by phuc
Now Henry stopped in the middle of the vacant lot and sniffed the air. There it was again, riding high in the air. The stench was cloying and strong and it reminded Henry of something dead all right. It smelled like meat that had been left out in the sun for too long, which was probably what it was. The smell would only get worse the hotter it got. Henry was glad he was in the vacant lot now when the smell was still relatively mild.
Henry took a look out over the vacant lot. It looked like any other lot; a slab of land that occupied probably an acre of land, it was overgrown with weeds and thick grass that was long and yellow in the hot sun. The edges of the lot were littered with refuse and there were patches of dirt and rocks here and there. Henry took another couple of tentative steps, his eyes scanning the lot when he noticed it. There, almost at the edge of the lot, fifty yards ahead of him. A package.
Henry veered off his course and headed toward it. The smell grew stronger and as he reached the object he realized it wasn't a package at all, but a blanket of some sort wrapped around something. There was a makeshift cardboard box lying near it, and as Henry reached over to see what was in the box his foot kicked what he first thought was a large rock. The object rolled over and Henry looked down at what his foot had connected with.
His stomach plunged down an elevator shaft.
A woman's head rolled back, dislodged from its resting spot when Henry inadvertently kicked it.
Yelling at the top of his lungs, Henry dropped the canvas knapsack and started running toward Highland Avenue, screaming at the top of his lungs.
It was a little after eight-thirty and Daryl Garcia was sitting at his desk at Parker Center, his eyes red and his limbs light from the adrenaline running through him. Bernie Haskins sat beside him, nervously looking over his shoulder. “Christ, Daryl, let me take you home. You shouldn't be here. Shit, you shouldn't have left the hospital."
“You got a better idea?” Daryl said, tapping away into the computer. It hurt to talk. His chest was sore—his entire abdomen was one entire mass of bruises from the three rounds the Kevlar vest had absorbed from the nine millimeter rounds, and his left arm was in a sling from a fourth shot that had grazed it. The doctors had wanted to keep Daryl in recovery for observation, but as soon as Daryl felt better he had pulled the IV out of his arm and gotten out of bed over the protests of the medical personnel. Between the time he he was shot by Rudy Montego and the time he finally left, five hours had elapsed.
Five hours too long.
The ferocity of the attack by Rudy had taken him by such surprise that when he felt the bullets hit him he thought he had been killed. The back of his head still pounded dully from where it had connected with his garage wall. He now had a mild concussion, and that was one of the reasons why the doctors wanted to keep him for observation. But as soon as Daryl had become conscious, he tried to convey to the officers that had arrived on the scene what was going on. But they'd ignored him, getting him whisked away to the hospital to have his wounds tended to. He learned what happened later through Bernie Haskins, who had gotten a call at his home an hour and a half ago.
Now Bernie was at his side as Daryl typed into the computer. Daryl accessed the DMV computer and typed in Charley Glowacz's name. “Daryl, what are you doing? We can't just head over to this man's house without proper authority."
“Fuck proper authority,” Daryl said, gritting his teeth. “You got a better idea?"
“Yeah,” Bernie said, looking at Daryl sternly, seriously. “For one, going to a private residence as an officer without your supervisor knowing about it, namely your lieutenant, is grounds for immediate termination. Second—"
“Let them fire me then,” Daryl said, jotting the address down and tucking the paper in his pocket. He rose to his feet.
“Second,” Bernie continued, rising to his feet with Daryl, his hand gripping Daryl's arm firmly, but gently. He spoke low, but firm. “If anything should happen to you and you need back-up, you don't want to be alone."
Daryl looked at Bernie. “So come with me."
Bernie grinned slightly. “I was afraid you'd never ask."
He learned what happened to him from one of the officers who accompanied him to the hospital. The officer relayed it with a grim expression. Rudy Montego managed to get off five shots before being taken down by Petey. That explained the sudden yell Daryl had heard before he was knocked out. It also explained the only brief glimpse he got of the crime scene when he woke up on a stretcher outside—the large pool of blood spreading out from under his car in the garage.
