Patterns of Brutality: Erter & Dobbs Book 2

by Nick Keller

  “Uh-huh.” Bernie tucked the box up under an arm. “So, what happened?”

  Lesha shook her head sadly, exhaling a whiff of smoke. “Who really knows? She went to meet her agent for dinner one evening and…” she snapped her fingers. “They uh—they found her body the next day. She was—goddamn…”

  Beaten to a bloody, brainy pulp with a baseball bat.

  “And her agent?”

  Lesha sniggered. “Carter? God, he was just as shocked as everyone else. Hell, he cried.”

  “Carter. You sure it wasn’t Carter?”

  “Of course it wasn’t. She was going to be his cash cow. He lost money on the deal.” The dryness of her words reflected the scurrilous underworld of Hollywood—the degree to which the city traded flesh for dollars.

  “Lost money?” Bernie said.

  Lesha took a drag. “That’s probably the saddest thing of all. Andi was so close. I mean, she was always getting work, you know—this commercial or that. But she nailed an audition. She was always nailing auditions. It was for a regular supporting role on a new series. You know that show Bad Sister—about the nuns and all that?”

  Bernie shrugged. He’d heard of it. The show ran for two or three seasons and got canceled a few years back. He had no interest in TV shows called Bad Sister.

  “Anyway, Andi was going to be on that show. It was her ticket. We even celebrated. Went to Harriman’s down on the beach.” She smoked and flipped the butt out into the street saying, “Fucking asshole.”

  “If this Carter was the last person to see her alive, I need to talk to him. Where can I find him?”

  “Who knows, detective? I haven’t been a part of all that in… five, six years. When Andi got killed, that was it. I met James. Got married. I have a daughter now, you know. Showbiz—I just left it behind.”

  “And what about the other girls?”

  She looked him in the eyes and said, “It was all a dream, Detective. Guess we just woke up.”

  11

  CARTER

  Bernie hunted down Frame Studios in Burbank. He found an outdated listing. The phone number connected him to a logistics receiving dock at some warehouse out in Commerce. It led nowhere. True to his detective’s instincts he drove out to Burbank. What had once been Frame Studios now belonged to an upscale dog grooming shop. They even sold little pet hats for Mitsy and Spot.

  Unsatisfied, he located Frame’s former assistant studio head, a Carter Holmes. He was now working as backlot security for Sony Studios. Bernie went for a visit, and flashing his badge got him through the gate. He took the Crown Vic past an enormous outdoor scrim with a cityscape painted across it with a photo-real quality, around a bend and up to a backlot loading dock. A forklift shuttled by carrying a big, fake tree.

  Carter spotted him coming. They’d radioed ahead to tell him he had company. He didn’t look too pleased to see Bernie pull up. His face was framed with two days of salt-and-pepper growth, hair trimmed into a neat crew cut, grey over the ears. He was dressed in a blue Sony security uniform, and smoked a cigarette.

  Bernie flashed his badge but before he could introduce himself, Carter said, “Yeah, I know who you are. They told me already.”

  “Good. I have questions about Andi Jones.”

  Carter made an I-knew-it-face and said, “You’re here to ask me about the worst day of my life.”

  “How so?”

  “It ruined me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Andi was my golden goose. I represented a dozen girls at the studio, but Andi—she was special. Just got signed on with a FOX affiliate. I mean, shit—she was just one audition away from going big time. She was my Kerry Washington. You know Kerry Washington?” Bernie gave him a passive look. Carter chuckled bitterly thinking about it, then took a drag. “And then, well...”

  “Someone bashed her head in.”

  Carter looked at him insulted, then nodded. “Everything about that girl was primed for Hollywood, man. She had stardom written all over her—Jesus.”

  “Huh. You were the last one to see her alive.”

  “Yeah, no shit, thank you.” Carter smoked again, angrily. “You know, it’s shit like that which fucked me. You and your cop cowboys poking around, making me out as the bad guy—really fucked me, you know.”

  “You lost your studio.”

  “Why do you think I’m here? Nobody wants a talent killer to represent them. So now what? I’m forty-seven years old, playing security? I ought to be in there,” he thumbed back toward the Sony administration building standing over the whole backlot. “Meh—thems are the breaks, I guess.” He dragged again shaking his head. Bernie smiled inwardly. He was forty-seven, too. Or was it forty-eight?

