streets. The answer lay here. For some reason she felt the killer had been drawn to this area like a firefly to a porchlight. Why, she had no idea. For one, if he had been drawn so much to this area, why wasn't he drawn to similar districts in Los Angeles?

  Why not prey on the prostitutes that strutted along Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street in the heart of Hollywood? True, three of the female victims were prostitutes that operated out of escort services or massage parlors, but they had ties to the area street gangs. But then so did Alice Henderson here in South Bend. And then the gang theory that helped hold the case together in L.A. just wasn't here in South Bend. No hardcore gang members had been murdered here. Was it because he was just getting started here?

  Were the murders of Alice Henderson and Howard Manheim his first attempts? It would seem likely, since they would have been easy to procure. It could also be safe to assume that the unidentified third victim was a homeless man or a teenage runaway. Someone not likely to be missed.

  The waitress emerged with Rachael's dinner, and for the next ten minutes all thought of the case was lost as Rachael's hunger zoomed in. She pushed aside her notes and dug in. She was ravenous. She hadn't eaten all day and her body was screaming for food.

  When she was finished she went back through her notes and tried to retrace the killer's steps. Okay, so you kill Alice Henderson on March 18 of 1984, since that was the last day anybody recalls seeing her. It was a cold night, the snow was still on the ground.

  You drive her out to the woods and manage to bury her pretty well. And you keep her head. Where you keep it, I have no fucking idea. Maybe you keep it in your freezer. Or maybe you got rid of it, disposed of it somewhere else and it's never been recovered. At any rate a year later you kill Howard Manheim in almost similar circumstances. It's a cold, March night, the snow is still on the ground again, and maybe you were thinking about your murder of Alice a year before, which set you off. You find Howard quite easily since you swing both ways—yes, we know you prefer both sexes, lover boy, don't think that'll throw us off. You dispose of Howard in the same way. And maybe in the year between murders you go back out to the spot you buried Alice and make sure she's buried and to relive her murder. You do the same with Howard. And then in October you kill your third victim—seven months later. Maybe the urge is getting too strong for you to resist now, and you purposefully seek out a homeless person because you know that the police will have a harder time tracing him. You do this, and then three days later his body is found, along with Howard's. You flip out because you still have Alice's head in your freezer—but then, I could be wrong. Like I said, for all I know you could have disposed of Alice's head elsewhere and it was just never found. But no, I think you kept it.

  I think it's part of your fetish. It always has been. And now you have to get rid of it and get out of here. Somehow you manage to do that, and you do it successfully. But the publicity from the three bodies found in the woods is too much for you, and that's when you disappear.

  Rachael chewed on the end of the ballpoint pen she was using to write her notes with. Her brow furrowed in concentration. This is what had her deeply stumped. It was obvious that the publicity from the discovery of the bodies scared the killer off—but did he remain in South Bend for awhile, or did he immediately flee the city to Los Angeles?

  Rachael didn't think so. For one, she was fairly confident that if he had fled his next victim would have been the following year in L.A., when he would have felt more comfortable and when the need would have begun to rise again. But the first victim that matched the profile in L.A. was in 1989, and there was a five-year gap between that murder and the Lady of the Ocean murder. If one man was responsible for all murders, why the long gaps of inactivity?

  Maybe he couldn't leave, she thought. Maybe he was tied down here with a job or a relationship or some other obligation that kept him in South Bend. And he laid low. But he got out as soon as he could. And when he did, he moved to L.A. And if we assume it took him a year to muster up the nerve to try killing again, he could have landed in L.A.

  in mid to late 1988. But after the 1989 murder, why the five year gap between killings?

  She didn't know. She knew of other killers that went through long periods of inactivity between victims. Jeffrey Dahmer was a classic example, although she hated bringing him up in thought due to the clichéness of it. Dahmer's first victim had been Stephen Parent in 1978, a young hitchhiker who he beat to death in his parents’ house. It would be nine years before he would kill again, luring three homosexuals to his grandmother's home where he would kill them in the basement. There was another period of inactivity that lasted a year or so, another period of inactivity when he was briefly jailed for indecent exposure and then he started again, becoming a juggernaut in the last year of his killing spree. Much as the Eastside Butcher was now becoming.

  Were you in jail somewhere between 1989 and 1994? Is that why you didn't kill in that time period?

  Rachael checked her watch and noted that it was seven-thirty. She reached into her wallet to get some money to pay the bill when a thought occurred to her. She glanced back over her notes, noting the times Alice Henderson and Howard Manheim disappeared. Both vanished between seven-thirty and eight p.m.

