by Nick Keller
Half in shock himself, William had fended off a dozen questions from beat cops, first at the scene. They’d offered him a spot to sit in the kitchen, but being in the house was more than he could bear, so he sat out on the front lawn wiping Iva’s drying blood off his palms.
“You William Erter?” a voice came from above.
He looked up, nodded yes.
“I’m Captain Heller, L.A.P.D. You mind if I ask you a few questions?”
William shook his head, no.
“Were you with Bernie Dobbs tonight?”
William nodded yes.
“Can you tell me what you saw here, Mr. Erter?”
William nodded, “Uh—y-yes…” but didn’t say anything.
Heller kneeled down next to him with his knees both popping and put a hand on William’s shoulder, more to steady himself than as a show of compassion. “You can help us, and you can help Bernie, too.”
“Yeah, uh—I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” William said.
“Heller!” Another man approached.
Heller looked back and grunted getting to his feet. “Jesus—what’s I.A. doing here, Pruitt?”
“My job, Heller. Bernie Dobbs is getting investigated for an illicit affair with a known prostitute who ends up dead at his house? How convenient?” Pruitt stood over them, a tall man, thin but strong looking, mid-fifties, whose most distinguishing feature was a shiny thumb-shaped bald head and beady round eyes glimmering in the night.
William jumped to his feet and screamed, “Hey fuck you, you you you I.A. asshole son of a little bitch! Bernie’s not responsible! She was dead already, okay. I found her. I found her!”
Heller was on his feet separating them—whoa whoa whoa!
William spun away, embarrassed at his own outburst. He’d lost his cool, came off sounding stupid.
Pruitt gave a large, condescending grin and muttered, “Yeah, somebody’s been hanging around Bernie Dobbs, alright.”
“Not now!” Heller yelled, up close and real personal.
Pruitt showed his hands in a peace gesture, but the grin on his face showed a man with a malicious spirit. He backed away toward the commotion in the street.
“William?” came another voice. It was Ruthi. When William saw her separated from him by the yellow crime scene tape, he moved to her like a drone to a light, slow, straight ahead, blank, needing something he couldn’t fully define. She held out her hands to him as he approached, and wrapped him tight letting him lay his head on her shoulder. Looking back, William watched the coroner’s office wheel a stretcher out of the house carrying a black plastic bag. A body bag.
Iva Corrington, murdered.
43
QUESTIONS
“Q plus S plus T plus R, er Q, er what?”
“Y,” William said.
“Right,” Mark said. “Y, of course. And all that means, what?”
“Who where how and when.”
“And all that equals…”
“X. It equals X.” William flashed a tired look at him, “The killer.”
Captain Heller stepped forward. “And you made this formula, because, why…?”
“It represented the primary points for the investigation.”
“Let me get this straight,” Heller said. “You figured all this out to basically catch the Starlet Killer?”
“Not basically. Exactly. We were on to him, too. We found his method.”
Mark turned away from the conversation biting his lip and rubbing the stubble on his chin.
“It’s highly unorthodox.” A warm voice came from the corner. They each looked over and regarded Kendra Oaks sitting to the side observing the interrogation. She had launched herself out of bed at two in the morning when she heard one of her patients was in the Central P.D. interrogation room, witness to a murder. She wore yoga pants, tennis shoes and a Stanford University sweatshirt. “Unorthodox but brilliant.”
Heller took a breath angling back at William and said, “Why didn’t you bring this to the department before?”
“Because you had your heads so far up the FBI’s ass you couldn’t see straight.” William sounded like Bernie’s words were coming right out of his mouth.
“William, come on,” Dr. Oaks suggested.
“Proverbially speaking, I meant.” William corrected himself apologetically. He brought his hands up clearing his mind, wiping the slate clean, and started over, “Listen, I can explain to you how it works, or you can just listen to me. I’ve been saying this for the last hour. If you want to catch your man then all you need to know is this: Listen for the Better Letter Lotto. He’s picking his victims alphabetically. The next time they call a combination that starts with the letter—it’ll be a J next time—then match up the initials with starlets in the Trades section. That’s how you know who he’s going to kill, when he’s going to kill them, where it’s going to take place and how he intends to do it. That’s your killer.”
Heller stood looking at him for a moment. The silence caught Mark Neiman’s attention and the two made eye contact. Heller motioned him outside. They stepped out leaving William alone in a state of both anger and remorse.
“How are you feeling, William?” Dr. Oaks said in her soft, calming way.
He looked at her with red, tired eyes and said, “Empty.”
OUTSIDE, Heller and Neiman huddled up. “What do you think?” Heller asked.
“He’s the psycho son of a psycho. I don’t trust him,” Mark said.
Heller looked back over his shoulder at William through the window and sighed, “I do.”
“How’s that?”
“He’s right about the FBI. They swept this whole case under the rug just to snatch one of their Wanteds.” He made a bitter look and said, “And so did we.”
“This isn’t your fault, Captain.”
