Southside (9781608090563)

by Krikorian, Michael

  “Cooperate? That’s one of the ugliest words in the world.”

  “Somebody musta seen something,” Sal said with deliberate drama. “Your mother and father could be next.”

  “Send that kite, Big,” Hart urged.

  Just then, the guard came back in. “Sir, I mean, Detective, sorry, but the videotapes get replaced. We’re so outdated here we don’t have computers that we can download onto. There are cameras in the parking lot, too, and in the lobby, but they get replaced also. But, I do have something for you that may help,” he said, handing LaBarbera a printout.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a list of all the people that have come to visit Cleamon Desmond in the last twelve months.”

  Sal looked at the short list of names. He came to the last name on the list. “Check it out, Johnny. Same damn day Terminal was found, Big Evil got a visit from one Barry Sanders.”

  “Damn. It was him.”

  LaBarbera and Hart got up to leave.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” said Evil. “Shit, I almost forgot. Johnny, remember way back when that old guard had me fight King Funeral? And he videotaped it? ’Member? You were there. I kicked his ass.”

  “Twice. Yeah, of course. Lyons brought that up to me few days ago. What about it?”

  “This guy that came to see me, he said Term showed him that tape.”

  “This is too strange,” said Hart.

  On the picturesque drive from Pelican Bay to the Eureka, California, airport, studded with mighty redwoods and glimpses of the sea, they talked about the man Evil had described. “That’s the third person that gave the same very general description of the guy,” said Hart. “And I do not believe in coincidence.”

  “That’s my line.”

  “What about that guy Ralph went to see? The Payton guy. Payton Sims’s father. What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know. He just said he was a broken-down drunk. Drinking from a bottle. But, call Ralph. With a name like that, this guy is lookin’ suspect. Plus using Barry Sanders’s name now, the guy’s got a thing for great running backs. Tell Ralph to get over to Funeral’s place and look for that film of that Evil Funeral fight. What was it? What kind of film?”

  “A VHS tape,” said Hart as he got out his cell.

  As LaBarbera drove fifteen to twenty mph above every posted speed limit, which varied on this windy road from fifteen to fifty-five, Hart called Waxman. It rang once and then the signal was lost near the overcast, north coast town of Trinidad. He tried again with the same result.

  “Damn,” said Hart as they drove past a sign welcoming motorists to Trinidad, population 314 people. “Shit, they got three hundred fourteen people here. Doesn’t anyone have use for a cell phone?”

  “Maybe they’re the lucky ones.”

  Fifteen minutes later, outside of Arcata, Hart tried and got through, but just to Waxman’s voice mail. Hart impatiently waited for the long-winded automated woman’s voice to finish. Hart growled into the phone.

  “I hate that part. ‘When you are finished you can hang up.’ No kidding, idiot.”

  The killing of Leslie Harrington was a giant SIWA. By itself, Leslie’s death was huge news, the lead on all local television stations and on all the network news programs. It just about had it all. An attractive, white, deputy district attorney in a safe, wealthy, secluded neighborhood with her throat savagely slashed, nearly decapitated. Other than the involvement of a celebrity, a news director couldn’t ask for anything more.

  As for the part of me being a journalist, I craved the story. I wanted to break the story of a serial killer loose in Los Angeles. It could be my salvation, erase the doubters who still thought I had myself shot, deliver me from evil, thanks, in a sordid way, to Evil.

  No one at the Times had discovered the common thread of the attacks on Harrington, Terminal, and myself. It would have been on their website by now and it wasn’t.

  It was Wednesday afternoon. The L.A. Weekly came out on Thursday, and they usually liked stories filed and edited by Monday. They might go with a hot story filed late on Tuesday. In extremely rare cases, blistering news could be filed Wednesday. I e-mailed and called Doris De Soto, the news editor at the Weekly. De Soto lived to beat the Times.

  “Doris, Michael Lyons. I gotta great scoop for you, beat the Times, but we have to have to get it in this week’s paper.”

  “Lyons, it’s Wednesday. What’s the story?”

  “There’s a serial killer in Los Angeles. A great story.”

  “Details and don’t make it long-winded. Speak.”