Rudy Montego had broken into the garage using a slim tool he had picked up somewhere and had lain in wait for him in the darkness. An accomplice was waiting outside in a car, and when the accomplice heard Rudy yell and the accompanying growls, he got out of his car, vaulted the fence to Daryl's property and ran into the garage. Petey's massive jaws were locked on Rudy's throat and lower face; the dog had literally pulverized the bones of Rudy's jaw. Rudy's head was flopping back and forth by a thin strip of flesh as the dog shook its head back and forth, spraying blood. The accomplice had scrambled out of the garage, got the back gate open, and ran down the driveway with Petey hot on his heels. The dog brought the accomplice down with a viscous attack that had broken the man's lower right leg and severed all the tendons and muscles of the limb.
It was the accomplice's screams of pain that had alerted the neighbors, who called the police.
Hearing what happened had been shocking to Daryl. Especially hearing the amount of damage Petey had inflicted. Ever since he had Petey he never thought of him as a vicious dog, but remembering what pit bulls were capable of when they were in a blood lust brought everything to stark reality. Petey had been so overwhelmed by the excitement of the attack that by the time the police arrived he'd almost turned on them.
But then something must have snapped in his mind, because Petey turned tail and headed down the street. Animal Control officers later arrived on the scene and managed to subdue Petey. His dog was now in a kennel at the Humane Society. Probably on doggy death row with other canines.
I love you Petey, Daryl thought as they drove toward Highland Park. And I wish this hadn't happened to you, but I've got to find Rachael. I've got to find her first, buddy. I hope you forgive me.
“You okay?” Bernie Haskins was looking at him from the driver's seat as they headed down Interstate 10.
Daryl nodded and wiped his eyes with his fingers. “I'm fine."
“We're almost there,” Bernie said as they exited the freeway. “You sure you'll be okay?"
“Yeah.” Daryl took a deep breath. He patted his side to make sure his piece was still there, checked his pocket for his shield. He'd left the hospital so quickly that it was a wonder that he had remembered to get everything.
There was a squawk on the radio. Bernie picked it up. “Haskins here."
“East Homicide requests the presence of the Butcher Task force in a vacant lot in Highland Park on Highland Avenue and Forty-fifth Street. At least two unidentified bodies have been found. Over."
A sliver of ice dropped in Daryl's stomach at the news. Agent Haskins responded curtly. “Have Detective Hodge and Garrison been notified? Over."
“Affirmative."
“Tell them I'll be there as soon as I can. Over and out.” He replaced the radio and glanced over at Daryl who tried to avoid his gaze. He felt a sinking sense of dread. “We're going to check out Charley Glowacz first,” Bernie said as he piloted the car down Highland Avenue. “We're going to find her, Daryl."
“Yeah,” Daryl said. He wiped a pale, sweaty palm over his face. He turned back toward the highway unfolding in front of him. Bernie turned his attention back to driving.
Daryl leaned back in the seat. At least two bodies found in Highland Park. That means there could be more. Please dear God, don't let one of them be Rachael.
They turned down an older, lower middle-class residential neighborhood and Daryl noted the streets as they cruised slowly. Fi
nally they came to the house. “Right here."
Bernie pulled to the curb and cut the engine. Daryl stepped out of the car and the first thing he saw was Rachael's Camaro parked at the curb. He immediately got a bad feeling about this as they drew up to the curb. A flicker of movement caught his attention and Daryl saw a pair of detectives from homicide division. Daryl recognized them immediately as Rudolph Espana and Carl Douglas. Detective Espana spoke first: “There's no time to explain, Garcia. Dickinson asked us to come out here to give you guys backup."
Daryl felt a slight flutter of pride in his stomach. Dickinson, that bastard! He still had faith in him. Detective Douglas nodded. “Nobody knows about this except for Dickinson and us. Got me?"