  He shook the thought away and asked point blank, “Do you know who killed Andi Jones?”

  Carter looked at him exasperated. “Mister, if I knew what asshole did that, I’d have shot the fucker myself.”

  12

  STARLIGHT REPS, INC.

  Back at the station, Bernie found himself staring at Andi Jones’s murder photos. Large nodules of bloody mucus ran from her nostrils. At first glance, it looked like snot. But it wasn’t. It was brain matter siphoned through her nasal cavities. It came from the ears, too. Eyes were all jarred out of whack. And in the midst of all the gore was the prettiest, softest skin he’d ever seen, light-colored Afro-American. Just like Halle Berry. What a waste. Murder didn’t get any worse than this.

  He shook his head putting it away and taking up Candy Starr’s file. He squinted at the crime photos feeling nauseous. Her body was a mess, too. Her clothes had been burned away, her skin misshapen into whorls and dunes of redistributed flesh. Heat and flame was an amazing killer.

  These were two different murders. But they had one thing in common. They both made Bernie’s stomach churn looking at the photos. And they both had the same extreme degree of brutality. It suggested it was the same guy. Two different murders. One special kind of killer. But Bernie needed to be sure.

  He dove into Candy Starr’s past. Like all the others, she came from some Podunk town out in the middle of Midwest nowhere searching for her name in lights. According to the plates on her old 1993 Mazda 626 she had come from Wilmer, Kansas in ’07. For three years she hustled her way through Tinseltown, picking up whatever odd jobs paid the bills, eventually finding representation at Starlight Reps, Inc. Until December of 2012. Then her dreams went up in flames, literally. She was twenty-three at her time of death. So young.

  That’s where everything went cold on Candy Starr, except the coroner’s report. Desk-jockeying would get Bernie nowhere, so he threw his jacket on, plopped his hat onto his head and headed out. It was time to chase Candy Starr’s trail from the street.

  FIRST STOP, Starlight Reps, Inc. They were located on the eighteenth floor of a downtown office building. Nice spread, at least to the hungry eye blinded by the distant sight of fame. The office space had a glass door, nice carpet, expensive lobby furniture, a downtown view. Bernie knew better, though. This place was a—what did Lesha Sanders-Maine call it—a meat market.

  The receptionist, who could have been a centerfold, said, “Hi, welcome to Starlight. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” Bernie said. “I’m here to see Gabe McGruff.”

  “Oh, he’s not in the…”

  Bernie cut her off. “Yeah, he is. I just called him.” He was lying through his teeth and flashing his badge. He knew these cheap agent-types. They had their secretaries lie to anyone who didn’t look like star material. Bernie figured he fit the bill. “I don’t have an appointment, so just tell me which office he’s in.”

  Her eyes went wide and she pointed down the hall making a go-around-the-corner motion. “Thank you,” he said folding his badge away and going down the hall.

  McGruff had a corner office. Mr. Big Wig. Bernie knocked on the door, then cracked it open. There was no one, just a bunch of potted trees, a mahogany desk, and the immense smell of incense. He pushed the door a litt
le wider. Still no one. He opened it all the way. To his far right, McGruff was dangling upside down from an exercise machine facing out the large exterior window. He was backdropped by the vista of downtown L.A., an endless sea of differing perspectives. McGruff wore headphones and Bernie could hear the tinny droning of some middle-eastern sitar music. The guy was in some odd form of meditation.

  Over on the desk the office phone blinked. Someone was calling. Bernie grimaced. The hot, little receptionist up front was trying to warn McGruff of Bernie’s presence.

  Mm-hmm. No go, sweetheart. McGruff’s busy being a cave bat.

  Bernie went over and tapped McGruff on the leg. He looked up—or down from his reversed position—shuffling off his headphones and said, “Oh—shinseina garakuta, babe!”

  “What?” Bernie said.

  “It’s Japanese. It’s an expletive. It means, uh—holy crap, or something like that. You startled me.”

  “Ah.”