  “You heard about Leslie Harrington in Santa Monica this morning? The deputy district attorney.”

  “Stupid question. Go.”

  “Okay. She was killed by a guy who also killed Bobby Desmond. You know him?” I asked, instantly regretting it. No way she knew Terminal.

  “No. Just tell the damn story.”

  “Bobby Desmond, street name Terminal from Eighty-Nine Family Bloods.”

  “Not another gang story.”

  “No. Lemme finish. Terminal was Big Evil’s brother. Leslie Harrington was the D.A. who put Evil away for life. I was shot and I was the one who made him famous outside of the Southside. There is some guy going around killing or shooting people associated with Big Evil. Me included. This is a great story. We need to get it in this week before the Times figures it out. We can burn the Times with this,” I said, playing to her weakness.

  “What have you got? Just your hunch? It could just be a coincidence. What do the police say? On the record.”

  “Doris, I need you to give me a go ahead and I’ll get all that. I don’t know if can get the police to go on the record that there is a serial killer, but off the record I know some detectives who may be leaning in that direction.”

  “‘May be leaning’? I need more than ‘may be leaning.’”

  “They are leaning. Way leaning. Leaning Tower of Pisa leaning.”

  “Listen. We can’t just say there’s a serial killer out there and panic the whole city. Santa Monica’s in panic mode already. This guy, saying he is the guy, killed two people and shot you. Does that even qualify as a serial killer? He’s no Gacy or Dahmer.”

  “Think about how many lives would’ve been saved if they’d started reporting on Gacy and Dahmer after they killed their first two victims. This guy is a sick fuck, and he’s getting sicker. First, he shoots me. Then, he gets Terminal. Shoots him, beats him with a crowbar or something, and runs over him. Then, with Harrington, he almost cuts her head off. He’s escalating. It’s classic serial killer. It’s the reason he’s living. And he’ll do it again.”

  “What are you, Doctor Phil? Clarice from Silence in the Lambs?”

  “Of the Lambs.”

  “What the shit ever. Look, we need some facts here. That’s how journalism works. Here’s the deal. I’ll give you three hours. You got till 7. Not 7:01. We’ll need something from the LAPD. We can throw in the brief stuff we already did. The thread being Big Evil, but the key is the LAPD. You need the chief. Can you get to him? Or Kuwahara?”

  “Cool, I’m on it,” I said.

  “You don’t get what I need, you don’t get paid a nickel.”

  “I don’t like nickels.” I hung up. Actually, I did like those Indian head nickels.

  I felt that glorious rush of deadline. I dialed the chief’s cell. He picked up.

  “Chief, it’s Michael Lyons.” Silence. “Chief?”

  “Well, if it isn’t the loser. I don’t recall giving you my cell.”

  “Well, I got it. Chief, I am doing an article about Leslie Harrington. I knew her.”

  “I thought you got fired from the Times.”

  “This is a freelance piece for the Weekly.”

  “Oh, yes. How the mighty have fallen.”

  “Very original. About Harrington?”

  “Hey, I saw your twelve worst, or, in your case, best, gangs story in the Weekly. Nice placement. Right between the tit enlargem
ent ads and the sale on butt plugs.”

  I resisted the urge to say, “You might want take yours out once in a while,” and just repeated, “About Harrington?”

  “She was a wonderful, talented woman, and we are saddened at the LAPD. We are doing everything we can to assist the fine Santa Monica Police Department in solving this tragic case. Okay? I gotta go.”

  “Wait, wait, wait, Chief. One minute, please. Do you see any connection to her killing and that of Bobby Desmond aka Terminal and to my shooting?”

  “I thought you were shot in the torso, not the brain. That is just plain stupid. First of all, I’m still not totally convinced you didn’t plan your own shooting.”

  “Okay, leave me out of it. Is there a connection between Harrington and Terminal?”

  “We are working to solve both cases, but we see no connection.”

  “What about the Big Evil connection? His younger brother. And it was Harrington who put him away.”

  “That makes no sense. I guess the shooting left you with a lack of oxygen to the brain. That happens.”

