Patterns of Brutality: Erter & Dobbs Book 2

by Nick Keller

  William snarled back, “I don’t care!”

  Oscar smiled at him stroking the beard and mustache on his face. He understood his son all too well. In fact, he was the only person on Earth who could empathize with him. Perhaps, it was why William had truly come here today.

  Empathy.

  Oscar leaned back in his chair and looked left, then right. The guards watched almost petulantly. He’d have to be quiet. When his eyes went back to William he did not look at him as a son. He looked at him as a student, a protégé—someone to challenge and scrutinize, someone to cultivate and mold. “The answer is right in front of you, William. It won’t be what you want to see. It will hurt you. But the truth doesn’t care how you feel. It’s bigger than you, it’s better. You must only know the answer.”

  William blinked absorbing the old man’s words.

  Oscar leaned toward him locking him down inside his gaze and whispered, “Look inside. It’s in the pattern. You know the truth.”

  NOW EVEN DR. OAKS looked defensive, a little shocked. She said, “Deciding who does or who doesn’t deserve to die based on love or hate—” she hunted for the right words, “—there’s no humility in that, William. I mean—” still hunting she paced around her couch before settling herself. “Okay—maybe the question is—if this person you speak of actually does deserve to die, are you the one that deserves to kill them?”

  William backpedaled a bit. His eyes scanned the floor as if looking for an answer to her question. He lived in a world of serial murder. People devoured people, just as his own father had devoured his mother, devoured those victims—those families! And now Iva had been slaughtered and cut up, left dead on Bernie’s bed. And yet, the memory of her was going to devour Bernie.

  Fucking Los Angeles devoured people every day. Jesus, it was devouring him!

  He looked up at Oaks through bitter eyes and the words spewing from him were unstoppable. “Who cares about deserve?”

  Horror showed in her face. The thoughts floating behind her eyes were unbearable. “William, you just want to kill them… don’t you?”

  William felt himself needing to evade. It was the truth, the undeniable truth, and Oaks had tapped into it. Yes! He wanted to kill them, needed to! And she knew. He stutter-stepped before looking at her, frozen. Then he snatched his jacket up off the back of the chair and headed for the door.

  “William!” she yelled, spinning him around. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t do it.”

  He forced a swallow, softening, and stepped back toward the door.

  “Please, William,” she said, approaching him. “Don’t do it.”

  DR. OAKS’ words rang in his ears as he sat across from his dad staring him in the eyes. It was a plea. But it was also a warning. She would serve her duty as quickly as any officer, and burn him down.

  William looked deep into his father the way a blind man would look at the world for the first time. Everything was unexpected. Everything suddenly looked different than before. He nodded, hung up the phone, got to his feet and moved to the door. But he stopped and turned back, thinking. He went to the phone and brought it back to his ear. “Is that how you did it, dad? Did you follow the pattern?”

  Oscar shook his head. “No. My situation was different. My methods were different.”

  William cocked his head over feeling betrayed. “Then how do you know it’ll work for me?”

  Oscar admitted, “Because I’ve seen you do it once before, son. A long, long time ago, remember? You followed the patterns. They led you to the truth. You tried to look away, I know you did. But you didn’t, you wouldn’t. I know that, too. I was so proud of you back then. I still am. It’s how you operate.”

  William could feel his jaw go lax, his shoulders loosen and fall. His father was right. The old man knew what to say. He had the answer. Follow the patterns. It had worked once before. William had been seventeen years old, a kid, hunting a killer from within his own house. He’d done something the FBI could not. They had been blind. He was better than they. And the old man had been on death row ever since. He had merely followed the patterns. It would work this time, too.

  46

  ROULETTE, RUSSIAN

  No one answered Bernie’s door. William knocked four times, rang the doorbell twice. He stepped back from the door and went around to the garage. Peeking in through the window he could see Bernie’s car in there.

  William went back to the porch feeling his stomach sink. He fingered the key out from under the little, ceramic porch gnome standing in its little horse carriage and unlocked the door. The place was dark. The air conditioner hadn’t been running. The air was sweaty, smelled like cigarettes.

