Patterns of Brutality: Erter & Dobbs Book 2

by Nick Keller

  “Yes! Good point. Remember, chaos describes what?”

  The class was quiet. A few of them looked at each other.

  William went on, “Chaos describes the intangible. You can’t calculate the motion of a sick mind. You can’t predict its thoughts. It’s ambiguous. That’s the difference. Patterns — the logic of the world — is not internal. That’s why they’re expressed by what’s around us. Patterns aren’t in here,” he motioned to his head. “They’re out there, in the world, around us. And patterns don’t ever have an end. It’s like a big cascading effect. Each day lays out a pattern that supports a week. Weeks are patterns too. And months. Look at the seasons. The years. The decades. When you expand your understanding of what a pattern is, how it functions, what it looks like, then you begin to see an ever-expanding process of patterns and you can begin to observe a thing on a more comprehensive scale. You even begin to find relationships between two unlike things, and relationships, class, are important to observe in criminal psychology.”

  William looked at his students. They were starting to draw a blank again.

  “Let’s talk about killers.” They got back in tune. He could sense it. “Now here’s the interesting thing. Here’s where the line between that good old internal chaos, and all those external patterns, becomes wafer thin. Patterns—now listen up—can be found in behavior as well. Even when — and especially if — the mind that produces those patterns lacks the fundamental capacities of a normal mind. Ironic, isn’t it? Creatures of chaos are also creatures of habit, if you become aware of their patterns of behavior, especially over the long run.”

  He turned around and produced a large burlap sack tied at the top and bulging at the bottom. The class watched as he carried it forward, holding it high over the floor. “Now, I want you to watch what happens.” He gave a dramatic pause scanning his eyes across his class. They all appeared interested. In a swift motion, he unsheathed a butcher’s knife concealed at his waistline with a hissy shiiing! The chrome blade glinted under the iridescent lights.

  The class gasped, some of them oohing-and-aweing.

  William grinned at them. “Don’t tell anybody.”

  They reacted all doughy-faced, eyes big and mouths lax.

  With a single, powerful thrust, he stabbed the bag and jerked the knife back. Dozens of little rubber balls poured out in a gush, falling to the floor, bouncing all around each other, slowing down and down until they all rolled in an expanding pattern across the classroom floor.

  “That was fun,” William said, slipping the knife back into its sheath and cramming his props into his desk drawer. “Now, what did you all see?”

  “Teach went psycho!” Marique said. Who else would it be? The class laughed. Even William appreciated the remark—If only you knew, Marique.

  “That’s not a bad observation, Marique. Perhaps that in itself implies a pattern, right?”

  They laughed again.

  “But, I’m speaking specifically of the exhibit. What did you see?”

  “They all fell.”

  “Right. Yes. And how’d they fall?”

  “Straight down.”

  “That’s right, and at the same velocity. At the same acceleration. The same trajectory. These are all similarities that create interrelationships between objects. Patterns.”

  “They bounced.”

  “Yes—but not only did they bounce. If you’ll notice, they each bounced to the same height, and at the same frequency—at least roughly. These are elements in the pattern. What else?”

  “They spread out.”

  “Right. They spread out. Then what?”

  “Uh—they slowed down.”

  “They slowed down, yes. Anything else?”

  “They stopped.”

  “Eventually they stopped. Now, can anybody tell me about the relationships they witnessed between the objects? How did they behave with each other?”

  The class went quiet. A few of them murmured incoherent words to themselves, but no one spoke out. William waited. No one said anything. Where was Jacky when he needed him? He would have said something brilliant in its utter simplicity—something like, Yeah so—they loved each other, so they were all together, right? Then they hated each other. Now they’re all alone. Am I right?

  But silence.

  William said, “Okay, I want everyone to think about it and bring me five hundred words on what you observed in relation to patterns.”