  “Is there a serial killer in Los Angeles?”

  “Jesus, Lyons,” the exasperated chief said, “Listen carefully. There is absolutely no evidence at all of a serial killer in Los Angeles. I’ve wasted enough time.”

  Next, I called South Bureau Commander Lester Kuwahara, who answered on the first ring. I identified myself.

  “What do you want, Lyons? You shoot yourself lately? Maybe next time you can get an artery and bleed your ass out.”

  “Always a pleasure, Lester. Harrington and Terminal? A connection?”

  “You talk to the chief?”

  “Yes, but he’s not up on the street like you are,” I said, getting desperate with the flattery angle.

  “First of all, you have lost it. Terminal had a hundred enemies. It was probably in-house. This is off the record, right?”

  “If that’s the only way. Anonymous sources?”

  “Okay. You know the Eighty-Nines kill each other more than they kill Crips. As for Leslie, she probably ran into one of those homeless sickos that live down there by that, that, that overlook thing. What do they call it in Santa Monica? You know that grassy part with a walkway just above the beach. They have a name for that place.”

  “The Promenade?”

  “No, idiot. By Ocean Avenue. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, she probably ran into one of those guys who followed her home.”

  “She drove a 2013 Maserati GT. You think some homeless guy chased her down? Maybe it was Usain Bolt.”

  “Who the hell is Hussein Bolt? What are you jabbering about?”

  “The Olympic sprinter. And it’s Usain. Forget it. Forget it. Anyway, do you think there is a serial killer active in Los Angeles?”

  “Whoa. Now you’ve really lost it. Where do you get that? You used to be a good street reporter. Now you’re a desperate reporter. Take my advice. Either get another line of work or try another city. Maybe Duluth. Better yet, Wasilla. You have no cred here.”

  I called De Soto back. “Doris, I’m on it. Talked to the chief and Kuwahara. They both deny any serial killer. They say Terminal and Harrington are totally unrelated.”

  “Wow. What a great quote. Maybe quote of the year, huh? Should I tell Escobar to stop the presses? Hire some paper boys to yell ‘Extra, extra, read all about it.’”

  “They have to be related. Me, too.”

  “Lyons, how can we justify a story about a serial killer? I told you we need something from the police. Not your hunch. I can see there might be a connection to Big Evil. He’s a thread. But, Terminal, anybody with that name had to have lots of enemies. Coincidences do happen. That Terminal was killed is not even news. Harrington is the story.”

  “What about me getting shot? That’s three connections to Big Evil. If I can get some detective, even off the record, can we do it?”

  “We took a gamble having you write anything for us. You know better than anyone your cred took a beating, even though I’m sure you had nothing to do with your shooting. Still, it was a gamble for us, but you kicked ass. But, we need to be careful, and this is not a careful story. So, here’s the deal. Get one of your detectives, even off the record, write it up, and send it to me by seven. No guarantees. I can clear a little space, eight hundred words, a thousand max if it works. Turn it in. I’ll run it by the big shots if I think it has a chance in hell. Understand that this is not an assignment. You are writing on spec. Like I told you, we don’t run it, you don’t get paid jack shit.”

  “This ain’t about money. Never was.”

  CHAPTER 27

  After Kuwahara told Lyons he was crazy for thinking a serial killer was loose, the commander met with LaBarbera and Hart to discuss that very possibility. The detectives debriefed him about their visit to Pelican Bay. Waxman then described Edward Sims as about fifty, medium build, maybe 170, about five foot ten, similar to Evil’s description of his visitor.

  “Fourth person, same description, however vague it is,” LaBarbera said. “Evil, Mrs. Desmond, Waxman, and Lyons.”

  “All right, boys, all right. Let’s get down to it,” said Kuwahara. “Waxman, get back over there. Now. We need a photo of this Sims guy. Show it to Mrs. Desmond, fax it to Pelican Bay. See if it’s the same guy. And get it to Lyons.”

  “No problem, sir. I’m on my way,” said Waxman. “I gotta say, though, if Sims is the guy that jacked up Terminal, then had the stones to confront Big Evil, even through the prison glass, well, then he is one Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde motherfucker.”

