Suddenly, a gray shadow leaped into his path from between two buildings. Cary stopped dead. He was not moving a muscle. He was not breathing. Slowly, the shadow lengthened, moving towards the street. A lone mugger? Cary had his wallet but kept very little cash in it. Just enough for a phone call or a taxi ride. Cary's fists clenched in his pockets. The Insta-Pics seemed so hot they burned against his slick, moist hand. He waited.
The shadow had stopped. Cary heard a whine and a sigh. It was definitely not human. Maybe it was some kind of animal. A stray cat, or a lost dog? Cary made a kissing sound with his mouth to encourage the animal to come forward. He wasn't about to step into the dark alley with it, nor pass by and encourage a leaping attack. What if it was a rottweiler? Cary hoped the animal could not smell his fear. Was that true--could animals actually smell fear?
The animal poked its head around the corner and regarded Cary with baleful light brown eyes. Its eyes gave a Cary a shiver right down to his socks. The animal, a massive, murky-gray Irish wolfhound, came out a bit further so that Cary could now see its entire head and shoulders, which came to about four feet high. The dog growled with soft, under-the-breath malevolence, exposing a row of wickedly sharp fangs. He advanced slowly and stealthily like a panther toward Cary, who stood rooted to the cement in knee-trembling terror.
The dog stopped before him and then began to shudder and shake.
Cary braced himself for an attack.
It then began to foam at the mouth and convulse like a twisted marionette doing a dance of death. Oh, God, I'm going to die here in downtown Los Angeles, torn apart by a rabid dog. Then the dog began to gag. It looked decidedly ill. Please don't let him puke on my Gucci shoes.
The pooch proceeded to do just that, then abruptly turned tail and ran back into the alley.
Cary looked down at his ruined shoes in disgust. Aside from the various hunks of what smelled and looked like raw and barely chewed putrid meat, Cary saw the mangled edge of what could only be...an Insta-Pic photograph. He lifted one soaked foot gingerly from the cement and his stomach roiled in revulsion as the vomit oozed off of his shoe like slime from a swamp surface. A large chunk of flesh rolled off to one side, exposing the entire photograph.
Cary bent down and picked it up by the corner with the tip of his fingernails, his heart racing so that he felt its frantic beating in his throat. The photo was wet and somewhat mangled, but remarkably clear and intact, considering where it had just come from. Cary's eyes bulged like a cartoon character's when they took in the image on the photograph.
She was a beautiful blonde woman in her early twenties, nude from the waist up, sitting propped against a massive oak's trunk. Her eyes were closed and there was a thin but bright trickle of red blood running from one corner of her mouth. Around her throat was a flesh colored ligature--one of her own stockings, perhaps--and in her limp hand was a Movie Star Brandie, complete with sunglasses and fancy red dress, looking like she was on her way to the dolly Academy Awards.
Cary clutched the photo in his fist. It squished wetly with still-warm vomit secretions. Cary screwed his eyes up tight and said, "No, no, no," over and over again until it became something of a mantra. Then he bolted.
He ran down the street, running with his arms flailing, into the intersection. There were a few cars in the street, but not many. One of them just happened to be a police cruiser.
Officers Ramirez and Joseph had been cruising the relatively quiet streets of L.A. since their shift had begun at 10 P.M. They'd gone out in response to a tripped store alarm earlier in the night, but it turned out to be false. Aside from filling out a report on that incident, the two men had simply driven their route, listening to the police radio and telling risqué jokes to one another.
Ramirez was a rookie, and he'd been teamed with Ralph Joseph, an older, more experienced officer, some six months before. The two of them had seen quite a lot in their short time together, so the sight of a man running down the street at breakneck speed was little cause for alarm. But it did warrant checking out.
"Look at that!" shouted Ramirez, laughing, as he reached down to push the button that activated the police car's siren. "He looks like he's running late to a stockbroker's meeting!"
Joseph chuckled but looked in the direction from where the man had come to see if there was anyone chasing him. There was not. "Probably a drunk and disorderly, or maybe he got a hold of some bad juju."
