by Neal Arbic
Delware leaned back. “No.”
“And don’t expect it to.” Jack stepped back and gave Delware some breathing room. “That’s why you follow your gut, and the evidence. Because what they do will never make sense.” He waved a finger. “They don’t live like you; they don’t think like you. And some days knowing that…” Jack spun his finger at his head, “is the only thing that keeps you from losing your fuckin’ mind.”
Turning, Jack marched on.
Delware’s legs went numb. His stomach sank into a bottomless pit. Teenage girls? They are the psycho killers we’re hunting? He damned himself. How could he have ever trusted Jack - even for a second? How could he have hoped Jack was a mad genius, a magician who would pull the rabbit out of his hat at the last moment? He regretted being drawn in by the old man. Jack had just crossed the line into irredeemable madness. He watched Jack disappear around a corner, and saw his chance at that gold badge disappear with him.
Coming around the corner, Delware stopped dead in his tracks. The backyard was eerily similar to the Tate’s: the in-ground swimming pool, the bushes, the patio almost exactly the same. And then beyond the lawn, the yellow desert valley.
His eyes searched for Jack and found him standing in front of the open door of a garden shed. Jack stared inside. “I found it, kid. Just where she said it would be.”
Coming to the shed, Delware followed Jack’s gaze. He saw it instantly. It was like a moment of déjà vu, except Delware knew exactly where he had seen it before: Cielo Drive. It slapped him in the face. The screen was slit exactly as it had been at the Tate murders. It was not a straight horizontal or vertical slash. It was L-shaped. It was beyond a mental recognition, it was like Jack said it would be: guttural. He knew it with a certainty the mind could never know. Some ancient instinct awoke in him – the hunter.
Delware could not tear his eyes from the screen. “Jesus, Jack.”
Jack turned slowly from the screen and looked in the direction the woman said the hippies had run. The green lawn ended at dark emerald bushes, beyond was the yellow sloping desert. Dry and forbidding. Jack became calm and very still, as if listening to distant sounds. He reminded Delware of Buddy, his uncle’s bloodhound in Louisiana sniffing the air. There was Jack - on the trail of his prey.
***
The Packard drove on narrow cliff-side roads, down and out of the Hollywood Hills.
Delware looked over at Jack. “I’m not going to sleep tonight...I admit, I doubted you. I had doubts right up to the moment I saw that screen. But I know it now, Jack. As insane and incredible as it is, you’re right. There’s a group of killers out there, listening to the White Album.” Delware looked at the road ahead. “Jack, they were there, in that residence, in that very room we were standing in.”
Jack nodded, “Yes, they were, and they’re not going to stop. They’ve just gotten started.”
“Jack, I just knew - like you said.”
“That’s good. Sometimes when nothing makes sense, your gut is the only thing you can trust.”
“All the evidence makes more sense now, but it makes who we’re looking for…more and more bizarre.”
“That’s the number one rule, kid. Suspect everyone.”
Delware looked out the window. “And the bloody barefoot print – it’s not a female witness. It’s one of the murderers.”
“Yes. Well, of course they didn’t photograph that footprint; it got washed away with the rain. Hell, they’re LAPD…why would they want to do a thorough job with murder evidence?” Jack smiled at the road ahead. “You and Dirk would be right ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s funny that this is your first case. It’s patterns, kid, you learn them. Dirk is looking for the motives that usually work. But acts of passion look one way, premeditated read another way…madness is unmistakable. Its pattern has a fetish feel, like a sick fantasy, almost theatrical, but it’s so rare, even when you see it, your routine procedures still kick in. I’ve made that mistake before – years ago. It took me too long to look in the right direction and by then the trail had grown cold. I vowed never to let that happen again.” Jack glanced over at Delware. “I’m going to catch this sumbitch.”
Delware looked at Jack with new eyes. “So you could tell the difference right from the start?”
Jack nodded. “I’ve had my eyes peeled for this one. Close connections always have the biggest motivation, but this…here the motivation will only make sense to the killers themselves. In this type of case you can only look at the pattern…which is a ritual of sorts.”
For the first time, Delware felt something close to respect for the old man. “Jack, how do you do that stare thing?”
Jack gave Delware a doubtful glance. “What?”
“You know, when you stare at someone to get the truth, when you don’t want a lie. How do you do that really intense stare?”
Jack smiled. “I’m not looking at them, kid.”
“What?”