  With a wild idea formulating in her mind, Rachael paid her check, then headed outside and down the street, toward the parking garage where her car was located.

  Another experiment had just occurred to her, one that she was sure would bring some more insights into the specifics of the nights Alice Henderson and Howard Manheim were killed.

  Chapter 20

  March 25, 1998, 1:30 p.m.

  Los Angeles, CA

  Father John Glowacz was sitting on a bench watching a basketball game at the Our Lady of Guadalupe recreation center. The recreation center had been set up for the area youths. He was dressed in a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt with
his clerical collar on, watching as a scratch basketball game was underway. He was laughing, calling out to urge the kids on, clapping his hands when somebody shot a basket or when a good defensive move had been made. The kids playing on the court were all neighborhood kids, skin-headed youths in long, baggy shorts and tennis shoes, shirtless for the most part, sweating it up and getting their frustrations out on the basketball court. John had picked the teams himself: one team was comprised of a few neighborhood kids and members of both the 18th Street gang and Tortilla Flats, while the other team was comprised of 18th Street, Los Compadres, and some more area kids. The gang members were kids that came to the church and attended Danny Hernandez's youth services. Good kids for the most part that wanted to better themselves. Father John Glowacz did all he could to give them a little bit of hope and pride in their communities.

  He jumped up when Team #2 made an impressive basket courtesy of Sparky, a fourteen-year-old shaven-headed kid from Los Compadres. His teammates immediately high fived him, including the 18th Street gang members. There were big smiles of pride over how well they were playing flashing all over the court. Father John Glowacz clapped. “Good going, guys! Keep it up. You're looking real good out there. Real good!"

  It was on days like this, when he could get the rival gang members to play basketball together and have them congratulating each other on a game well played, that made Father John Glowacz's day. It was days like this when he felt it was worth it to come work at this parish despite the long sleepless nights he had spent four years before sweating over the decision to accept the position.

  Running footsteps heading his way made Father Glowacz turn his attention from the game. A young boy named Pedro Rodriguez was running toward him with a panicked look on his face. Father Glowacz frowned; Pedro Rodriguez was a little on the small side, and had been recently hanging out with members of the Los Compadres street gang. His older brother was one of the boys playing basketball. Father Glowacz had been surprised to not see Pedro with his brother when the older boy didn't shown up, and he hoped the lure of the streets hadn't called him. But as the younger boy ran up to the priest, panting heavily from the exertion of his run, he could see that something was troubling the youngster. “Father Glowacz!"

  “Yes, Pedro. What's the matter?” Father Glowacz rose to his feet and put a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder.

  “I've...” the boy was hopping from one foot to the other, as if he had to go to the bathroom, but Father Glowacz saw that the need to evacuate his bladder wasn't the problem. The boy was scared. “I've just ... ah, shit!"

  “It's okay, Pedro,” Father Glowacz said, smoothly. “Just take your time."

  The boy nodded and waited until he had caught his breath. Father Glowacz checked quickly to see how the game was progressing. It was still in progress, thank God.

  He turned his attention to the young boy. “Okay, feel better now?"

  Pedro nodded. “Yeah."

  “What do you want to tell me?"

  Pedro seemed to pause for a minute, then looked up at the priest. “Is ... is it a bad thing to tell something bad about ... well, about another person here from the church?"

  Father Glowacz felt his nerves tremble. “That depends, Pedro. If it's something like hearsay, a rumor you might have heard about a person but have no proof of, then yes.

  It's called bearing false witness. You'll learn that in CCD if you haven't already."

  Pedro nodded. “This isn't ... hearsay, whatever it is you call it. It's something else.

  Something I saw."

  Father John Glowacz frowned. “Is it something that might hurt one of the members of the parish?"

  Pedro Rodriguez shook his head. “No ... well, yeah, it might be ... it's just that—"

  “Just that what?"

  “I think I saw the killer,” Pedro blurted suddenly.

  This stopped Father John Glowacz cold. He looked down at Pedro, a growing sense of numbness spreading through his body. He felt his mouth grow dry. “You saw...?"

  Pedro Rodriguez nodded, speaking rapidly now. “I was coming up Sixteenth Street, going to the grocery store for my mother when—"

  “Quiet!” Father John Glowacz hissed, turning around quickly to see if anybody had overheard. The game was still in progress, and a group of other kids were playing handball further down the recreation center. In the recreation center's office, Father Robert Ames was sitting behind the desk talking to one of the after-school volunteers, probably discussing church history again as he always liked to do. Nobody had overheard them. He turned back to Pedro and bent down so that he was at eye level with the boy.