He brought the car to a smooth but quick halt. Both men jumped out of the car, guns drawn. When they saw that the bedraggled man was too weak with exhaustion to offer a fight, they relaxed their stance a bit and moved forward with caution.
Joseph addressed the man. "What's going on here? You looked as though the devil himself was chasing you."
The man's eyes flickered, but he did not speak. He looked from officer to officer and took a step back. The officers stepped forward. "What's your name?" Joseph asked. "Do you have any ID?"
The man still did not speak. Ramirez noticed something in his hand. Like a crumpled tissue, or something...he couldn't quite tell. "What's that in your hand?" he asked, bringing the muzzle of his gun up a little.
The man's brow instantly broke out in perspiration and he turned as if to run. Joseph, the more experienced of the two, reacted instantly and had the man by his arms before he could even take a step. They grappled briefly. "Get the cuffs," Joseph grunted as he held the struggling man from behind.
Ramirez did as he was told, and as he did so he removed the object from the man's clutching hand. As Joseph walked the suspect to the car and ordered him to spread his legs apart, Ramirez carefully smoothed out the crumpled photo. His eyes widened slightly, then he waited until his partner had completed the weapons search. "Take a look at this," he said, holding out the photo.
Joseph took it and whistled softly between his teeth. He looked at the trembling, pale young man who stood trembling with his back against the black and white. "Did you take this picture?" he asked. "Did you do this?"
The man only shook his head but said nothing. A rivulet of sweat--or maybe it was a tear; Joseph couldn't be sure--trailed the man's left cheek.
Joseph handed the photo back to Ramirez and searched the suspect's pockets. He placed each item that he found--wallet, room key, handkerchief, two additional Insta-Pic photographs--on top of the car's hood with hardly a glance and then proceeded to guide the still handcuffed man into the back seat. He shut the door, which automatically locked, then went around to the hood of the car again so that he and Ramirez could study the man's personal articles.
Ramirez was already looking at the photos, handling them very carefully, so as not to disturb any possible fingerprints. "These are disgusting," he said as Joseph looked over his shoulder at the images of the dead women.
"Weird," Joseph agreed. "But these women may not actually be dead. Maybe it's a sick sex game this guy plays to get off. Probably just hookers playing a part." But the women sure looked dead. Joseph had seen enough death. It was indefinable, but there was no faking it. And yet, the photos were awfully dark, and it was hard to make out the details.
Ramirez nodded. He picked up the leather wallet. In it was forty dollars cash, two credit cards, and a New York State driver's license. "Cary W. Bouchard," Ramirez read. "Name sounds familiar. Have we picked this guy up before?"
"No. He's a writer. You know, an author."
"No shit?" Ramirez beamed. This was his first real-live celebrity. "What does he write?"
"I dunno. Seen his book on my wife's nightstand though. I remember looking at the author photo on the back cover and thinking, 'What a wuss.' That's definitely him." He jerked his head to the right to indicate Cary, sitting trembling in the back seat. Ramirez joined him in derisive laughter.
Officer Ralph Joseph placed Cary's personal effects into a large plastic sandwich-type bag and got behind the wheel. Ramirez slid into the passenger's seat and turned around for a long look at Cary.
So, this was what a writer looked like.
Mickey Spillane he wasn't.
Despite the cool air outside and the mild air conditioning inside the car, the rivulets of sweat ran down Cary's torso and arms like running spiders. He squirmed in his seat trying to alleviate the uncomfortable tickle. He thought of the absurd antiperspirant commercial that said, "Never let them see you sweat." He smiled humorlessly to himself.
Cary hardly listened as the cops in the front seat bantered back and forth. He had to think of something. They'd seen the photos and now they were taking him to the proverbial "downtown." What could he possibly say? The truth might be a nice place to start, he said to himself. But who would believe him? Especially the story about how he got the last photo. But it was true. All of it crazy, but true. How could he explain why he'd been running so frantically down the middle of the street in the dead of night? Was that a crime? He wasn't sure.
