by Sam Christer
‘Matthews should shut the hell up and pay me more.’
‘What else?’
‘I checked the local precincts. They have no records of anyone but Harrison calling about Kim Bass. James told Jenny he’d called the police – he clearly hadn’t.’
‘Or they missed his number on their logs. We’ll have all his home, work and cell-phone call details in the next hour. Get one of the clerks to cross check them with station house numbers.’
‘Will do.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’m done.’
‘Then make those follow-up calls and come meet me downstairs. I’m going to check with the doctor, then we’re going to interview Mr James and see what he’s got to say for himself.’
Mitzi glances at her watch. She’s been on shift more than twelve hours and it feels like the day is never going to stop. ‘Let’s hope it begins with “I confess” and ends with his signature.’
166
The police doctor gives Tyler Carter news he doesn’t want to hear. ‘My medical opinion is that he’s not fit for you to interview.’
‘What?’ Carter spits the word out. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve bought into that faked lunacy act.’
‘I’m not sure it is faked. But that’s not why you can’t have your pound of flesh.’
‘Then why?’
‘He’s opened up his wounds.’ Carl Jenkins illustrates with his hand. ‘He just dug his thumbnails into the razor cuts and pulled apart the stitches. It’s a painful mess. He should have been in a straitjacket.’
‘No way. He’s prepping an insanity plea.’
‘As maybe. But I’ve still got to send him to the hospital.’
‘Not happening.’ Carter paces away. ‘I let him inside a public hospital, hundreds of people are going to be at risk. Get him treatment here.’
‘You mean your case is at risk.’
‘Oh pardon me – yes, I do mean that too. My serial murder case is at risk. There’s a chance a man who we are pretty damned sure has killed a lot of women will be slipping through our hands.’
‘Tyler, I don’t have a choice, and neither do you. Self-harming on this scale means I’ve got to refer him to hospital, and to fully qualified mental health practitioners. And you have to fully support that or someone’s going to take your badge away.’
‘God give me strength.’
‘I hope he does. Meanwhile, it’s been a long day and I have to effect this man’s transfer as quickly as possible.’
Carter points to Mitzi. ‘We charge him first and Lieutenant Fallon goes with him.’
‘Not my call,’ says Jenkins. ‘She can ride with him, unless he objects – which I guess he won’t. Let’s face it, he could have walked out on you any time in the last twelve hours. But you maybe want to think twice about charging a man you have reason to believe is mentally ill.’
Carter wants to punch the wall.
‘We can charge him later,’ says Mitzi, in a tone of conciliation. ‘The guy’s cut to ribbons. I’ll ride with him, maybe he’ll give something up in the ambulance. Like you said, there’s no need to rush this one.’
‘Fine,’ says Carter. ‘But you don’t take a single chance with this jerk-off. I’m putting a uniform with you. Despite what he looks like, not for one minute do you forget he’s a killer – a serial killer.’
167
John James – aka Deliverance – aka Fish Face – is all parcelled up when Mitzi steps on the backboard and climbs into the rear of the paramedic’s wagon. A footstep behind her is the giant frame of Joey di Matteo, a tough young uniform, one of a rare breed who grew up in Compton and Paramount without a rap sheet. He blocks most of the light as the medic bangs the door shut.
Mitzi shuffles along the bench opposite the gurney where James is laid out. A bag drips blood into his left arm. There are red safety belts around his waist to stop him falling off. ‘I’m Lieutenant Fallon,’ she says, gently. ‘I’m going to ride with you and stay with you. You okay with that?’
He opens his eyes and manages only a dazed look.
She knows that whatever she says now is going to set the tone. It’ll either open him up or shut him down like a clam. ‘You been to hospital before?’
His head rocks from the motion of the ambulance but he still doesn’t speak.
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. They’ll clean you up proper, sort out those cuts.’ She puts on an understanding face. ‘A friend of mine hurts herself. She’s got it in her head that she has to be punished. That what you think?’
He licks his dry lips and whispers, ‘I have sinned.’
‘Sure you have. Me too. None of us are perfect, right?’
He mumbles something: ‘… mawaz …’
‘Sorry? Say that again.’
‘Emma was.’
The name blows a hole in Mitzi’s calm front. ‘Emma? You mean Emma Varley?’
‘My Emma.’ His voice is still only a decibel above a whisper.
‘You said was. Was not is.’
‘She is with the Lord now.’ He tries to sit up. ‘No more pain. She is in Paradise.’
A paramedic leans over and puts a restraining hand across him. ‘Lie back, take things easy.’
‘How?’ Mitzi presses. ‘How did your Emma get to Paradise?’
He looks content. ‘I helped her.’
‘And the others – did you help them too?’
‘My mission is to help.’ He reflects on what he’s said, then adds, ‘I am a soldier of the Lord.’
‘And Kim Bass – did you help her?’
His face changes. The calmness goes. Tension ripples across his brow. ‘A mistake. She was evil – but it was a mistake to take her. She needed time to redeem herself. It was wrong of me to take her before she’d done that.’
‘Take her?’
‘I thought the Lord had chosen her but I was mistaken. Her soul is burning in hell and it is my fault.’
