He stopped.
“That’s not the end of the story, Tim.”
“That’s it. They undressed in the car, stuffed the knife in a duffel bag. We burned it in one of the canyons—the clothes, bag, everything. Dumped whatever was left off the Malibu pier.” He paused again, out of breath. “I didn’t kill anybody.”
“Did they say anything in the car?”
“Halstead was stone silent. It bothered me, how freaked-out he looked, because he’s a mean one—that story about getting a knife pulled on him by a kid is bullshit. He was kicked out of Manual Arts for beating up a couple of students pretty badly. Before that he was booted out of the marines. He loved violence. But whatever happened in that apartment got to him—he was silent, man.”
“How about Earl?”
“Earl was—different—like he dug it, you know? He was licking his lips and rocking back and forth like an autistic kid. Jabbering, saying ‘Sonofabitch’ over and over. Weird. Crazy. Finally Halstead told him to shut the fuck up and he yelled something back—in Spanish. The guy spoke a lot in Spanish. Halstead yelled back and I thought the two of them were going to tear each other up right there. It was like driving around with two caged beasts. I calmed them down, used Gus’s name—that always worked for Earl. I couldn’t wait to get away from them that night. Prototypical psychopaths, both of them.”
“Save the scholarly stuff and tell me how you killed Bruno.”
He looked at me with renewed fear.
“You know everything, don’t you.”
“What I don’t you’re going to fill in.” I waved the gun in the air. “Bruno.”
“We—they did that the night after doing the doctor and the teacher. Halstead didn’t want Earl along but Gus insisted. Said two men on the job was better. I had the feeling he played them off against each other. I wasn’t there at all. Halstead drove and did the killing. He used a baseball bat from the athletic supplies bin. I was there when he came back and told Gus about it. They found the salesman eating dinner, beat him to death right there at the table. Earl ate the rest of the meal.”
Two murders pinned on two dead men. Very neat. It stunk and I told him so.
“That’s the way it was. I’m not saying I’m totally innocent. I knew what they were going to do when I drove them to the shrink’s place. I gave them the key. But I didn’t do any of the killing.”
“How’d you get the key?”
“Cousin Will gave it to me. I don’t know where he got it.”
“All right. We’ve talked about who. Now tell me why all the butchery.”
“I assumed you knew—”
“Don’t assume a goddam thing.”
“Okay, okay. It’s the Brigade. It’s a cover for child molesters. The shrink and the girl found out and they were blackmailing him. Stupid of them to think they could get away with it.”
I remembered the pictures Milo’d shown me that first day. They’d paid far too high a price for their stupidity.
I chased the bloody images from my mind and returned to Kruger.
“Are all the Gentlemen perverts?”
“No. Only about a quarter. The rest are straight-arrows. It makes it easier to conceal, sneaking the perverts in among them.”
“And the kids never talk?”
“Not until—we pick the ones that the pervs take home with care, mostly those who can’t talk back. Retarded, or they don’t know English, severely c.p. Gus likes orphans because they don’t have family ties, no one looks out for them.”
“Was Rodney one of the chosen ones?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did his fear of the doctor have something to do with that?”
“Yeah. One of the weirdos got a little rough with him. A surgeon. Gus warns them to go easy. He doesn’t want the kids actually hurt— spoiled merchandise isn’t worth as much. But it doesn’t always work out. Those guys aren’t normal, you know.”
“I know.” Anger and disgust made it hard to see straight. Kicking his head in would have been primally satisfying, but it was a pleasure I was going to have to deny myself …
“I’m not one of them,” he was insisting, sounding almost as if he’d convinced himself. “I think it’s disgusting, actually.”
I bent down and grabbed him by the throat.
“You went along with it, asshole!”
His face purpled, the butterscotch eyes bulging. I let go of his head. It dropped to the floor. He landed on his nose and it started to bleed. He writhed in confinement.
“Don’t say it. You were just following orders.”