Cary squirmed again, wishing his hands weren't cuffed behind his back. Then he thought suddenly of Diana and the people at Carousel Books...would they find about this? If he was arrested they certainly would. Word might get out anyway, him being a celebrity and all. He wondered how many people had seen his decimation on national television. He cringed at the memory of it. Al Jackson was damn good at what he did, Cary had to admit that. He would sure as hell be finding out whose bright idea it had been to send him on that show.
Cary was suddenly engulfed in darkness. He gave a start of terror--then realized with a heaving sigh of relief he was being driven to the underground parking garage of the police station. Then he tensed up again. This was it. What would happen now?
The older police officer parked the car in a numbered space and exited the vehicle. His young partner did the same, and opened the right back door. "Okay, let's go," he said.
"Am I under arrest?" Cary squeaked. He seemed to have lost all command of his voice.
"We're just bringing you in for questioning at this point," replied the older, paunchy man. The light caught his name tag, which read: R. Joseph. "Hell, if you hadn't had those pictures, we'd probably have let you go."
Cary's eyes bulged at the implication. "I didn't have anything to do with those pictures!" He exclaimed hoarsely. "They were given to me anonymously." His mouth went completely dry as he tried to regain his self-composure. He mustn't look guilty. He wasn't guilty, after all.
"Why didn't you say that when I asked you the first time?" Joseph asked, taking Cary by the arm and walking him purposefully toward the double glass doors that led to the actual police building. The younger officer brought up the rear. The question was obviously rhetorical, because Joseph did not wait for a reply. "Oh well, doesn't matter now. You'll be questioned by a detective, then they'll take it from there," he said matter-of-factly. He could tell Cary was terrified, and he really didn't think the poor guy was guilty of anything. He was probably telling the truth; he imagined writers got all kinds of crazy things in the mail.
The three men made their way down the empty corridor, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the deserted corridors. The floor was a sickly beige linoleum, and the once-white walls were yellowed with age. They stopped before a door; Ramirez took out a set of keys and unlocked it.
It opened to a world of hustle and bustle. Cary couldn't believe it. There must have been fifty uniformed police officers walking around, some of them with handcuffed suspects like himself, and there were countless detectives and pencil-pushers sitting at their desks either working at computer terminals, typing, talking on the phone, or poring over paperwork. Cary had no idea that any police department was so busy by night...of course, he'd never been in one before at any time, let alone at night.
He hung his head in shame, hoping no one would recognize him as the two officers led him to a particularly cluttered desk with an empty chair in front of it. A heavy, but not unattractive woman looked up from the folder file she was reading. "Hey," she said in greeting to the two uniformed officers that flanked him like he was some dangerous criminal. "What have we here?" On her desk was a long brass plaque with the words "Detective Soren Gray" engraved across it.
Joseph, the obvious leader of the two, spoke up. "This here is Cary Bouchard of New York City. We happened upon him while on patrol at First and La Cienega. He was running like hell down the street."
"I thought someone was chasing him," Ramirez interjected.
Joseph shot his partner a look and continued, "As I was saying--he was running, so we stopped him and asked him a few questions. The suspect did not answer any of the questions, so Officer Ramirez and I searched him for identification." Ramirez handed the clear plastic bag to the still seated detective. "We found some rather disturbing Insta-Pics..." He let the words trail off as the detective looked at the photos through the bag. Her face betrayed no emotion. She looked up at him and Joseph continued. "He says they ain't his, but I thought we'd better bring him in anyway."
"Okay, thank you, officers," Detective Gray said with a perfunctory nod of dismissal.
Ramirez uncuffed Cary's wrists and the two uniformed policemen left without a backward glance. Cary stretched his arms and smiled gratefully as he looked at the woman detective. She did not return the smile. She was probably in her early forties, or maybe late thirties; Cary had never been very good at guessing people's ages because quite frankly he really didn't care. Gray had that settled, married look. Probably had kids. Two teenage daughters, Cary guessed by her harried mien. Aside from the bags beneath her eyes and her excess baggage, Cary thought she was quite handsome in an authoritative sort of way.
