Patterns of Brutality: Erter & Dobbs Book 2

by Nick Keller

  Boop. Honk. Smack. Pow!

  He stopped, looked at the EKG. No sign of life.

  There was a last resort. He yanked the portable HeartStart defibrillator machine over, cranked the battery switch, heard the electrical hum emit and grow to a whine. The dial read full power. He threw the paddles over her torso, one high near the shoulder, the other low on her flanks and emitted the shock.

  ZAP!

  Her body jolted, then flopped back on the table. His eyes went to the EKG. No pulse. No reaction.

  “Oh no, oh no!”

  He fired the paddles again, emitted another shock. She jerked and went still. Flatline.

  He slumped over the body, defeated. Another patient, gone.

  His eyes wandered to her face studying her over, never blinking, growing wet, absorbing her every feature. This was life’s end. The shadow of death crept over her. Everything went peaceful, and he grinned.

  “Hardy har har!”

  OSCAR

  “A sperm corrupts an egg. It carries everything a man is, everything he came from, and everything he’s ever going to be,” William said, blank and lifeless.

  Dr. Oaks watched him, more out of precaution than fascination. She sat straight up behind the visiting counselor’s desk, legs crossed at the ankles. Her hair was up in a tight brunette bun, and she wore her rimless glasses, eyes hardly blinking as she observed him like a cat on the prowl. Somehow though, she knew he was still eyeballing that tiny pulse in her neck. She couldn’t hide that. She used to be comfortable around William. But that was the past.

  William continued, “And my father—his seed poisoned me, made me a killer. Just like him. Is that what you think, Doctor Oaks?”

  She nodded her head slowly and subtly, once. A definite yes.

  “Well,” he leaned toward her, “I am not my father. How many times do I have to say it?” He stared at her. She showed no legible emotion. She was a statue. It infuriated him. “My father is a killer. He’s admitted it. The whole world knows it. Hell, even I know it. That’s why he’s on death row.” He leaned toward her. “But I haven’t killed. I’ve never killed.”

  “Are you certain?” she said cutting him.

  He sank back into the chair feeling his blood boil with insult. He whispered, “I’m. Not. A. Monster.”

  She dipped her chin. “No?”

  He quivered. Had to breathe. Had to calm down. William knew to what she was referring: After the Starlet Killer case, an entire legal proceeding had been launched to obtain William’s involvement. A certain school of thought suspected William in Iva’s death. It even suspected him in Ruthi’s death, despite the FBI’s lies to cover up their own foul-up. Ruthi had thrown herself from her own eighteenth story balcony plummeting through the night, landing pancake flat on the L.A. sidewalk, brain matter spreading across the walkway. It was a simple suicide, cut and dry. Or had William himself pushed her over the ledge? The, son of the most notorious serial killer in U.S. history was more responsible for those deaths than he was admitting. There were too many questions, too many holes. All eyes were on him.

  He muttered miserably, “Everything I told the arbitration panel was true. I thought you of all people, Doctor Oaks, would be the first to trust your own system.”

  She smiled, but it was dishonest. In truth, how could she trust the system anymore? For five years it blinded her to the killer under her care. He had operated so coolly, blending into society, earning a scholar’s reputation, a career, a home. And all the while he’d proudly displayed his old man’s bloodlust on his walls. Those pictures had not been mere reminders, or hard-earned morality tales. They were point-proven indicators of how serene and sick William’s mind was. And what’s worse—they were clear-cut renderings of William Erter’s intentions. It was only a matter of time. She just needed to prove it. Yes, he was mad, she was convinced of it, and he belonged here at the Napa State Institute for the Criminally Insane, just like all the other throat slitters residing within these walls.

  Switching tactics, she said, “Are you angry with me, William?”

  The question made his insides twist, start dancing dastardly little jigs. Was he angry with her? Ha!