  “Watashi ni bun o ataeru.” McGruff took a breath, reached down—or up—put his headphones back around his head, closed his eyes, laced his fingers back together, and continued meditating.

  Bernie tapped him again. McGruff removed the headphones and said, “That means, give me just a minute.” He put the headphones back on.

  Bernie reached down and put his badge in front of his face tapping him again. McGruff turned off his MP3 player and said, “Are you an officer?”

  Bernie nodded, running thin on patience.

  McGruff said, “Well, Shinzen is a serious form of self-collectivity, but I can make an exception for one of L.A.’s finest.” He reached up unhooking his ankles from the device and cantankerously came to an upright position, almost knocking over a potted tree. He paused to take in a full breath through his nose and released saying, “Wonderful. It aligns the physical with the psychological. I can literally feel my heart pumping concentration and repose through my veins. Feel.” He took Bernie’s hand and put it to his chest.

  Bernie grunted like a surprised gorilla feeling the man’s thumper pound a rhythm inside his chest. “Yeah, wonderful,” he said, and jerked his hand away.

  “Do you meditate, officer?” It wasn’t until McGruff was on his feet Bernie took note of his suddenly royal, old Hollywood-style accent.

  “I just sleep.”

  “Oh, that simply won’t do. Not at all. Meditation is a form of waking rest. It’s much more therapeutic.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve slept pretty good before.”

  McGruff went to his desk and struck the blinking button on his phone saying, “Yes, my little Que-Quay?”

  “Sir, there’s a gentleman here to see you. He’s on his way…”

  “Never mind, little dove. He’s here! One thing, though.” He looked at Bernie and said, “What was your name, officer?”

  Bernie grunted, “Dobbs. L.A.P.D.”

  Back into his phone, McGruff continued, “Let’s sign Officer Dobbs here up for my ten o’clock Thursday Shinzen group.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, my dear. And can you have a…” his eyes went up in thought, “… a green leaf, berry blast with a twist of cumquat brought back?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Yes, thank you.” He looked at Bernie and said, “It’s outstanding for the skin, and the antioxidants are simply brilliant. And let me tell you, officer, the regularity is divine. You literally excrete rabbit pellets. It’s a drink sent from above.”

  “Did you say rabbit pellets?”

  “Rabbit pellets.”

  “Uh-huh—what was that about ten o’clock?” Bernie said.

  “Oh yes, Shinzen. My meditation class. It’s not a requirement. I think you’d love it though. I can see you’re an endomorphic stress-carrier, which is unusual for a man of such mesomorphic proportions. It’s uncommon. Not rare, but uncommon. Shinzen will straighten you out.”

  Bernie stared at him with his mouth half open.

  McGruff chuckled and said, “It merely means you’re a large, well-muscled creature, but that you carry your stress down around the hips and thighs. Loose up top, all business down below—hahaha!” Then he pointed a finger and said, “Watch your posture. You do slouch.”

  “I…”

  “You slouch.”

  “Slouch?”

  “Yes. Your knuckles nearly drag the floor. You’re like neolithic man.”

  Bernie blinked and waved his hands. “Look, forget neo—whatever. I’m here to ask you a few questions about…” Bernie blinked. What was the girl’s name?

  “Look,” McGruff said, moving around the desk and putting his hands on Bernie’s shoulders. “I represent all types of talent to multiple studios. And I don’t mean their underlings. I talk to the studio heads. I can get you in, babe.” The last part was spoken with a great deal of panache, extremely proud of himself.

  “Well I…”

  “And you. What a rare specimen. Sort of James Cagney meets Liam Neeson, a noir detective with a spotted past, indeed. Or—say, what’s your experience with character acting? I could see you being the terrifying antagonist henchman, the danger object. I’d hire you on the spot to play my villain.”

  “Danger object?” Bernie grumbled.

  “And never you fear, officer. You’re not the first cop to come waltzing through my door. I must say, I’ve represented a number of your fellow Boys-in-Blue, oh yes, cops make fine actors. After all, we all have a star with our name on it somewhere—hahaha!”

  Bernie smacked a hand on his desk and barked, “Star—Candy Starr!”

  McGruff’s breath caught in his throat and he took a step back. “I—I’m sorry, I don’t know a—who?”