"Please be seated, Mr. Bouchard," Gray indicated the empty chair before her desk.
Cary sat and said, still smiling, "Am I under arrest?"
"Should you be?" she countered.
"No," Cary said emphatically. "I have done nothing wrong."
Soren Gray leaned forward, and her face softened, putting Cary at ease. "Tell me about the photos," she said.
"Well," Cary began, "I'm a writer." Gray nodded. "I live in New York, but right now I'm on tour. My current book is a work of fiction about a serial murderer. It's called The Brandie Killer." Again, the nod. Cary could see in her eyes that she'd read the book and had not liked it. "I got the first photo," he reached part way across the desk and indicated the photo with the Cowgirl Brandie in it, "in Dallas, Texas. It was given to me at a book signing by some kid I've never laid eyes on before. It scared me, but I concluded that it was just a sick, but entirely set-up homage to Bonfiglio, the character in my book. It can't be real. I mean, what kind of person would really do something like that?" He immediately realized how stupid that sounded when the detective raised one eyebrow as if to say, "I see it every day." Cary blundered forth. "So, I thought nothing of it. I went on to California, and the first day I arrived I was given the second photo. Now I began to worry. At first, I thought it was a random prank, but obviously not. I think someone is following me."
"Then why didn't you call the police?" Gray asked pointedly.
"Because I was afraid that something like this would happen."
"If you didn't kill those girls, you have nothing to worry about."
Cary looked around the room and then leaned forward and said softly, "Do you really think they're dead? Are you sure it's not just a joke?"
"In this line of work, Mr. Bouchard, I've learned not to be too sure of anything. But your story sounds reasonable. I'll be keeping the photos just in case Homicide turns any of these girls up. Assuming they were killed in Los Angeles County. Assuming they were even killed at all. Now tell me, Mr. Bouchard, about the last photo and why you were running."
Cary swallowed hard. This was embarrassing. "I was on the Al Jackson Show tonight. I...I couldn't handle it, so I ran out." Gray nodded, encouraging him to continue. She did not appear to be judging him, only listening to the facts. "I kept running. I was looking for a phone booth...that's when the officers saw me. I wasn't doing anything wrong, honestly I wasn't!" His voice rose to a trill.
"Okay, okay. I believe you. Now, about the
photos. Can you describe who gave them to you?" She shuffled through some papers and pulled out a form. Her pen poised, she looked up at him.
"Are you filling out a report? I really don't want to lodge a complaint. I mean, I haven't been hurt."
"Sorry, but it's a police matter now. I'll need it for my records in case anything comes of these photos."
"Oh," Cary sighed. He had hoped he would just be allowed to leave. At least he hadn't been arrested, he reminded himself. At least he hadn't been booked, fingerprinted and photographed. At least his picture wouldn't be plastered all over the papers and scandal sites...or would they? "I had hoped to avoid publicity."
Had he? Soren definitely did not believe that Cary Bouchard had murdered any one. She knew the type by now; he was not a killer. She wanted to believe his story of being the unwilling recipient of the strange photographs, but judging by the way he told his story, she thought he was lying. He kept squirming in his seat and hemming around. She couldn't help wondering if this was some crazy publicity stunt. If it was, then Cary was obviously a part of it and was making a fool out of her and the entire department.
Well, she decided, she wasn't about to pander to some multi-million-dollar publishing company. That sick book had already made millions; why give them the satisfaction? "Okay," she said suddenly, going against her better judgment, "no report. But I'm still going to keep the photos. You don't want them, do you?"
"Oh, no!" Cary exclaimed. "Certainly not. Am I free to go now?"
"Yes. Just let me get a photocopy of your driver's license. And you write your home telephone number down for me." She tapped the papers on her desk.
Cary wrote the number to his answering service down on a blank sheet of scratch paper while the detective was across the room making the copy. She came back to her desk and handed him his wallet and his room key. "How long will you be in California?"
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 12