The paramedic takes JJ’s wrist and checks his pulse. ‘I think he’s done enough talking now, Detective. His heartbeat’s racing and he’s still in trauma.’
Mitzi backs off. She needs to absorb what he said. Needs to get out of the ambulance and tell Carter that James has confessed in front of witnesses to at least one of the murders.
JJ closes his eyes. Shuts them tight and begins to pray softly. ‘Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor…’
‘It’s Latin,’ interjects di Matteo. ‘He’s saying an act of contrition.’
‘You know an act of contrition?’ Mitzi floats him a look of surprise.
‘I was an altar boy. The Catholic Church kept me off the corners.’
‘What does it mean in English?’
‘It means “God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to sin no more and avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.”’
‘Impressive.’
‘We had to learn it off by heart.’
Mitzi looks across at Deliverance. He’s certainly going to sin no more. With a little luck, an execution team at San Quentin is going to make damned sure of it.
168
CENTURY HOSPITAL, INGLEWOOD
It’s late evening and hospital staff looked stretched to breaking point as Deliverance is wheeled into the secure side ward administrators keep for LAPD cases.
More than an hour passes before a doctor sees him and a further forty minutes before he gets stitched up.
Joey di Matteo fetches coffee and sandwiches, while Mitzi approaches the blue-uniformed ward sister, a slim woman with well-cut, shoulder-length auburn hair.
‘Any idea how long before I get my prisoner back?’
Stephanie Dawson produces a well-practised, professional smile. ‘You mean our patient. From what Doctor Jenkins told us, he’s not technically a
prisoner. And in answer to your question, some time.’
‘We’re paying the bill, lady. That means he’s ours. And for the record, he will be charged just as soon as we haul his murdering ass out of here.’
Dawson gets the point. ‘His surgical care is all but done. However, the psychiatrist won’t be round to assess him for another hour or so.’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘That’s not the kind of thing we do.’
Mitzi looks at her watch. ‘It’s nearly nine now. You’re saying you can’t get a shrink here until ten, maybe eleven?’
‘It’s Sunday night. Doctors have lives, normal lives.’
‘I’ve seen their pay slips – that’s not what I call a normal life.’
The sister almost smiles. ‘Money’s got nothing to do with it. Truth is, if this wasn’t a special case, we’d just keep him under observation tonight and have him seen in the morning.’
‘Can I at least go talk to him?’
‘Afraid not. He’s been given a sedative and is asleep. I suggest you just take a break. We’ll tell you as soon as the psychiatrist arrives.’
To ward off boredom and the onset of madness, Mitzi calls Carter and updates him. ‘It’s going to be gone ten, maybe even later, when we get James seen by the shrink.’
‘Not James,’ says Carter. ‘He was born Jibril Walud Saleh walud Khalid Al-Fulan.’
‘Man, that’s a lot of Waluds. I can see why he changed it.’
‘Probably not for the reason you think. His ail-American, Delaware mom Madison changed it first. Right after his all-Muslim father Saleh tried to blow himself up in a New York subway.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Kid grew up under her maiden name of Moore and would probably have stayed Moore, had the papers not got hold of the story when he was six. Madison overdosed and the boy found her dead in bed the next morning.’
‘Died in bed in her sleep. There’s something awful familiar about that.’
‘Shrinks will see it as causal to his crimes. As a kid he got told Mom had gone to heaven. God had apparently called her name.’
‘Taken before her time.’
‘Defence lawyers are going to go to town with our boy. I’m going to bet he never sees the inside of a jail in his life.’
169
LAX, LOS ANGELES
The A340 tips its wings and starts a gradual descent into the sixth busiest airport in the world. Through the window Nic sees the grid of lights sparkling beneath him like he’s flying over a giant computer motherboard.
Broussard stirs from his slumber as the cabin crew do their rounds and the captain announces that thanks to good flying weather they’re twenty minutes ahead of schedule at the end of a fine Californian day.
‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Comme ci comme ca.’ He puts his hand to his neck and shifts his head gently to the left and right. ‘I am a little stiff and still tired.’
Nic checks his watch. ‘Coming up to midnight, you’ve got a whole night’s rest still ahead.’
The pilot brings the big bus in for a textbook landing. Smooth as silk. No jolt. A cheer goes up from back in coach. Nic guesses it’s the school athletes – probably the only ones with that much life left in them at this time of day.
The crew stand by the doors to thank them for travelling Lufthansa and wish them a good stay. Nic nods to Ike the marshal as the officer stays behind to make sure everyone’s off and the aircraft is safe.
As they walk the air bridge to the terminal he turns to Broussard. ‘I called our admin desk from JFK and they’ve booked you into a hotel, but if you like you can stay at my place tonight. There’s a spare room, nothing as grand as your villa, but you’re very welcome.’
Édouard understands that Nic is still being cautious. ‘That’s very kind of you, I appreciate it.’
‘Not at all. One day I’ll come sailing to the south of France and maybe you and Ursula can show me Nice?’
‘That would be our extreme pleasure.’