“You don’t understand!” he sobbed. Real tears mixed with the mustache of blood on his upper lip creating a momentary illusion of harelip. But for his degree in drama I might have been impressed. “Gus took me in when the rest of them—my so-called friends and family, everyone—blackballed me for the Saxon thing. You can think what you want but that wasn’t murder. It was—an accident. Saxon was no innocent victim. He wanted to kill me—that’s the truth.”
“He’s in no position to state his case.”
“Shit! No one believed me. Except Gus. He knew what it could be like at that place. They all thought I was a washout—shame of the family and all that crap. He gave me responsibility. And I lived up to his expectations—I showed my stuff, showed you don’t need a degree. Everything was perfect, I ran La Casa as smooth as—”
“You’re a terrific stormtrooper, Tim. Right now I want answers.”
“Ask,” he said weakly.
“How long has the Brigade been a cover for child molesters?”
“From the beginning.”
“Just like in Mexico?”
“Just like. Down there, to hear him tell it—the police knew all about it. All he had to do was grease a few palms. They let him bring in rich businessmen from Acapulco—Japanese, lots of Arabs—to play with the kids. The place was called Father Augustino’s Christian Home—whatever that is in Spanish. It went good for a long time until a new police commissioner, some religious nut, took over and didn’t like it. Gus claims the guy ripped him off for thousands in payoff then double-crossed him and shut the place down anyway. He moved up here and set up camp. Brought Crazy Earl with him.”
“Earl was his boy in Mexico?”
“Yup. I figure he did the shitwork. Followed Gus like a lap dog. The guy spoke Spanish like a beaner—I mean the accent was fine but what he said was gibberish—we’re talking brain damage, man. A robot with the screws loose.”
“McCaffrey had him killed anyway.”
Kruger gave the closest approximation to a shrug the ropes would allow.
“You have to know Gus. He’s cold. Loves power. Get in his way and you’re done. Those suckers didn’t have a chance.”
“How did he get set up so fast in L.A.?”
“Connections.”
“Cousin Willie?”
He hesitated. I prodded him with the .38.
“Him. Judge Hayden. Some others. One seemed to lead to another. Each one knew at least one other closet sicko. Amazing how many of those guys there are. Cousin Will was a surprise to me, ’cause I knew him really well. Always seemed such a priss, holier than thou. My folks held him up as an example to follow—fine, upstanding Cousin Doctor.” He laughed hoarsely. “And the guy’s a kiddy boffer.” More laughter. “Though I can’t say I actually saw him take a kid home—I set up the schedules and I never set him up with anything. All I know he did was patch injured kids up whenever we called. Still, he must be as sick as the rest, why else would he be kissing up to Gus?”
I ignored the question and asked one of my own.
“How long was the blackmail going on?”
“A few months. Like I told you we screened the kids, to make sure they wouldn’t talk. One time we blew it. There was this one boy, an orphan, just perfect. Everyone thought he was mute. Jesus, he never talked to us. We had speech and hearing tests—the government pays for all of that—and everything came back no speech. We were sure,
and we were wrong. The kid talked all right. He told the teacher plenty. She freaked out and reported it to Cousin Will—he was the kid’s pediatrician. She didn’t know he was involved in it himself. He told Gus.”
And Gus had him killed. Cary Nemeth.
“Then what?”
“I—do we have to talk about it?”
“We goddamn as hell do! How did it happen?”
“They ran him down with a truck. They took him out of bed in the middle of the night, must have been close to midnight. Nothing’s out there at that hour. Put him on the road, walking. In his pajamas. I remember the pajamas. Yellow, with baseballs and mitts all over. I—I could have tried to stop it but it wouldn’t have made a difference. The kid knew, he had to go. Simple as that. They would have done it later and probably me, too. It was wrong to do that to a little kid. Cold-blooded. I started to say something. Gus squeezed my arm. Told me to shut up. I wanted to scream. The kid was walking on the road, all alone, half-asleep, like he was dreaming. I kept quiet. Halstead got into the truck, drove it a ways down the road. I could hear him revving it up, from around the bend. He came back speeding, headlights on high beam. Hit the kid from behind—he never knew what happened, he was half-asleep.”