  8

  LOOKING FOR JACKY

  Back in his office, William brought up Jacky Lee’s student file on his computer. He scanned his grades. They were made public after last semester had ended. Even after missing the last two weeks of school due to his sudden disappearance, he’d passed all his classes with flying colors. Even William’s criminal psyche class, he’d scored a low B, even after skipping the final exam altogether. He would have gotten an easy A.

  William looked out his office window. No one just disappears. Especially not top students. Clicking his teeth, he opened Jacky’s personal information. He found his address off Bunker Hill Rd. William had been by there twice hoping to catch a glimpse of his prodigal son. No one was ever home.

  He rubbed his head trying to wrestle his concern. He’d had students drop out before. It happened all the time. But he couldn’t help considering everything Jacky had been involved with. He knew dangerous people. He’d done dangerous things. William shook his head. No—something was amiss. After three months, it was time for answers.

  Students always noted their parents’ addresses during enrollment, so William dove into the proper files moving and clicking the mouse. He found it. His parents lived off Mooney Dr. over in Monterey Park, street number 1071. William tapped a finger to his lips. Monterey Park was a nice part of town—big homes, nice view, smelled like dates and ocean breezes. Jacky didn’t seem the moneyed type.

  “Hmm…”

  With his day over, William put the address into his Google maps smartphone app, grabbed his windbreaker and headed out of the office.

  THE DRIVE to Monterey Park was easy enough. He took the 5 to the 10 and came down Garfield. He watched the city drop behind as the roads went from the boutique strip joints, past the hospital and into one of the neighborhoods which gave L.A. its tasteful, upper class reputation. Pulling onto Mooney, then down into the residential streets, he scanned curb numbers for 1071 as he approached. They went 1079, 1077, 1075, 1073 and stopped at a cul-de sac. William puttered his V.W. to a stop double-checking his address. Looking up, there was no 1071.

  Disappointed, he wondered if the records were wrong. But if so, he might have been on the wrong street. He might have been in the wrong neighborhood.

  He placed the phone on the passenger seat, paused to think about it again, and put the V.W. into reverse, but a horn honked bringing him to a stop. An SUV was in his rearview waiting to get into their drive. William waved apologetically and maneuvered around. The occupant of the SUV, a silky-haired woman in her fifties, eyeballed him speculatively. The last time a 1974 Volkswagen bug had been in this neighborhood was probably 1975.

  He sidled up next to her and stopped. “Hi, there,” he called to her.

  She smiled at him with a curious, alert expression and rolled her window down, but only half way. “Yes?” she said.

  “I’m looking for 1071. Do you, I mean…”

  “1071? Mmm—there is no 1071. Maybe someone gave you the wrong information. Good day,” she said, and started rolling the window back up.

  William had a thought and motioned back at her. The window came down again, half way. “I’m looking for the Hobar residence. You wouldn’t happen to know them, would you? Maybe a neighbor?”

  She squinted and shook her head. “I know my neighbors. There’s no Hobar.” The window started up again.

  “Well…” he forced a grin. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your residence. How long have you… I mean, have you ever known a Hobar fa
mily?”

  This time, sharply, she said, “There’s no Hobar. Now you’re going to have to leave. I’m sorry. But if I see…” She continued saying something but her own window cut her off as she rolled it up.

  “Okay,” he said giving her a wave and puttering off.

  9

  CAPTAIN HELLER

  Bernie stepped off the elevator into the Investigations department. The place was in its usual bustle. The detectives not out in the field hunting down suspects were jammed in the department hunting down leads. Phones rang. Papers shuffled. Stationary fans swiveled. This was his old haunt. He’d loved it here. That is until he’d gotten demoted to Cold Case by Captain Heller. What a stink that was.

  Bernie rolled his eyes thinking about it. Raise a little hell on the witness stand in a courtroom because some defense attorney rolls you over for unlawful entry, questionable police tactics and a bad attitude, and what happens? They stuff you down in Cold Case to avoid an Internal Affairs cluster fuck. Rotten deal.

  Speaking of Captain Heller, Bernie checked his watch and mumbled, “Shit.” His pace quickened.