Ten minutes later they’re approaching the roped-off pits where Homeland Security carry out their checks. They drop a flight of stairs into the security zone and prepare to briefly go their separate ways briefly – Nic to the fast-flowing US residents line and Édouard to the heavily congested visitors section.
‘See you on the other side,’ he tells the scientist. ‘I’ll be waiting for you just behind the line.’
Nic’s queue moves quickly and he’s soon called forward by a sour-faced official in a glass booth. The guy scans his documents and processes him without a hint of warmth.
As promised, he wanders along the back of the booths and waits for Édouard. The Frenchman looked pretty white coming down the steps and he hopes his heart condition isn’t slowing him up and giving him problems.
Familiar faces filter through the check lines – Steve Bryant through the US gate, Rico Aguero and the Swiss guys Stefan and Reto through the non-residents route. Nic walks up and down behind the booths. He can see the full length of the visitors lines from here.
Surfer Jimmy Manton drifts through the checkpoint, his eyes briefly catching Nic’s as he passes into the baggage area. The cop looks back to the lines on the other side of the booths. He still can’t see Broussard.
There’s no sign of him anywhere. And by now there really should be.
170
CENTURY HOSPITAL, INGLEWOOD
Sister Dawson is as good as her word. Ten minutes past eleven she stirs Mitzi from her daydreaming. ‘Mr Weinstock is here. He’s just coming up.’
Forty-year-old Robert Weinstock rounds the corner and heads straight to the ward desk. Stephanie flits away like a navy-coloured butterfly, drawn to the two thousand dollar suit and the small, immaculately groomed, dark-haired man wearing it.
Mitzi watches them and wonders whether to mention that Deliverance, aka John James, aka George Moore, actually started life as Jibril Walud Saleh walud Khalid Al-Fulan? That he is the son of a terrorist, a fanatical ‘sleeper’ who was ready to murder as many innocent people as a vest of explosives can manage. She decides not to. Then feels guilty. She knows she’s holding back solely because she doesn’t want the smart-suited shrink to say the Creeper’s insane and therefore entitled to spend the rest of his days in hospital watching TV or eyeing up nurses.
Weinstock drifts towards where the cops are sitting. Mitzi creaks her way up from the hard chair that’s rendered most of her body numb.
‘Robert Weinstock.’ He offers a well-manicured hand and smells of fresh cologne. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I was at a charity dinner with the Mayor.’
‘Lieutenant Fallon. Do you know why my friend and I are here?’ She nods to di Matteo. ‘Have you any idea what this guy has done?’
‘I know enough.’ He treats her to a smile as rich as his suit. ‘And I promise I will be as prompt as professionalism will allow.’
‘Doctor.’ Mitzi can’t help herself. Despite all her instincts, she can’t hold back. ‘I have to tell you something. We just found out details, facts about his childhood that you really should know.’
171
LAX, LOS ANGELES
Ephrem makes a final check.
He puts two fingers to the scientist’s neck and searches patiently for a pulse. There is nothing. Broussard is dead. His job is done. He repositions the corpse on the seat in the cubicle where he dragged him and pulls the garrotte wire from a deep cut around the target’s neck. He wipes it free of flesh and blood, threads it back into a soft leather braceletlike holder and refastens it around his wrist.
The monk stands on the toilet and looks over the stalls. They’re empty. He pulls himself up and over the partition, slips down the other side, opens the cubicle door and walks out of the restroom.
The hall is still full of tired passengers standing impatiently in lines. He walks slowly and confidently to the short US residents line. It had been amusing to him to see Karakandez working the plane, checking names again
st the manifest, not noticing him as he disappeared down one aisle while the cop went up the other.
There are only five people ahead of him. The guard is methodical and efficient, moving people swiftly on but taking long, hard looks at their faces.
Ephrem reaches the head of the line. He takes the passport from his pocket and waits to be called forward. Five minutes from now, he knows he’ll be free.
172
Nic shows his badge to the guard working the last Homeland booth and the official calls airport security.
Across the glass cubicles word spreads quickly. One by one the border officers shut their windows and walk from the gates. No one’s getting through until the cop’s reunited with his travelling companion. Passengers in the queues start to complain. It’s late. They’re tired. A delay of any kind, let alone a big security sweep, is the last thing they want.
Nic and the guard walk the lines. Broussard isn’t in them.
Where the hell is the guy?
He sees a restroom to the left and remembers how pale the Frenchman had looked. He doubles his pace and strides over there, towing the border guard behind him. As they go inside the guard unholsters his gun. Nic shows his badge to a couple of guys stood at the latrines. ‘LAPD, finish up and stand back against the far wall.’
‘Do as he says.’ The guard raises the gun.
‘Keep them there while I check the stalls.’ Nic looks down the line of doors and pushes the first. It swings wide and reveals an empty cubicle. He does the same with door two. Empty.
So are the next three.
Door six is locked. He steps inside the fifth cubicle and climbs on the toilet. Over the panel he sees a body slumped forward, head against the partition.
‘Édouard …’
Nic vaults the partition and drops into the stall.
He pulls the scientist upright.
Broussard’s shirt is soaked in blood. There’s a gaping wound in his neck.