“The first decade on Homicide, I couldn’t sleep. I had these reoccurring nightmares. The victims of the cases I was working came to me in dreams, stood over my bed, staring at me as I slept. Scared the shit out of me, I could never get back to sleep. These nightmares felt so real, like these dead people were really there - in my bedroom.”
“What did the victims do?”
“Nothing, they just stared.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah, I thought they were angry at me for not solving their cases yet, or maybe I was looking in the wrong direction, but then I finally figured it out.”
“What?”
Jack shrugged “They wanted to see their killers. But they couldn’t. They were on the other side of the grave. They wanted my eyes, so they could take one last condemning look at the people who killed them.”
Delware shuddered and sat back for a better look at Jack. “That’s far out, man. Those nightmares ever go away?”
“No. Since we started this case, I’ve seen one of our victims a few times.”
“Who? One of the Tate victims?”
“Yeah, Sharon. Sharon Tate. In dreams, she showed up, just staring at me. But now I understand and give the dead what they want.”
“Jack, what can you give the dead?”
“That stare I do. I don’t do it, kid. But whenever I want the truth, I lend the dead my eyes. When that lady was fucking around this afternoon: I didn’t stare at her. It was Sharon Tate.”
Monday, September 8th, 1969, 8:10 AM
The sun rose over LA’s smog and the white tower of City Hall. In Burglary Division, Delware sat shifting through files dredged up from June’s reports. More breaking and entering, nothing taken.
Jack hunched over a desk nearby mapping out the break-ins. He studied the pattern. Just like July, all of them were in and around Bel Air.
Delware’s eyes popped at the sheet from an old file. He re-read it in disbelief. “Jack, you got to see this!”
Jack came up from his map. “What?”
Delware didn’t believe his own words. “We got another eye witness here.”
Jack jumped.
Delware waved the page at him. “It’s from one of the very first break-ins in early June. Nothing stolen. Koufax didn’t work this case.”
Slapping the page down on the desk, Delware and read it again. Jack stood over his shoulder. “Jack, a Cory Willett saw them, all of them - caught a group of people in his living room in the middle of the night…and one in his hallway. Jack this could be it, a close up look, this could be our ID!”
“Where’s the description?”
Delware shifted through the few pages in the file. “It’s missing…or it wasn’t even done. All these reports are half blank.”
Jack was already grabbing his coat. “You got the address?”
Heading for the door, Delware read the file. “Right here. 701 Stone Canyon Road.”
***
The Packard pulled up to a large iron gate. Behind the tall grille were a white Spanish
mansion, cupid fountain, rose gardens and sprinklers watering the lawn. Jack buzzed at the gate. They stood impatiently, staring up the drive lined with palm trees. Moments later, a gray-haired woman in a servant uniform came rushing down. She called out, “Sorry, the gate is broken.” She arrived at the bars out of breath. Before she could even ask, Jack badged her. “Police business. Is this the home of Cory Willett?”
The woman nodded and opened the gate. Jack and Delware squeezed through before she had it half opened. They passed her without a glance and almost ran, leaving her far behind. The sprinkler mist made rainbows in the sunlight. Jack hoped it was a good omen.
A blonde middle-aged woman waited at the door. Her figure nicely wrapped in a one-piece sheath dress. Her beautiful face worried. “Where’s Maria?”
Jack panted slightly, “She’s coming. We’re in a bit of a rush, Ma’am.” Jack flipped open his badge. “Is there a Cory Willett currently residing here?”
“Yes. Is something wrong?”
“No, ma'am, we just need to talk to him.”
She straightened her dress and stepped back. “Come in.”
Delware spoke as he entered. “We’re here about the break-in.”
The blonde brushed a stray hair from her face. “That was months ago.”
Delware and Jack stood in the foyer surveying what they could of the house. Jack turned to her. “You’re Mrs. Willett?”
“Yes.”
“Were you here the night of the break-in?”
The woman shuddered. “It was the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
The maid came through the door breathing heavy. Mrs. Willett asked her, “Will you go get Cory, Maria?”
Jack pulled out a pad. “Do you know how they got in?”
“Back service entrance - they slit a screen on an open window. They opened every window, flipped all the paintings upside down, moved all the furniture, the whole living room was backwards. Just creepy. In the kitchen, they emptied all the drawers; every utensil was laid out on the counters.” She smiled, nervous. “We’ve got an alarm now and new locks. It was like something from Alice in Wonderland. You don’t know how disturbing it is to wake up in your own house and find nothing where it should be, all helter skelter.”
Jack looked up from his notebook. “So your husband saw them?”
She shook her head. “No, he was asleep with me.”