“Got you.” Daryl said.
Bernie gave the two detectives a brief recap. They were going to the residence merely to question Glowacz, but it was believed that Rachael Pearce might have gone there last night and may be in danger. Daryl shivered as this was mentioned. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as Bernie gave Detectives Espana and Douglas the gist of the assignment. Please God, let her be all right. Let her be all right...
When Bernie was finished Daryl opened his eyes. Bernie nodded at them and said,
“Okay, let's go. You guys follow us."
“Yes, sir,” Detective Douglas said. Detective Carl Douglas was a light skinned black man with short-cropped hair, wide cheekbones, and a neatly trimmed mustache. He was slight in stature but had a penetrating glare in his brown eyes. His partner, Rudolph Espana, was an older Hispanic man with a head of thick black hair. Detective Espana wore black rimmed glasses and had a prominent scar on his right cheek as the result of a gunshot wound during a gun battle with a bank robber twelve years ago in Hollywood.
Detective Espana looked twelve years younger than his fifty years. Both men had solid reputations as good detectives.
“Let's go,” Bernie said, and the four of them headed up the driveway to the house.
Detective Steve Howe reached the scene at Highland and Forty-fifth Street thirty minutes after he heard the call. He had been on his way in to Parker Center when the call came through on his radio. When he pulled up to the scene, Steve saw that the vacant lot was already swarming with cops. He felt his pulse quicken. Looks like this is the real thing.
He had been thinking about the case on the drive over. He and Daryl had talked yesterday afternoon and both had agreed that with the incredible heat wave Los Angeles was currently facing, another Butcher killing of a gang member was sure to send the barrio into a frenzy. Tempers were already high, the remnants from the feelings that had boiled over during the spring when the last body had been found. It made no difference that the last victim had been a white female. The people of the East Los Angeles area were getting tired of the media scrutiny and the fact that the killer was still on the loose.
Gang violence had gone down slightly, but the tensions were higher than ever, just waiting for something to release it. If this was really another Butcher killing and the victims were gang members, all hell was going to break loose.
The feeling that the bodies reported found at the vacant lot might be the work of the elusive killer had grown stronger and stronger on the drive over. Now seeing the yellow police tape up at the scene, and the growing mob of spectators crowding the lot around from all sides, only reinforced his feelings. He swung out of the car, shut the door, and headed toward the middle of the vacant lot where the majority of on-lookers and police officers were congregated. He looked around for Daryl or Bernie Haskins. Where the hell were they?
As he approached the scene a pair of uniformed officers approached him. Steve reached for his shield and one of the officers nodded. He was a young kid of about twenty-six with short black hair and an olive complexion. He looked excited and sick to his stomach. “I'm glad somebody from the task force is finally here. This is a butcher killing all right. Jesus Christ!"
“Let's have a look,” Steve said, leading the way.
The officer led him through the throng. “A homeless man called it in,” he explained. “He was walking through the lot looking for returnable bottles when he smelled what you're smelling now.” The warm air was rife with the scent of rotting flesh; Steve noticed it right away, having come across it so many times in his career as a law enforcement officer. It was a smell you never really got used to. “He saw this,” the cop indicated a cardboard box and what appeared to be a pile of clothes on the ground in the center of a small patch of weeds and debris. They were now in the center of the maelstrom now, and the crowded onlookers of cops and detectives parted from the scene to let them in. “And his foot accidentally kicked that down there.” He pointed and Steve followed the officer's pointing finger to the severed head on the ground. The head had long black hair that was matted and dirty, but through the dirt and grime he could make out the features as that of a woman. Daryl had told him that he believed that one of the missing women that fit the victim profiles, a Miss Carmen Aguirre, was one of the most likely to be a victim of the Butcher. The description in the file indicated that Carmen had long black hair. Was this Carmen Aguirre's remains they had stumbled upon?
Steve nodded toward the debris near the head. “What's that other stuff?"