  “No, I’m not angry with you, Doctor Oaks.” A bold-faced, bloody-screaming lie. Jesus, what had this woman done to him? To count: She had him admitted to the nuthouse on knowledge of psychiatric conspiracy. He lost his position at the college. She’d taken him out of the world and away from a calling. Destroyed any routine he’d fought for years to obtain. Taken his contact with the outside world away. She’d destroyed him. Ruined him. And now she had the bleeding, fucking gall to ask him if he was angry at her?

  Just let me get my hands around that pulsating little neck.

  He smiled at her. “Okay. Yes. I’m angry. But… is that so wrong?”

  “Depends on how you deal with it,” she said. “What do you intend to do with all that anger?”

  “I’m going to do what everyone else does with their anger, Doctor Oaks. I’m going to flip off the guy in the car next to me. I’m going to cuss out loud at the grocery store clerk. I’m going to smack my kid in the head. I’m going to be the same as everyone else, just as I always have. As I always will.”

  Her expression never changed. She looked at him, cold. “You believe you’re a normal person, William?”

  He said, trying to hide his fury, “I am normal.”

  “Is that why you hung those pictures on your wall—and never once mentioned them in five years of counseling?” She grimaced angrily. “Why did you hide the truth from me?”

  The truth about hanging the family portraits in his living room of all his father’s exploits. They were people, entire families, murdered, arranged in a familial fashion on the sofa or around the dining table, as if posing for the camera, fathers with their arms around mothers, daughters sitting in parents’ laps, grizzly contusions and slit throats, blood everywhere, pieces missing, framed in ornate portraitures, right on his living room wall, in plain sight for the whole world to vomit over.

  Ah, and now we’re getting to the meat of it.

  “I didn’t tell you because those people—they’re the closest thing I have to a family. They—” he forced a swallow, “they are my family.”

  “But, they’re not, William.”

  He said, “Maybe not. But I owe them that much.”

  “Why?”

  “You ask me why?” William snickered bitterly. “Maybe that’s why I never told you about them.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question, William. Why do you feel so… responsible to them?”

  William’s face went grim. “My father gave me life. I am his. But he took theirs, took them away. They are his legacy.”

  “That’s guilt, William.”

  He shrugged at her, shook his head, said, “Yes.”

  “Guilt is a driver. It can drive people to do things.”

  “Only if they’re insane, Doctor,” he said.

  She said, “Okay, so what about,” she cut off her own question. It made William wait, growing anxious. She finally whispered, “What about Ruthi?”

  His heart went ka-chug. It made his throat close up, neck swell.

  Ruthi.

  “Ruthi was,” he closed his eyes, “evil.”

  “You loved her,” she said, teasing him toward an explosion.

  His eyes closed tighter squeezing together.

  Don’t sneer at her. Don’t threaten her. And for God’s sake, don’t reach across her desk and strangle her.

  He opened his eyes. “Yes, I loved her. I still love her,” he said. He turned to face her. “I love my father, too. What does that say about me, Doctor Oaks? That I’m evil, or that I’m loving?”

  “That’s the question, William.” She tilted her head quizzically. “And what was Ruthi? Was she loving, too? And your father—Oscar—would you say he was a loving father?”

  William went numb. His knees started to buckle. He collapsed into the chair across from her with his
eyes looking away, seeing nothing, focusing on zero. He murmured, “Can’t evil love?”

  NEW RECRUIT

  Mark Neiman got a text on his phone. It was from Captain Heller. It read: She’s in the gallery. He grinned, devilishly curious. He checked his watch. It wasn’t eight o’clock yet. And he hadn’t even had his coffee.

  Entering the Central Division Police Department building he flashed his badge at the clerk bypassing the metal detector, took the first stairs down to the armory and stepped into a large, narrow admittance lobby. The muffled pounding of a dozen firearms greeted him through the separation wall. The early risers were in there banging away at their respective targets. He needed his coffee.

  He checked-in at the front desk, received his sound protection earmuffs, swiped his security badge and stepped into the personnel loading area behind the shooters’ bays. Strolling easily down the row of shooters and wearing a sideways smirk, he scanned with his eyes.