He stopped talking, panting, and closed his eyes.
“Gus talked about doing the teacher right then and there but he decided to wait, see if she’d told anyone else. He had Halstead follow her. He staked out her place. She wasn’t there. Just her roommate. Halstead wanted to kidnap her, beat it out of her, see if she knew anything. Then he saw the teacher come back with some guy—it was Handler—to pick up her stuff. Like she was moving in with him. Halstead reported it back to Gus. Now it was getting complicated. They kept watching the two of them and finally saw them meet with Bruno. We knew Bruno—he’d volunteered at La Casa, seemed like a great guy. Very outgoing. The kids loved him. It was clear, at that point, that he’d been a spy. Now it was three mouths that had to be closed.
“The calls came a few days later. It was Bruno, disguising his voice, but we knew it was him. Saying he had tapes of the Nemeth kid telling all. He even played a few seconds over the phone. They were amateurs, they didn’t know Gus had them from day one, right in the crosshairs. It was pathetic.”
Pathetic was the word for the scenario: Take one nice girl. Elena Gutierrez, up from the barrio, attractive, vibrant. A little materialistic, but warm-hearted. A gifted teacher. Depressed about her job, burned out, she seeks help, enters therapy with Morton Handler, M.D., psychopath cum psychiatrist. Ends up going to bed with Handler but continues to tell him her problems—one major one being the kid who never talked before who’s suddenly opening up and telling her terrible things about strange men doing bad things to him. He opens up to Miss Gutierrez because she’s warm and understanding. A real talent for drawing them out, Raquel Ochoa had said. A talent for working with the ones who didn’t respond to anyone else. A talent that cost Elena her life. Because what was human tragedy to her smelled profitable to Morton Handler. Nasty things in high places—what could be juicier?
Of course Handler thinks these things but he keeps them to himself. After all, maybe the kid is making it all up. Maybe Elena is overreacting—you know women, especially Latin women—so he tells her to keep listening, emphasizes what a good job she’s doing, what a source of support she is for the child. Bides his time.
Shouldn’t I report this to someone? she asks him. Wait, dear, be cautious, until you know more. But the child is crying out for help, the bad men are still coming for him … Elena takes it upon herself to call Cary’s doctor. And thus signs his death warrant.
When Elena hears of the child’s death, she suspects the awful truth; she falls apart. Handler shoves tranquilizers down her throat, calms her down. All the while his psychopathic mind is going click click click, because now he knows there’s money to be made.
Enter Maurice Bruno: fellow psychopath, former patient, new buddy. A real smoothie. Handler recruits him and offers him a cut of the yield if he infiltrates the Gentleman’s Brigade and finds out as much as he can. Names, places, dates. Elena wants to call the police. Handler quiets her down with more pills and more talk. The police are ineffectual, my darling. They won’t do anything about it. I know from experience. Slowly, gradually, he gets her to go along with the blackmail scheme. This is the real way to punish them, he assures her. Hit them where it hurts. She listens, so unsure, so confused. Something seems so wrong about profiting from the death of a helpless little boy, but then again, nothing will bring him back, and Morton seems to know what he’s talking about. He’s very persuasive and besides, there’s that Datsun 280ZX she’s always wanted, and those outfits she saw last week at Neiman-Marcus. She could never afford them on what the damned school pays her. And who the hell ever did anything for her, anyway. Look out for number one Morton always says, and maybe he’s got a point there …
“Earl and Halstead looked for the tapes,” Kruger was saying, “after they tied them up. They tortured them to get them to tell where they kept them but neither of them talked. Halstead complained to Gus that he could have gotten it out of them but Earl went to work too fast with the knife. Handler passed out when he cut his throat, the girl freaked out totally, screaming, they had to jam something in her mouth. She choked, then Earl finished her, played with her.”
“But you finally found the tapes, didn’t you, Timmy?”
“Yes. She’d kept them at her mother’s. I got them from her junkie brother. Used smack as a bribe.”
“Tell me more.”