“If this Starlet asshole carves up another victim, it will be.” He made sharp eye contact. “Bernie Dobbs and our friend in there figured this case out without help from the FBI, without departmental resources and without police support. The Better Letter Lotto. The Trades sections. Everything. They got it right, Mark. Yeah—they fucked up, but,” he looked at William through the window, then back, “I mean, Jesus, who would’ve seen this coming? Listen to me, Mark—you use what he knows in there, and you bring this fucker in. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir. How do we handle this in the department, on the down low?”
“That’s a fat fucking affirmative. No FBI. No internal support. Use whatever resources you need, just keep it off the books. I’m putting this one on you.”
Mark nodded and went back into the interrogation room. “William, I want everything you know. I mean everything. You got it?”
William looked at Oaks, then back at Mark and said, “You putting the department back on it?”
Mark switched a look with Heller not wanting to answer that question. He said, “Will you do it?”
William nodded his head taking a breath. “I’ll help you, Officer Neiman, as long as you follow the protocol I set forth without deviation. That’s the only way it’ll work.”
Heller stepped forward, “We want your help, Mr. Erter. This formula of yours—I’m convinced it paints a real pretty picture of our guy.” He gave William a sincere look. They both nodded their agreement.
“I’ll collect everything I got,” William said.
“Perfect. You’re free to go,” Heller said motioning toward the door.
William stood and moved to the door, Dr. Oaks getting up to follow. He stopped suddenly, caught by a thought. Turning back around he asked, “What did you say?”
Heller blinked. “You’re free to go.”
“No, before that. It paints a picture…?”
“Uh, your research. It paints a picture of the killer.”
William shook his head stepping fully into the room. “You said pretty. It paints a pretty picture.”
Heller shrugged, said, “I suppose I did.”
William squin
ted, thinking, like a hound on the hunt. He knew his formula was a visual straight-shot right into the mind of a killer. It worked with perfect numeric patterns, it was alphabetical, chronological, a mural of perfect geometric processing, all coalescing into a final moment like a maze, one single, unbroken line, leading to murder. It wasn’t pretty. Not even close. But it didn’t have to be pretty to be perfect.
Like Ruthi’s canvas.
44
DOUBT
His sleep was restless. Something was in the way. Something deep. Or maybe it was closer to the surface. He couldn’t tell. But it gave him the feeling of falling. He was helpless, grabbing at air. It was real, not like a dream. It haunted him, like one of those truths which was in plain sight, clear as day, but masked by fear, easy to look away from, simple to hide from. It jerked him awake.
He inspected Ruthi lying in the night. At his motion, she turned her head away releasing a cute, queasy breath and settled back into the pillow. He looked up at the ceiling. The warm Cali breeze ruffled her balcony curtains and the song of L.A. played along in the distance. But there was still no peace. Not even Ruthi’s body could pacify him, no matter how much he needed her, and his mind began drifting.
See the patterns. They’re everywhere. Just look. The writing is on the wall, like Ruthi’s canvas, for God’s sake. He growled audibly, “No!” and shot a glance at Ruthi. She rolled over so he got out of bed.
The thing was still in his head slithering through his mind, choking him, making him nauseous, making him shake it away. When he looked up, he found himself standing before Ruthi’s intricate artwork drawing his fingertips across its texture. He was drawn here, debating against his impulses.
Everyone shares their living space with their minds. Look at Bernie. He admitted to hanging rock stars and hot chicks all over his walls. Even Dr. Oaks had her credentials splattered on her walls, with a picture of her dead father. Why isn’t that crazy? And me… I’m the worst of all. So, why shouldn’t Ruthi? Our walls tell the stories our faces don’t. Our walls aren’t normal. Our faces are.
But what normal face did Starlet Killer hide behind? William had a normal face. Bernie had one. Why shouldn’t Starlet Killer?
He looked back at Ruthi. She slept like an angel, a little dark, a bit mysterious, but an angel nonetheless. Or was she? It made William pull his hand back from the canvas and shrink away from it. He stared at it for a long time. It was perfect, just like his own canvas. It was even impressive. But like his own, it wasn’t pretty—not a pretty damn thing about it. It spelled doom.
He looked back at Ruthi again. She smacked her lips, lost in deep sleep. She had brought William here, to her place, after the police station. He couldn’t be alone tonight. Not after the interrogation. Not after Bernie being hustled away under heavy sedation. Not after Iva…
He looked to the floor, sadly.
The only person who honestly hid nothing, was Iva. She had no walls. Maybe that’s what had gotten her killed. And what had they actually learned about the bastard who had done it? Only that he dropped sterile seed. Perhaps that was his big secret. Bad seed. Nothing ever good could come of bad seed.
He frowned at the irony. Starlet Killer’s bad seed was what had brought William to Ruthi. A silver lining. A tiny piece of hope. The whisper of better things in a cruel world.
William looked over at the bed as Ruthi slept. He could see her dreaming. She was the world’s true purveyor of man’s seed. She had said it herself: If it has to do with semen, it generally has to do with me.