  There she was, all five foot two inches of her, back to him, standing in the supported position, shoulders squared toward her target, one foot slightly in front of the other, arms forward, both hands on her weapon, hammering away at one shot every second sending rounds thirty-five yards down range at a paper target. Detective Nia Helms.

  He looked her up and down—small, muscled back, narrow, chiseled hips, a fatless body, perfectly fit. When she was done, she cocked her elbow back releasing the clip from her firearm and catching it, stuffing it into a clip holder at the back of her belt, barrel smoking. It was an enormous gun for such a small woman. A .45 semi-auto. This girl was afraid of exactly nothing.

  She pushed the withdraw toggle and the target slid toward her on its cable pulley. She’d hit her mark well leaving a nine-hole pattern in tight formation. Mark had rarely seen a better shot.

  He tapped her shoulder gently. She turned revealing a light Afro-chocolate face, balanced features and large, dark, healthy eyes. She was extremely pretty, very girl next door, but swimming underneath that tight, shimmering skin was a street warrior. She nodded and stepped out exchanging positions with Mark. He loaded another target sheet and sent it down range, thirty-five yards. Once done, he stared at it for a second throwing his shoulders back and setting his joints. In a sudden motion, he whipped his nine-millimeter from his rear holster position, aimed and began hammering away, all in one seamless motion—BLAM BLAM BLAM!

  Once done, he drew the target sheet in, snagged it and turned to show her. He emulated her pattern almost identically. Except for one round. It was off by an inch or so. She put her finger through the hole giggling triumphantly. He grimaced, wadded the sheet, and discarded it into the trash bucket.

  “So, I haven’t had my coffee yet,” he shouted over the firing and the ear protection. She rolled her eyes at him with a grin and headed out. He followed. They returned the earmuffs and checked out of the gallery, then headed out. Rounding the corner with the popping of firearms fading in the distance he said, “Fifty rounds in the morning, Detective?”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  He giggled, challenged. “No cream and sugar for you, then.”

  “Not even black, Sarge.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Sounds lonely.”

  She gave him a sideways look.

  They took Mark’s Camaro from the station headed down East Sixth Street. The street was crowded, lined with street side buildings—one with a construction effort going on, a webwork of scaffolding eight stories high, graffiti slathered across the plywood barrier at street level. “So, last time it was all about Oakland, growing up with a single mom, three siblings, no pop, dodging gangs.”

  Nia spied the scaffolding as they drove by making a familiar face and said, “Like I said, it was an exciting neighborhood.”

  “Never a dull moment, I’m sure. I think the words you used before were…”

  “Hood rat,” she said quickly.

  “Right, hood rat.” His words had a dubious intonation. “Lettered in track in high school. Sprinter, right? Really tore it up. First in state, all that jazz?”

  “Helped with my foot speed,” she said.

  “Fair enough. Did more than that, though. You scholarshiped. Grantham U.?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Navy fast track.”

  “Three years.”

  “An officer’s candidate at twenty-one?” He whistled, impressed.

  She smiled at him. “Like you said, I’m fast.”

  “You’re a fucking gazelle.” He stomped the accelerator making the Camaro bark around a corner, then he let off. “So, what’d you study?”

  “Org com. Psych dub.”

  He nodded. “Uh-huh, what about English?”

  “Say again?”

  “Org com. Psych dub? The hell does that mean?”

  She grinned. “Organizational communications with a psychology double.”

  “Oh, I see. So basically, you point out nutjobs at the workplace.”

  Her grin widened. “I did my time in the JAG office. Three-and-a-half years. I was a consultant.”

  “Consultant?”

  “Section Eight. My duty was to profile active service members and recommend potentials for a Section Eight status.”

  “You discharged them?”

  “That wasn’t up to me. I just made my recommendations.”

  He looked at her with a squint, another dubious look. “Sounds like a candidate for Internal Affairs to me.”

  “Watch it, Detective,” she said, making him grin.