  He knocked on Heller’s door, heard, “Get in here, Bernie—Jesus!”

  He entered. Heller was sitting behind his desk one-fingering the keyboard with one hand and operating a back scratcher with his other hand. He eyed Bernie darkly and groaned, “You’re late.” He threw the back scratcher onto his desk.

  Bernie cleared his throat and responded, “Fashionably, Cap.”

  “Cute. Sit down.” Heller took a breath collecting Bernie’s personnel file—a manila folder with its contents trying to burst out the sides. Heller gave up on it going, “Mah!” and dumped it to the side bringing up Bernie’s file on the computer. After a second, he looked at him. “How’s Cold Case?”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “I can see where you might think so. It’s not.”

  Bernie scratched below his nose with a pointy finger and said, “I’m working something.”

  “Really? What?”

  “Double homicide. Possibly a triple.”

  Heller waited with his fingers laced together. He finally said, “Is that it?” but wanting more.

  “Couple starlets few years back. Someone had a beef.”

  “A serial?” Heller said, switching to his serious face.

  “Don’t know yet. It’s fishy. M.O.s are different, but there are similarities.”

  “Who was the investigator?”

  “There’s a couple.”

  Heller nodded thinking, and said, “And the FBI?”

  “Haven’t contacted them.”

  “Do that. If it’s a serial, they’ll have a file on it, you can bet.”

  Bernie said with disappointment, “FBI, Cap?”

  “Goddammit, Bernie, help yourself out on this one, would ya, please, for Christ sake?” Heller was quick to get defensive where Bernie Dobbs was concerned. They’d danced around the protocol bonfire many times, one of them always getting burned. Sometimes both.

  “Alright, alright.”

  Heller leaned back in his chair. “So, you know why you’re here.”

  “I kiss your ass, or you kiss mine.” It was time for his departmental evaluation.

  Heller grunted laughter. “Then, I’ll make it short. H.Q.’s wanting to see some activity from Cold Case.” He held up his hands before Bernie could argue and said, “I know, I know. You’re working a case. You just keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll keep H.Q. off your back.” He tugged at his collar and said, “I figure the department owes you that much for the Parks Case.”

  Bernie’s eyebrows raised, surprised at Heller’s notion. Three months ago, Investigations had pursued a case in which a former sniper named Anthony Sola Jr. had gone off half-cocked taking out dogs with a sniper rifle in city parks, and threatening to kill civilians. It was the kind of case which could have gone real bad, real quick. Thanks to Bernie and his questionable tactics, the whole thing could have gotten a shit-ton worse. Of course, with Internal Affairs constantly wanting to burn the department, Bernie’s questionable tactics got him busted down to Cold Case while an asshole like Mark Neiman got all the credit for the arrest. Mark Neiman, more politician than detective, more pretty boy than cop. It was guys like Mark Neiman who became captain. What a prick. At least in Bernie’s opinion. He still couldn’t stomach the idea. He tried not to think about it. Nevertheless, the department hadn’t forgotten Bernie’s contributions.

  “What about Pruitt?” Bernie said.

  Heller looked up with his eyes. “Pruitt? What’s I.A. got to do with this?”

  “You know Pruitt. He’s always trying to punk me for something.”

  “You let me worry about Pruitt, got it?”

  Bernie nodded, agreeing.

  Heller continued, “It would be nice to see you warm this one up, though. And soon.”

  Warm this one up. It was departmental code talk for solve this Cold Case.

  “That’s the plan,” Bernie said. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, lots. But right now, the status is quo so just keep your goddamn nose clean, Bernie would ya?”

  Bernie reached over and snatched a tissue out of a Kleenex box on Heller’s desk and waved it at him. “That’s what these are for, Cap.”

  Heller found no humor in it. He sighed shaking his head and slid his eval papers across the desk at him. “Just sign.”