Jack frowned at his notes. “The report says a Cory Willett saw the-”
“Oh, yes. Cory saw them.”
Down the stairs came Maria holding Cory’s hand. Jack and Delware looked up. Cory was five years old.
***
Cory sat, his large blue eyes staring at the two strange men. He leaned his small body into his mother who stroked his short blonde hair. Jack and Delware sat with their chairs in close. They leaned towards the little boy in his Superman t-shirt. Jack glanced at a framed school picture of Cory: cute tiny white dress shirt, tie and a missing-a-tooth smile. Jack smiled at the boy. Cory moved closer to his mother.
Delware was surprised at how gentle Jack’s voice was. “So, Cory, can you tell us about the strange people who were in your living room?”
The child looked up to his mother. “Do I have to?”
Mrs. Willett hugged the boy. “Just this once, honey.” She looked apologetic at the officers. “It still gives him nightmares.”
Jack’s eyes were soft and understanding. “I’m sorry to remind you of those people, Cory. But you can help me a lot if you can tell me what you remember.”
Cory questioned. “About the bogeyman and his friends?”
Jack felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. Bogeyman, that’s our man. “Yes, just this once, tell me about the bogeyman and we’ll make sure he never comes here again.”
The boy clutched his mother. “Is he coming back?”
Mrs. Willett wrapped her arms around the small child. “No, no, dear, don’t worry. The nice officers are going to put him in jail. They just need you to tell him what he looked like. That’s all.”
The boy’s grip on his mother slackened.
Jack leaned in. “What happened, Cory? Why did you wake up that night?”
The timid boy confessed, “I heard them.”
“What did you hear?”
His small hand pointed to the hall. “Noise…outside my door.”
“What type of noise?”
“People whispering. And…something fell on the floor.”
“What happened next?”
“I thought mom was making breakfast.”
Jack smiled. “Good boy, what did you do?”
“I got up-” The boy hesitated.
Jack gave the child his best assuring smile. “Yes...”
“I opened my door and the man walked by, I thought it was my mom so I ran after her, and…the man turned around.”
The boy stopped and clung hard to his mother, fingers curling into her dress.
Jack bit the inside of his lip. His voice gently guided the boy through the fear. “What did you see, Cory?”
“People.”
“What did they look like?”
“Bogeymen…and ladies.”
The boy was shaking. His mother held him tight.
Jack’s heart raced. “Go on, Cory. We’re almost finished, and then we can put them all in jail.”
“They all stared at me, but the man in the hall…”
The boy’s eyes watered. The shadow of fear wrinkled his small face.
Jack whispered gently, “What did his face look like?”
The boy paused, climbed into his mother’s lap and then spoke innocently, “Angry.”
Delware looked at Jack, but Jack’s eyes stayed on the boy.
“What else did he look like Cory?”
“Like his picture.”
“What picture?”
“The picture we have of him.”
Jack’s eyes went wide, but his face did not move. “Where is that picture of the bogeyman, Cory?”
“If I show you, will you put him in jail forever?”
Jack slid from his chair and onto his knees, keeping his face level with the boy. He looked into the scared, yet trusting eyes. “Yes, Cory. I’ll do it right away, as soon as you show me the picture of the bogeyman. I’ll put him in jail.”
The boy leapt from his mother’s lap and ran from the living room. The three adults followed him through a short maze of sunlit halls and then up a carpeted flight of stairs. They entered the little boy’s room. He knelt among a few scattered toys and reached under his bed. “I took it down because it scares me. There he is!”
The boy came up with a small framed picture. The three adults stood in awe. They stared at a man with long hair and a beard. It was a painting of Jesus Christ, who looked back at them with compassionate eyes.
Cory’s voice trembled with fear, “That’s what the bogeyman looked like. But his eyes weren’t nice, they were evil.”
In Jack’s mind, he saw the little boy standing in the dark hall, looking up at the tall shadows around him. A man in the hallway towering before him: a longhaired, bearded man with murder in his eyes.
Jack felt something pulling on his hand. The small innocent face looked up at him. “Now are you going to put him in jail? I showed you.” The little boy pointed at the picture again. “This is him. Evil Jesus.”
3:33 PM
Jack drove, his head spinning, the Hollywood Hills roads twisting. It was a vague ID, but it filled in blanks and confirmed the other eyewitness. He re-imagined the night of the murders. He saw them now: hippies with knives, young girls with knives - Evil Jesus with a knife. If only the little boy knew how close his nightmare was to becoming a reality for him and his family.