  “Then you got out at twenty-six, and then it was back to Bump City. Four years at the OPD. How am I doing so far?”

  “You can obviously read,” she said referring to her case file.

  Mark laughed, but tried not to. “So, how’d you like beating the streets?”

  “It was a stepping stone.”

  “You wanted Detective,” he said with an accusatory tone.

  “Didn’t you?” she said back.

  Mark took a breath and admitted, “Yes I did. And so here you are.”

  “Here I am.”

  Mark ordered his coffee at The Coffee Bean Café off Rosecrans Avenue, and slid into the booth across from Nia. He sipped smacking his lips. She’d ordered a bottled water. “So,” he said, continuing their conversation, “back in the Navy—the JAG—when you were pointing out Section Eights, how busy were you?”

  She said, “It was the military. There were plenty of Section Eights. The majority of them were Marines. Hot blood and all.”

  “Real killer attitude, then.”

  “Mmm—real killer attitude,” she agreed.

  “Well, this is L.A. Central. There aren’t many nutjobs like an L.A. Central nutjob,” he said, and sipped again.

  She sat back in the booth eyeballing him, and said, “I’ve been around the block.”

  Her defensive nature made him giggle sardonically. “You don’t have to sell yourself to me Officer Helms. You’re already in. Captain Heller gave you high marks. Your test scores hardly even chart. I’m just trying to break the ice.” He leaned toward her and said playfully, “And you’re very icy.”

  She returned the sentiment, “Keeps me cool.”

  “Ha!” he said. Sipping his coffee they enjoyed a silent moment absorbing the other’s company. He thumbed the edge of the paper cup and finally said, “So, what’s the philosophy you bring to all this?”

  Her eyes blinked once, then stared into him, seriously. “I want to find the guilty before they victimize again.”

  “You act fast.”

  “I’d like to think I’m graceful about it.”

  “Hmm,” he said, nodding. “I wish there was more room for grace here.” He slid the coffee aside, and said, “This is what I think. People say the world is a dark place. It’s not. There’s only light. Some people have more than others. Some people have none. People like us—it’s our job to make the world a lighter place. It’s what we do. But here’s the trick, here’s what you got to be aware of�
�we either make the world lighter. Or we let the world take our light away. Simple as that.”

  Her face broke into a large, impressed smile. She said, “That’s Goeth.”

  He jerked back. “That’s what?”

  “Goeth. He wrote The Theory of Color. He said there is no darkness. There’s only light, or the absence of light.”

  He squinted at her, intrigued. “You don’t strike me as a hood rat.”

  “What do you think a hood rat looks like?”

  “I don’t know.” He sipped his coffee, said, “They generally don’t know Goeth. Gold teeth and a bad attitude, maybe.”

  “Oh, so hoopties and twenty-fours—gotta drape my ride sort of thing?” she guessed.

  “Nah—that’s the hip-hop homeboys.”

  “Tats and teardrops?”

  “Nah—that’s the southside chivatos.”

  “A badge and a gun?”

  She caught his gaze, froze him cold. There was a pause. He forced a congenial grin and said, “They all cross-pollinate.”

  She grinned back, maintaining eye contact.

  Mark’s phone chirped breaking the moment. He checked it. Captain Heller. “Captain,” he said.

  “You with the rook?”

  Mark’s gaze went to Nia. “I am.”

  “Good. He’s at the location. Just arrived.”

  “What’s the lowdown?”

  “The lowdown? Cut it with the impressions bullshit and get to the location, Mark—Jesus.”

  Mark grinned a little defeated. “On our way.” He looked at Nia and said, “Okay, he’s there.”

  “What’s the story on this guy?”

  “Dar’quann Dash. He’s got multiple accounts. Real sweet guy. A parolee. Keeps skipping out. Court wants him apprehended. Simple in and out.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a job for Blues?” she asked.

  “Blues and rookies.” He gave her a confident, if not superior, smile. “You ready?”

  She rolled her eyes, said, “I’m ready.”