The thought made William go sick, made his skin go cold. He looked down at her hoping this feeling in his gut would go away, hoping it was nothing.
Iva’s murder was only hours old. Bernie was sedated like a mad animal in some hospital room, probably on his way to some psychiatric observation wing. There was nothing William could do for now, so he slid into bed folding his arms around Ruthi, ignoring the truth. His doubt, his love, the truth boiling inside him—it was all driving him so mad.
So goddamn mad.
He closed his eyes. It was time to stop thinking.
45
OSCAR & SON
William had to see his dad. It was time to visit the Frederick M. Vinson Federal Penitentiary, a monolithic prison barge set out from Prismo Bay. It wasn’t his usual sanctioned visit, but William could no longer wait.
The visitor’s admittance process was lengthy, but once they buzzed him in, William was escorted across the raised landing where the ocean waves smashed into the lower pylons, into the main barge facility and through a series of gates. He came to a bank of rotary-style phones and security windows, where the old man was waiting for him with a curious smile.
William sat down. At first, they only stared at each other through identical eyes. William took the phone to his ear; Oscar did the same. The old man took a breath and said, “Hello, son.” He could hear William breathing over the receiver, see his eyes twitch and glaze. Something was up. Oscar said, “Should I ask?”
“She was already dead,” William said.
Oscar didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to. Someone was dead, and William felt responsible. “Then you saved her,” the old man said.
William grunted back, “That’s right. I saved her.” He could feel his knuckles going bloodless as he clenched the phone.
Oscar gave him a knowing look and leaned toward the window. “But that’s not the end of it. You’re here because you want to know something?” He pulled back from William with a curious look. “Or maybe you want to un-know something.”
DR. OAKS’ office was submerged in awkward silence. Only the ticking of her clock was audible. Tick tick tick—the seconds of his life vanishing. It made him sweat, made him fight to breathe.
Dr. Oaks chanced a question. “This entire ordeal has affected you quite deeply, hasn’t it, William?”
William muttered, “Of course…”
She smiled at him wanting to touch him, put her hand to his face, caress a shoulder. But she couldn’t do that. She said, “I know Detective Dobbs. You and he are close, aren’t you?”
He nodded a yes, wordlessly.
She nodded. “Loved ones losing an officer in the line of duty is tragic. But officers losing a loved one—that’s a difficult circumstance.” She leaned forward putting her elbows on her knees. “I’m assuming you knew the deceased, too.”
He gave a hopeless grin at The Deceased. “Yes, I did.”
“DAD…” William took a big breath to cleanse his thoughts. It didn’t work. His thoughts were dirty, ugly. Comforting. He said, “Were any of your victims—did any of them deserve what they got?”
Oscar blinked and squinted, grinning innocently. “They all deserved it, son.”
William gave him a misunderstood look, as if his next question was the one which had pestered him for the last several days, and maybe the last several years. He finally said, “How did you determine who died?”
The old man nodded. He said, “I never determined who died or who lived. Something much larger than me determined that. I was merely the arbiter.”
“What about justice?” William asked.
Oscar tilted his head thoughtfully. “Justice? Couldn’t say. I never asked. I’m sure a time or two it was about justice.”
“And vengeance?”
Oscar grinned at him under his mustache. The killer was emerging through his son’s eyes. “You have to choose your own reasons, William.”
William leaned forward stabbing his gaze into his father in a way he never had. It made Oscar lean forward, too. William said, “Did you love them?”
WILLIAM WAS up on his feet pacing back and forth across Dr. Oaks’ office, arms crossed. He stopped at her window looking out. Without turning he said, “How do you feel about killing someone as a form of justice?”
Dr. Oaks took a breath, arranging her thoughts. “Are we talking about the death penalty?”
William turned around, faced her. “What if we’re not?”
“That would be murder, William,” she said, sounding the slightest bit concerned. “I’ve always known you to be a moral individual, someone who’s always known the difference between right and wrong.”
“I know what justice is, too.” He turned back around, arms still crossed.
She got to her feet. “But you’re not talking about justice, William. You’re talking about vengeance.”
His words were so low she had to strain to collect them. “If they deserve it, what’s the difference?”
“The difference is immeasurable,” she said, taking a step toward him. “One makes everything wrong. The other sets things right.”
“What if one person does wrong, though?” Still staring out the window he murmured, “Does he not deserve to have wrong done to him, isn’t that justice?”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “Who determines that?”
“The same thing that determines what’s right or wrong,” he said, then turned to face her. “Isn’t that the same thing that determines what love is? What hate is?”
Oaks flinched. “I—I don’t know.”
He shrugged her off, began pacing angrily. “Well, how can it give us these rules, these guidelines—right and wrong—then give us these other things—love and hate—these emotions that take reason away, then tell us not to obey them?”
She stepped back squinting at him, guessing at his words, reading him.
“BE CAREFUL, son. Your colors are starting to show. They can hear you,” Oscar said.