One of the officers on the scene answered; he was an African American man in his mid-thirties with a muscular build and wide cheekbones. “It looks like the box and that quilt contain the rest of her, detective."
Steve surveyed the area. The area the remains were found in was about an acre of bare earth with patches of weeds sprouting here and there. The surrounding land was made up of long grass and weeds, now turned yellow from the hot summer sun. The bare area consisted of rocks, crumbled pieces of concrete from whatever had been demolished that once stood on this site, and pieces of old newspapers, cans and bottles. The police crime scene tape was already in place and the area seemed pretty secured. He nodded at the cop. “Any other detectives here?"
The African American cop motioned to a pair of detectives who were making their way toward them. Steve didn't recognize them; they were probably from the East Los Angeles Division. Both detectives were in their forties and were Hispanic.
Introductions were quickly made. Detectives Manuel Sanchez and Rick Guiteirez were quickly introduced to him. Steve turned to the two detectives. “What else have you found?"
Detective Gutierez pointed down at the head, which was nestled by some newspapers. “There's what appears to be bones over here, about five yards away from this victim. We're still trying to secure the area."
“Any ETA on when the coroner will be here?” Steve asked.
Detective Gonzalez answered: “It was called in when the first officer arrived, which was fifteen minutes ago. They should be here any minute."
“What about more officers for crowd control?” Steve said, checking out the crowd of onlookers who had come to gawk. They ranged in age from the very young to people in their sixties, most of them Hispanic, many of them talking excitedly about the discovery of the body. Steve could very faintly make out conversations in Spanish opining that it was another Butcher victim, that the police weren't doing anything to protect them, that nobody cared what happened to them. The people stirring up this kind of talk were younger males, clearly of the gang-banger pumped-up testosteroned level kind. If they kept this crap up they would work this crowd up and there could be trouble. “I think we may need some crowd control here,” he said, turning back to the police officers who had met him at the site.
The African American cop nodded, noting the growing crowd. He gestured to another cop, a female in her twenties who had just arrived at the scene. “Call in for crowd control, Becky, but for God's sake don't make it sound like a riot's brewing. These people see officer's in riot gear, that'll only get them more riled up."
Becky nodded and extracted her radio from her belt and called in the order to headquarters.
Detective Gutierez was standing about ten feet from the patch
work quilt with a strange expression on his face. He wrinkled his nose and looked up at Steve and Detective Gonzalez. “Excuse me, Steve, Manuel! Will you come over here for a minute?"
Steve and Manuel walked over.
Steve was struck by the severity of the stench as they reached Rick. The detective's face was scrunched up from the pervasive stench. He had caught the scent before, but upon seeing the remains of what was probably a woman, he assumed the stench was from her. The detective who called him over looked at Steve, wide-eyed with disgust. “Christ, it smells worse over here."
Manuel had his hands over his mouth and nose and Steve could see the alarm in his eyes. He looked around and saw something in a patch of weeds.
He walked over to it and was forced to cover his mouth and nose with his shirt, the smell was so bad.
The three detectives followed him over and Steve heard Manuel gasp as they almost stepped on the source of the smell.
It appeared to be a second victim. An assemble of bones lay in the grove of weeds: an ulna and a pair of femurs and tibulas, a mass of short little bones that looked like if they fit together would form a spinal column, some long bones that looked they were arm bones, and over a dozen curved bones that looked like ribs. Some of the bones were wrapped in newspaper; some had slimy gelatin remnants of flesh still clinging to them. The stench that rose from the small pit was overpowering; it was like a physical invasion that pushed them back from the small grave.
Detective Gutierez gagged and stepped back, bumping into the African American cop who had come up to take a look. Behind them the collected crowd gasped as some of them saw what lay within the weeds and passed the word to the others. Excited voices in Spanish rose above the din of conversation and officers calling out orders to each other.
Steve could feel the tension rise. Where the hell was the coroner? Where the hell were more officers to control this crowd?
Where the hell were Daryl and Agent Haskins?