  He flipped on the switch. Bernie was sitting on the couch across the living room in cotton sweats and an LAPD tee-shirt, with his body drooped over looking up at him from under a heavy brow and a frown. There was a collection of whiskey bottles sitting on the coffee table, one of them was empty and laying over on its side. An ashtray was overstuffed with butts. He’d tried to drink himself to death and almost succeeded.

  William flashed him a half-grin and dropped the key on the entry table stepping in. “Bernie…”

  The big man took a labored breath and made a sound like “Hmmph…”

  “Come on, partner. You have to get up.”

  Bernie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and muttered through heavy, slow-moving lips, “Whaddya want, Will?”

  “You okay?”

  Bernie’s head swayed back and forth. “Wazzat sposda mean?”

  “They’re going to come looking for you.”

  He flicked a big hand at him. “Fugg ‘em.”

  “They’re not going to like that, pal.”

  Bernie punched the table with incredible strength popping the whiskey bottle onto the floor and screamed, “It don’t madder!” He swiped the ashtray across the room. It clattered against the far wall exploding its contents over the floor.

  William stood his ground swallowing his nerves. “They’re going to come for you, Bernie. You don’t want that. Pruitt will use it against you.”

  “Pruitt. Fugg does he care, huh?”

  “He doesn’t care, Bernie.”

  “Let ‘em come git me. Let ‘em come”

  William took a breath, said, “That wouldn’t be good, Bernie.”

  “Good?” It was a drunken roar. “What’na’fugg is good anymore? Nothin’ good anymore!” He reached forward for a bottle of Jack but only succeeded in knocking it over and started to cry in a hysterical, angry way. “That fuggin’ mutherfugger took her arms off, Will! Fuggin’ bled her like a fuggin’ aminal!” He punched the table then started slapping himself across the head. “He shoulda killed me, Will. That mutherfugger shoulda jus kill me. And now there’s nuthin’. There jus me and this fuggin place. There’s nuthin’!” He slumped over, whimpering.

  William watched him fall into a state of deep anguish, his body jerking and sobbing. Something called to William—something hidden. The world’s truths were falling into him, and they were undeniable.

  A broken man. A death wish. Complete anguish. Total intoxication. Something was wrong.

  William looked at the couch pillow sitting to the side, within arm’s reach, and found himself mesmerized by it. The pillow held a secret. Then he blinked.

  Oh, Jesus!

  William shot forward, jammed his hand under the pillow and wrenched out Bernie’s .45 revolver. Bernie reacted, but he was too slow, swiping at his gun with a heavy hand.

  “Gimme that!”

  William thumbed open the cylinder to empty the bullets, but only one slipped out into his waiting palm. It was long and brass… and it was all alone. William’s eyes went to Bernie, sadly.

  Russian Roulette.

  He’d been spinning the cylinder, five empty chambers, a sixth housing a bullet, holding the barrel to his temple and pulling the trigger. Click. Click. Click. William hadn’t shown up one bang too early.

  Anger flush
ed through William. This situation had to end. It had already killed Iva. It had driven Bernie mad. Now it was sure to take one of their lives as well.

  William paced back and forth. He couldn’t wait for the Better Letter Lotto to call a J-combination. His friend was being eaten alive a day at a time. After a few weeks, there’d be nothing left. He had his suspicions. He’d been following the patterns for weeks. His dad was right. William knew the truth, like it or not. He couldn’t wait for proof anymore.

  William sat down in the chair across from Bernie, the coffee table between them. He looked him deeply in the eyes and lifted the gun to his own head, pressing the barrel to his temple, finger on the trigger.

  Bernie flinched, surprised. He hadn’t expected William to join him in his deadly little game. “What you doing, Will?”

  “You want to help me end this, Bernie?”

  Bernie reached a cumbersome hand forward. “Gimme that. You gonna hurt yourself, Will’m.”

  “We can stop this tonight.”

  “You need fuggin’ help.”