  “Are you sure you are telling me the truth, Pedro?"

  Pedro nodded, his features grave.

  “Have you told anybody about this?"

  Pedro shook his head. “No, Father."

  “I want you to quietly tell me what you know,” Father Glowacz said, his voice lowered now, leaning toward Pedro as if they were secret conspirators. “Tell me very quietly, okay?"

  Pedro looked out at the playground, as if assuring himself that those around them playing hoops were too distracted to hear what he was about to divulge. Then he turned to Father Glowacz and leaned forward, cupping his hand around his mouth and whispering into the priest's ear. Father John Glowacz listened, the knot in his stomach growing tighter as the boy's story spun out, a rivulet of sweat breaking out on his brow as Pedro Rodriguez identified the Eastside Butcher. When the boy was finished it was all Father Glowacz could do to contain his fear and the shakiness in his limbs.

  “Good boy,” he said, rising again to his full height. His arm around the boy's shoulder, he led him toward the church and the administrative offices. “I'm going to my office to make a phone call to a detective I know. Why don't you wait in the lobby for me, okay?"

  Pedro nodded and the two walked toward the church as the basketball game continued behind them, unheeded.

  Father John Glowacz and Pedro Rodriguez were waiting in Father Glowacz's office when Detective Daryl Garcia showed up forty-five minutes later. He rapped sharply on the door then opened it, peering in. His eyes were alight with curiosity. “Father Glowacz? You wanted to see me?"

  “Yes...” Father John Glowacz rose from behind his desk and met the detective at the door. “Please, come in. And close the door behind you please."

  Daryl complied, his eyes flicking from the priest to a young boy sitting in a chair by the priest's desk. “I came as quickly as I could. I was sorta busy when you paged me."

  “That's okay.” Father Glowacz regarded Detective Garcia through his wire frames, noting that the detective was dressed in his street clothes: a pair of blue jeans, a blue chambray shirt that looked a trifle rumpled, and white tennis shoes. His hair looked slightly ruffled, as if he had been interrupted in the middle of something. “I'm sorry to bother you."

  “That's quite all right,” Daryl Garcia said. “When I told you that you could call me on any matters relating to this case, I meant it.” Father John Glowacz nodded, reflecting on this fact; Detective Garcia had questioned him on matters relating to the case three times, all of them in regards to victims that had attended his parish. He found the detective to be a dedicated, intelligent, hard working, honest man. When Detective Garcia had passed him his card and told him he could call him on his cellular phone or have him paged at any time in matters relating to the case, he'd filed the card away in his rolodex.

  But when Pedro told him what he knew about the Butcher, he knew he had to give the detective a call. This would be an important lead, one he was sure the detective would want to follow up on.

  “Why don't you have a seat?” Father John Glowacz said, motioning to a chair in front of his desk, next to Pedro.

  Detective Garcia sat down, his gaze trailing from the priest to the boy. “Okay, so what have you got?"

  “This is Pedro Rodriguez,” Father John Glowacz said, indicating the boy with a nod of his head. “His older brother is a Los Compadre
s street gang member and is attending Danny Hernandez's youth group here at the church. Both boys attend my services here at the church. Pedro is the one that came across this ... rather disturbing information and ... well, I think it might be best for you to hear it from him."

  Detective Garcia turned to Pedro and smiled. “Okay.” He held out his hand to Pedro. “Hi, Pedro, I'm Detective Daryl Garcia. Nice to meet you."

  “Nice to meet you, too.” Pedro Rodriguez returned the handshake limply.

  “Do you think you can tell me everything you told Father Glowacz?” Detective Garcia asked.

  Pedro nodded. “Yes."

  “Good."

  Pedro told him. Father John Glowacz sat behind his desk, waiting for the change of expression on the detective's face. He wasn't surprised by the reaction: when Pedro told him what he knew, Detective Garcia's features changed from interest, to disbelief and shock. Which was just how Father Glowacz had felt.

  “You're sure about this now?” Detective Garcia asked. He had taken out a small notepad and pen and jotted down some notes.

  Pedro nodded vigorously. “Yes sir! I swear to God, I saw it with my own two eyes!"

  Detective Garcia glanced at Father Glowacz, and the priest thought he detected a glimmer of hope in his eyes. The kid might be on to something. It sounded like an important enough lead to summon Detective Garcia as soon as possible, and now it looked like that phone call had paid off.