  10

  LESHA SANDERS-MAINE

  Flipping pages, Bernie discovered the last time Andi Jones had been seen alive was at a high-class pizza spot called the Black Olive on Vine St. in West Hollywood. The police reports listed a number of her friends, but none of them were in the area. They’d all moved away since 2012, except one—a Lesha Sanders. She lived over in Crenshaw. Bernie went for a visit.

  The house was a quaint, well-kept, two-bedroom, stone-and-wood job with a nice yard and twin Ficus trees out front. He pulled up next to a Beamer SUV grocery getter and went up to the door.

  Lesha answered with a-cop-is-at-my-front-door look on her face and said, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Detective Dobbs. L.A.P.D.” He flashed his badge. “Are you Lesha Sanders?”

  “Well, Lesha Sanders-Maine.” She had golden skin and hazel eyes, the kind of coloration movie cameras tended to embrace, yet she had those extra ten years that spoke of lost opportunities. It was a common attribute in L.A. women.

  “Right. I have a few questions about an Andi Jones. May I?”

  Lesha paused for a moment as if a name from her past had kicked her in the pants, then she swung open the outer door. “Uh—sure. Come in.”

  Bernie entered giving the place his detective’s quick once over. Living room. Book shelves. Big TV. Nice furniture. Portraits. Everything seemed familial. “So you knew Andi Jones?”

  “Yes, uh-huh.”

  “What was your relationship?”

  “I-uh…” she stammered as if uncomfortable in her own house.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just—Andi Jones. I wasn’t expecting... What’s this all about?”

  “I’m reopening the case.” He tilted his head at her. “How does that make you feel?”

  She snapped to. “I hope you catch the sonofabitch that…” she said, then fired a cautionary glance down the hallway to her right.

  “Mmm—so you were friends, then.”

  “We were in the same, I guess you could call it a group.”

  “Explain that,” Bernie said.

  “There was four of us, well then later there was five. We all shared the same rent home. You know, actresses trying to make it.”

  “Oh, I see. What made you a group?”

  “Our representation. Frame. That was the name of the agency.”

  “So, you all had agents.”

  Lesha rolled her eyes and said, “It was a fucking meat market.” Then she glanced down the hall again. The bedroom doors were all shut. “Let’s go outside. My daughter’s napping. Sh
e’s kind of a monster.”

  Lesha lit a Virginia Slim as soon as the door shut behind them. She exhaled, a familiar look of relief wafting across her face, and when she started talking she sounded like a different person—something about being beyond the earshot of her child and smoking a cig. “So, Andi, yeah, Jesus. Never thought I’d be talking about her again.” Taking another drag. “We were all a troupe. We met at the Frame studios in Burbank. Real shithole. I mean, it looked on the up-and-up. Maybe it was even trying to be a real talent studio, but I mean—” She took a drag. “Anyway, we found each other through the post-up boards. Actor-needing-roommate type of thing. We all came from out of state. North Dakota. Nevada. I came from Maryland. Andi came from some place—Kentucky, I think. We all got a flat in downtown serving burgers at Tangerine’s during the evenings and signing up for audition sheets during the day. What a great time. No one knew anything. Tomorrow was a big question mark, you know?” She laughed in reminiscence. “Andi, though… she was the best of us. Pretty girl. Rare. She could sing, dance—you name it. But she was so…” Lesha dragged on the cigarette, “…everyone loved her. We all knew she’d be the one to make it, the next Halle Berry or something. Then she’d take all of us with her. She was the whole package.”

  Bernie nodded giving her space to continue. She said, “Here, I want to give you something.” She laid her Virginia Slim on the porch and went back inside. Alone and suddenly uncomfortable, Bernie pushed the screen door open and waited for her to come back, ready for anything. Lesha returned carrying a shoebox which looked a hundred years old. “Here, take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Her stuff. Well, our stuff. Mementos. Pictures. Just brochures and audition sheets. Memories, really. I don’t…” she picked her cigarette back up and took a drag. “I don’t want it anymore. If it helps you find him... please, just take it.”