  “We can put an end to it tonight, Bernie.”

  Bernie’s red eyes squinted at him. “Whaddya mean?”

  William whispered, gun still pressed to his head, “You want justice for Iva?”

  Bernie’s expression melted into sincerity, and he whispered, “Justice.”

  “You want,” he paused and said, “revenge?”

  Bernie looked at him without blinking, just contemplating. He nodded a yes, and whispered, “I want revenge.”

  William lowered the gun slowly, said, “Okay.”

  47

  PATTERN OF BRUTALITY, COMPLETE

  Their lovemaking was slow and tender, more so than usual. The need to be with her was not enough. He needed more. He wanted to climb inside her body, hide inside her, curl away from the world, and just be gone, be unborn again. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d seen too much.

  After they expended themselves entirely, they lay together in silence, she lying inside the fold of his arm caressing his chest, he rubbing her tiny elbow up and down. The world’s peace was right here, right now. And this is where it would stay, forever.

  William gathered his wristwatch from the table, looked at it. Two minutes to midnight.

  He stopped rubbing her tiny elbow and whispered, “I love you, Ruthi.”

  He’d never said the words. It was the first time, and he could sense it sink into her. She spoke through a smile. “I love you too, baby.” She propped her chin on his chest, looked directly into him. “When I look at you I see what I’ve always been looking for.”

  “What is that exactly?” he asked.

  “You don’t know?”

  He switched his eyes to her. “Tell me.”

  She laid her head down on him. “Hmm. A man who learned a long time ago—maybe even as a boy—not to trust what he sees, who believes the world is not always the way it appears. Am I right?”

  “You’re exactly right.” His words came out sad. She was perfect for him in every way, matched like a glove.

  Ruthi’s throat cleared. “William, there are things about me I want you to know.”

  He eyed his wristwatch. One minute to midnight. He cut her off before she could continue. “I already know your story. It’s about a girl, not unlike a million others, who came here to L.A. from tiny, little backwood places like Maysville, Kentucky or Beaufort, South Carolina. A girl who probably studied acting in high school because it gave her a reputation she wouldn’t have enjoyed otherwise—this quiet, introverted young girl who only ever wanted people to see her, to know her. And she liked it. She fell in love with it, even pursued it all the way to the City of Angels. Am I right?”

  “Abilene,” she said as an admission.

  “What?”

  “Abilene, Kansas.”

  He grinned. The watch read midnight. Somewhere out there in the sky, in ways he could never understand, a wormy little spyware application was being activated. Signals were crossing. Networks were shutting down, sub-nets were closing up. Web ports were being infiltrated creating a cascading effect which siphoned down and down to the Baronial Apartments security hardware systems. Surveillance was shutting down. Everyone in the building was blind. And no one knew it. It was time.

  “Abilene, Kansas. I knew it was something like that.”

  “What gave it away?” she asked.

  “Your accent.”

  A bit surprised, she said, “I have an accent?”

  “No, you don’t. Not even a little. You shook off that little town and left it behind you, even the accent. It’s a dead giveaway. That and the fact that no one comes to L.A. to be a spermologist.”

  Silence followed. His words were incriminating.

  “Had to have something to fall back on,” she finally said.

  Staring at the ceiling and rubbing her tiny elbow again, he continued, “Then our young starlet finds representation—some meat market with dozens of other girls just like her—Starlight Reps or Frame Studios.” He felt her back go straight as a board. Continuing he said, “Maybe it was one of the bigger ones, doesn’t matter. Anyway, our heroine discovers fast that the competition is stronger and meaner than she’d hoped. She discovers that the tools Abilene, Kansas had equipped her with weren’t remotely powerful enough or adequate enough to withstand the storm of Hollywood. She watches other girls succeed around her. Even her roommates. Especially her roommates.” He paused letting the words sink in. “After a time, our girl sees their dreams begin to come true. And all the eyes that were upon her once, start looking away. She’s replaced. She’s invisible again. And while most girls like her might admit when the dream is over—that it’s time to wake up—not our girl. She’s not ready.”