  “Head down there. Be careful, this time. I’ll have a patrol car meet you. I’ll send two, make it three.”

  Waxman left and Kuwahara told the others he was giving them more resources—two more detectives and a liaison with Santa Monica “just in case there is a connection.”

  “Oh, there’s a connection, boss,” Hart said.

  “So,” Sal said, “working on the premise that this is the same guy, we came up with a possible list of potential victims. Check it out.” He handed Kuwahara a paper with six names. Next to each name was from one and three stars. “The stars represent our guess at the likelihood of an attack.”

  The list included Mr. and Mrs. Desmond. Her name with three stars, his with two. Judge Reese, who presided over the Big Evil trial and urged Harrington to go for LWOP, had two stars. The next two, Helen Truman and Freddie Gelson, each had one star. Lyons’s name was the last on the list, with one star.

  “I don’t know Truman or Gelson,” said Kuwahara. “But, first things first. Does the judge know about this?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hart. “The district attorney’s office has assigned two of their people to be with him from the moment he leaves his house until walks into his chambers. And the same on the evening end. The judge was fine with that, but refused to have anyone spend the night. In his words, ‘Anyone who comes into my house at night is getting a free ride in the coroner’s van.’ We hear he always carries his personal .38 snub-nosed.”

  “Great. What about the Desmonds?”

  “They know,” Waxman said. “We’re doing extra patrols around their street. All shifts. They don’t want a patrol car parked in front of their house or even on the block.”

  “Okay, the other two. Who are they?”

  “Helen Truman is this white girl from Orange County who became a great love of Evil’s,” Hart said. “She was down on Crenshaw when they used to cruise, remember, and one night she ran outta gas or something happened to her car and was about to get jacked by some Sixties when Evil showed up and rescued her.”

  “We don’t even know if this killer knows about her,” added Hart. “But we are trying to track her and give her a warning.”

  “And this Freddie Gelson?” Kuwahara said. “That name rings a bell.”

  “Gelson was the guy whose testimony got Evil convicted,” said Hart. “He got a deal with the D.A. to walk if he testified. That was the problem with getting Evil. No one would testi
fy. But Gelson was in a car with Evil when they did a drive-by on some 97 East Coasts. Wounded two. Slightly. Gelson was the shooter, and he cut a deal and testified on that double that put Cleamon away.”

  “Why would the killer want to kill him?” Kuwahara asked. “Sounds like Evil would want Gelson dead.”

  “Not at all,” said LaBarbera. “Gelson is the only possible way Evil can get out. If Evil’s people get to Gelson’s family, they might be able to force him to go on record saying he was lying or was coerced, and Evil might be granted another trial. With Gelson dead, Evil stays in the Bay forever.”

  “Okay, I’ll call the chief and brief him,” Kuwahara said.

  Waxman called in. He had met patrol, and they cased the house. No sign of Sims. No car. “But, Sal, he must’ve left in a hurry.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “He ran over his favorite rosebush.”

  I wrote the story. I got both Hart and Waxman to speak off the record, quoting the two anonymous police sources, that they were “definitely looking into the strong possibility that the shooting of Mike Lyons and the deaths of Leslie Harrington and Bobby Desmond are related.” The relation? Cleamon “Big Evil” Desmond. I went into the backgrounds of both murder victims and their link to Evil, as well as my own connection via the magazine piece that some considered to be a glorification of the notorious gang leader. I included both the chief’s and Kuwahara’s fervent denials, as well as the denial of LaBarbera. “There has been no link detected. We do know that Bobby Desmond, who I am long familiar with, has beaten three murder raps and had a number of sworn enemies,” LaBarbera said. “We are hoping someone from the neighborhood who may have seen Bobby in his final hours will step forward. They can call LAPD anonymously.”

  I sent it in an attached Word document to De Soto. She e-mailed back in two minutes. I was encouraged. All the message said was: “A good serial killer needs a name.”

  I e-mailed back immediately, not bothering to correct my typos: “I don’t wanto give him a name. Maybe he will write n give me a name. Happened to Jimmy Breslin—son of Sam wrote, gave him a name. Remember?”