  “A murdered girl. Five years ago. 2012. You represented her.”

  McGruff moved around his desk balancing himself on the dark, mahogany surface. He was taken aback, trying to control his Shenzen. He snapped a finger in the air and said, “Uh—yes. I recall.” Going back into his previous power agent repose he said, “Of course, yes—Candy Starr. A tragic story. She was a pretty girl. Nice talent. A bit imbalanced, though.” He chuckled nervously. “I’m sorry, officer, you’ve caught me—I’m struggling with my own balance I’m afraid.”

  “What do you mean imbalanced?”

  “You see, I endeavor to maintain my state of Shenzen at all times, and such questions—they threaten to…”

  “Not you. Her.”

  McGruff cleared his thoughts. “Oh, yes. She was a bothered type, I think. Many of them are—young girls looking to make their mark in a world they’re unfamiliar with. They fall to whimsy all too often. Sad, isn’t it?”

  “What happened to her?” Bernie said.

  “Why, she was murdered.”

  “You do remember her.”

  He laughed. “Of course. You say I represented her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I remember everyone I represent.” He slumped, his L.A. accent suddenly gone. “Officer, look, the best I can do is offer you her profile records. I see so many faces. I talk to so many people.”

  “Yeah, but this one got murdered. You don’t remember her.”

  McGruff sighed rubbing his chin and sinking back into his chair. “No, I do. How could I not? She was a smart girl. No, not smart. Clever. Very wise. She knew how to work the system. And she was bold. She was one of those bold, bohemian types. Had a good head on her shoulders. Yes, a good head.”

  “You said she was imbalanced.”

  McGruff snuffed at his own words. “Aren’t we all?”

  “Do you know who could’ve killed her?”

  McGruff looked up with sad eyes. “I didn’t think anyone could do that, not to a girl like Candy.”

  Bernie looked at him critically thinking on his words. Reading between the lines, he began to see McGruff as an odd, imbalanced nutjob. The killer, perhaps? He took a chance. “Did you kill her?”

  McGruff smiled sadly, almost unaffected by the question. “Certainly.”

  Bernie flinched
putting a reflexive hand on the butt of his gun. “You killed Candy Starr?”

  McGruff huffed, “Didn’t we all?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Right before Bernie’s eyes, McGruff went into an angelic persona, full of high-concept gloat, waving his hands like a dancer, and said, “It’s the interconnection of all things. Nothing is static. We all become members in a great chain of sensitive, interdependent happenstances such that, in the ultimate theorem of existence, we become one, as responsible to each other as we are to ourselves.”

  “The fuck you talking about?” Bernie said.

  “We’re all linked, officer, either by action or—and infamously so—by inaction.” He continued playing his sad, ethereal character moving around the office as if performing some postmodern, body art routine. “Perhaps I asked her a question, or told her a tale which, in some minute fashion, dictated her response to a stimulus hours later, thereby affecting her in a way that, along with a fragile formulation of exponentially experiential stimulations, pointed her toward her doom.”

  Bernie tried to follow him with his eyes, but he felt more insulted than informed. “Are you saying you killed her—sort of?”

  McGruff stopped and pointed a limp hand at him. “No more than you, yourself. Perhaps you chanced upon her killer days or months or years before the killing. And perhaps you conducted yourself inadvertently with said person in a way which affected his actions the same way mine dictated poor Candy Starr’s. I guess you could say I am guilty, but only if you were willing to admit the same degree of guilt, which by the way, is no greater than that of the wretched soul who plunged the knife into Candy’s beautiful, virginal body.”

  Bernie cleared his throat. He’d had enough of this Gloria Plath, Edward Lorenz, Chaos Theory, chi-chao, pai-mung bullshit. “You mentioned her files.”

  “Yes.”

  “Send those to me. I want them today. My card’s on your desk.” He put his hat on and left bumping into the receptionist on her way into the office. The green drink in her hand sloshed a wicket of fluorescent bilge onto his shirt. He swiped it with a finger and tasted, smacking his jowls. Taking a look back at McGruff, he gave a cursory grunt and said, “Yeah, no shit, rabbit pellets.” He headed out suddenly needing a double shot of Jack black label and a cigarette.