  “Not ready…” she whispered blankly.

  Carefully, with a lover’s touch, he adjusted her away from his side and slid out of bed. His naked edges showed brilliant and blue against the deep L.A. night as he moved to her canvas and stood before it, gently brushing its million parts with his fingertips. He said, “So she turns to her own, private expression while she screams in silence and her eyes bleed to the floor, saying see me, I am here. Then one night, while she holds one final shred of hope in her hands, she discovers how to make the city that turned her away, stand up and hear her, finally, forever. She has an epiphany, maybe her most triumphant moment. She holds a lotto ticket. And she wins. The combo letters are A and J. Andi Jones. The roommate. She’s everywhere. And now our girl can’t even win without seeing that name, that face, burned into her head. And bingo—inspiration strikes.” William turned and faced Ruthi directly, staring into her. “And now that self-expression of hers turns… wicked. But then there are others. Beatrice Harlow. Candy Starr. Dulce Dios.”

  Ruthi pulled her gaze away, sat staring at the night beyond her balcony cove, and whispered, “Ellie Whitfield. Francesca Russel. Ginger Wells…”

  William blinked, like he’d been punched. Jesus—the other names, the other victims. He recollected himself and said, “You let Los Angeles decide who died next, didn’t you? The perfect, anonymous revenge.” Their eyes matched one another as William sharked around the bed. Her sin was free roaming now. There was no hiding it. She slid out of bed and stood before him, both naked in the dim light. But her eyes twinkled. A tiny grin showed. He watched her as she moved to the kitchen.

  William continued, “But then you meet a boy, a strange boy—maybe someone who doesn’t trust what the world shows him. When you first meet him, you’re not that interested in him. But then you find out his name, discover his mission, and learn he’s exactly like you. You sit on the bench next to him across the street from where you work. You ask him questions, wonder why he’s looking for you—because you are the one he’s looking for. Maybe he’s not entirely aware of it at the time, but somewhere deep, he knows, you’re the one he’s after.”

  Ruthi popped a cork on a half-full Pinot bottle. William heard the glugging of its pour, then another, two glas
ses, and watched her lift a glass to her lips. It reminded him of blood. “Nevertheless,” William said, “you’re drawn to him. And he’s drawn to you. But he has the most perplexing problem. He’s the son of a killer. And while you feel like no one sees you, he feels like everyone sees him, and together the two of you find the perfect balance, something you’ve always been looking for, but somehow knew, you’d never find. Then there he is. And there you are. But he has another problem. He’s looking for a real killer, and all he has are the bodies of starlets whose dreams were killed—like someone’s painting a mural of L.A. itself.”

  Ruthi strolled past him placing a wine glass heavy and cool in his hand. He didn’t drink, only continued talking, following her with his gaze. “They’re being murdered in the same way the world views them. You believe the world sees who they are, so that’s how they deserve to die. But you—you remain unseen, and you learn to use your anonymity. For the first time, it becomes your strength. Because there’s another peculiar thing.”

  Ruthi sat down, crossed her legs, sipped, inviting him to continue.

  William finished his statement with, “Semen.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, lips pulled into a grin.

  William dazzled over her banality and said, “All these dead starlets have semen. It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Except for Beatrice Harlow. She was a lesbian. Semen was never her problem. Then Harlie Davison. She had two different seeds, from two different men. One accounted for, the other not. It was planted there, on her face, by guilty hands. Just like all the semen in all the victims. It was put there by a woman’s hands. Maybe even our girl’s hands. Maybe even…” his eyes stabbed into hers, “… your hands. And why not? You work at a sperm bank. You have all the sperm in the world to hide behind. It’s actually brilliant. And now, you’re truly invisible to the world.” He paced back to her canvas and stared up at it. After a while he murmured, “But not to our boy. He never believes what the world shows him, remember? And only after uncovering all this, after discovering all the pieces of your puzzle, does our boy begin to realize what he’s known all along… and was too afraid to say.”