“That’s it. They tried to put the squeeze on Gus. He paid them once or twice—big amounts ’cause I saw large rolls of bills—but it was just to give them false confidence. They never had a chance from the start. We never got the money back, but I don’t think it mattered. It was a drop in the bucket. Besides, money doesn’t seem to turn Gus on. He lives simply, eats cheap. There’s big bucks rolling in every day. From the government—state and federal. Private donations. Not to mention the thousands the pervs pay him for their jollies. He stashes some away but I’ve never seen him do anything extravagant. It’s power he’s after, not bread.”
“Where are the tapes?”
“I gave them to Gus.”
“Come on.”
“I gave them to him. He sent me on an errand and I delivered.”
“That’s a strong-looking knee. Pity to pulverize it to bone meal.” I stepped on the back of his leg and bore down. It forced his head up, had to hurt.
“Stop! Okay. I made a copy. I had to. For leverage. What if Gus wanted me out of the way one day? I mean I was his golden boy now but you could never know, right?”
“Where are they?”
“In my bedroom. Taped to the bottom of the mattress.”
“Don’t go away.” I released my foot.
He gnashed his teeth like a netted shark.
I found three unmarked cassettes where he said they’d be, pocketed them and returned.
“Tell me some names. Of the molesters in the Brigade.”
He recited like a kid delivering his confirmation speech. Automatic. Nervous. Overly rehearsed.
“Any more?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
He had a point. He’d mentioned a well-known film director, a deputy D.A., a political biggie—a behind-the-scenes man who managed to stay in front—corporate attorneys. Doctors. Bankers. Real estate hon-chos. Men whose names usually got in print when they donated something or won an award for humanitarian service. Men whose names on a campaign endorsement roster brought in votes. Ned Biondi would have enough to turn L.A. society on its ear for quite some time.
“You’re not going to forget all of this when the police ask you about it, are you, Tim?”
“No! Why should I? Maybe cooperating can buy me out?”
“You’re not getting out. Accept it. But at least,” I added, “you won’t end up fertilizing McCaffrey’s vegetable patch.”
He considered th
at. It must have been hard to count his blessings with the ropes biting into his wrists and ankles.
“Listen,” he said, “I’ve helped you. Help me make a deal. I’ll cooperate—I didn’t kill anyone.”
The power he attributed to me was fictitious. I used it anyway.
“I’ll do what I can,” I said magnanimously, “but a lot of it’s up to you. If the Quinn kid gets out of this healthy, I’ll go to bat for you. If not, you’re down the toilet.”
“Then get going, for God’s sake! Get her out of there! I don’t give her more than a day. Will put Gus off but it won’t be for long. She’ll have an accident. They’ll never find the body. It’s just a matter of time. Gus is sure she saw too much.”
“Tell me what I need to get her out of there safely.”
He looked away.
“I lied about where she is. It’s not the furthest building, it’s the one just before it. With the blue door. Metal door. There’s a key in the pocket of my tan pants. Hanging in the closet in my room.”
I left him, fished it out and came back dangling the key.
“You’re batting a thousand, Tim.”
“I’m being straight with you. Just help me.”
“Is anyone with her?”
“No. There’s no need. Will has her on sedatives. Mostly she’s out of it or sleeping. They send in someone to feed her, clean her up. She’s strapped to the bed. The room’s solid, concrete block. Only one way in—through the door. There’s a single skylight window they keep open. Close it, anyone inside suffocates in forty-eight hours.”
“Could Will Towle get into La Casa without arousing suspicion?”
“Sure. Like I told you, he’s on twenty-four-call for when the Gentlemen get too rough on the kids. Most of the time it’s nothing serious—scrapes, lacerations. Sometimes the kids freak out, he gives them Valium or Mellaril, or a quick dose of Thorazine. Yeah, he could show up any time.”
“Good. You’re going to call him, Tim. You’re going to tell him he needs to make just such an emergency call. I want him entering La Casa a half-hour after dark—let’s say seven-thirty. Make sure he’s on time. And alone. Make it sound convincing.”
Jonathan Kellerman - [Alex Delaware 01] Page 33
