Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel

by Dave Stanton

  “Tell someone who gives a shit. Where’s Loohan?”

  “You know what, pal? You’re not gonna shoot me, so put your gun away before I get annoyed and stick it up your ass.”

  “House is clear, Dirt,” Cody’s voice boomed from behind a wall.

  “You know, you’re right,” I said to Norton, holstering my piece and taking a can of mace from my belt. “I’d be happy to give you a taste of this, though, maybe help you wake up.”

  Norton laughed, the skin around his bloodshot eyes gray and wrinkled. “You’re looking for Loohan, huh?”

  “Care to let me in on the joke?”

  “What’s in it for me?” he said, almost to himself, staring off into space. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and stuck one in his mouth.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” I pointed the spray nozzle at him. He took a deep drag off his smoke and looked up at me, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

  “Sure, Mr. Badass Bounty Hunter. You want to hook up with Loohan? I ain’t gonna stand in your way. Problem is, he never stays in any place for long, like one night is the max, the dude is seriously mobile. And don’t look at me that way. I ain’t shittin’ you, jack.”

  “Is he still in the area?”

  “Yes, sir, he sure is. He mentioned he plans to stick around until he takes care of some unfinished business.”

  I felt Cody’s shadow from the doorway fall over me. “He told you that, huh?” Cody said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Where can I find him?” I said.

  Norton’s smirk broadened into a grin. “Why don’t you just hang loose, man? He ain’t gonna be found unless he’s good and ready. Then he’ll find you.”

  Cody stepped past me and leveled the shotgun at Norton’s face. “How about some free dental work, asswipe?”

  “Wow, this is like a bad scene out of Starsky and Hutch. I’m really pissin’ my pants. Tell you what—why don’t I call the cops and you can talk to them about your problems.” Norton picked up his cell phone from the nightstand and began punching numbers. Cody knocked it from his hand with the barrel and slammed the stock down, crushing the phone against the floor.

  Norton’s face reddened, and he lost his buck tooth smile. “I’ll send you the bill for that,” he said. “And for the door, too. You don’t like it, we’ll sort it out in court.”

  “You’re full of all kinds of scary threats,” I said. “Here’s something to keep in mind. Any trouble we have with Loohan, I’ll consider you responsible, and then we’ll settle it.”

  “If you’re done spewing bullshit, get the fuck out of my house.”

  I took a deep breath and decided further conversation was pointless. Cody and I left Norton sitting on his bed in his depressing rental home and drove back across the border into California. It was raining lightly, not quite a drizzle, more like spit coming down from the skies. I suddenly felt like a drink, like chugging a fifty-fifty CC Seven. But instead of heading to Whiskey Dick’s, I turned at the street leading to Marcus Grier’s office.

  “You think Norton knows where Loohan is?” Cody said.

  “Maybe. I doubt it. I don’t know.”

  “We could always go back and beat it out of him. Maybe zap him with your Taser until he talks.”

  “It’s tempting, but it’s also illegal.”

  “You worried he’d bring the heat down on you? Like maybe he’s paying off those plainclothes cops in Douglas County?”

  “I think it’s likely. How often do ex-con shitbirds threaten to call the police?”

  “Never.” Cody shifted in his seat and adjusted his injured shoulder.

  “He’s probably got a couple in his pocket, probably those two we saw at the apartments,” I said.

  “Should we tattle to Grier?”

  “He already knows, or at least suspects. Don’t know there’s much he can do about it.”

  “He needs to grow a pair, then.”

  “Give him a break.”

  “Why?”

  “Cody, you were fired for making your own rules, ignoring politics, and basically pissing off everybody at SJPD.”

  “That’s because half the force was corrupt and I wasn’t buying into it.”

  “Well, Grier’s situation is different. He’s got a wife and two daughters to support.”

  “And that gives him reason to not report a scumbag like Norton is paying off a couple local detectives?”

  “I don’t know he hasn’t said something. But we’re talking about a California sheriff messing with the Nevada PD, so it’s complicated.”

  “You think I was wrong for quitting the force?”

  “Quitting?” I looked over at him.

  “That’s right. I knew I was going to get fired for taking a stand, so it was like quitting.”

  “What is this, a trick question?” He stared back at me, his face impassive. “No, I don’t blame you. Christ, the whole world’s for sale. We all have to draw the line somewhere.”

  “Spoken like a great philosopher,” Cody said, now smiling broadly.

  “I don’t disagree with anything you did at San Jose PD,” I said. “Not even shoveling the coals to your boss’s wife.”

  Cody laughed out loud. “God, she loved it, screaming orgasms, the whole bit. I think cheating on the son of a bitch really got her off.”

  “Let’s go talk to Grier then head to a bar.”

  “Amen, brother.”

  • • •

  Grier sat behind his desk, listening as I told him about the confrontation with Tom at the Switton house.

  “You want to press charges?”

  “No, I believe I’m square with him.”

  “All right.” Grier looked at his watch.

  “About quitting time?” Cody said.

  “Yes. My shift’s over at five.” Grier passed me a folder. “Jason Loohan’s jacket.”

  “Thanks, Marcus.”

  “Loohan sounds like real trouble,” he said, nodding at the file.

  “Don’t they all?”

  “I’m serious. Read it and you’ll see what I mean.” Grier stood, his thick leather belt tight and shiny across his midsection, his revolver holstered at the hip. “I’ve put out an APB on him for South Lake, Truckee, Tahoe City, Carson, and Reno. I listed him as armed and dangerous.”

  Cody raised his eyebrows. “We’ll find him.”

  A flicker of apprehension crossed Grier’s face, his eyes widening and his mouth falling open for a moment. Then he recovered, his features clenched, his expression resolute. “I hope so. Good luck, men.”

  The sun had reappeared when we walked outside, the moisture on the streets steaming, the pines glistening with droplets of rain. We swung over to Whiskey Dick’s, where we took a table in a shaft of sunlight near the front window. I drained a whiskey highball, then settled in and began reading the thick contents of Jason Loohan’s police record.

  A New Jersey detective named Sam Nguyen had taken a particular interest in Loohan after arresting him twice, resulting in no convictions, for homicides that were never solved. Nguyen traced Loohan’s record back to his childhood in the fields of Cambodia, where Loohan reportedly was forced to watch Khmer Rouge exterminators dismember his dissident father and feed the pieces to starving dogs. As for Loohan’s mother, little was known of her, other than she was suspected to be a white prostitute who was in Asia during the Vietnam War and disappeared shortly after his birth in 1974.

  A fourteen-year-old orphan starving on the streets of Phnom Penh, Loohan was arrested for stealing food and sentenced to a three-year term at Kompong Thom, an overcrowded Cambodian prison teaming with infectious disease. Upon his release, the teenage refugee made his way to the United States and soon joined a Vietnamese gang. He did a couple short stints for petty crimes, before pulling fifteen months for grand theft auto. Within a year of his release, he was back in prison on a forgery charge, this time for twenty-two months. For an eleven-year period afterward, he avoi
ded arrest, though he was often a person of interest, until his recent bust for the home invasion job with Billy Morrison. The DA was pushing a three strikes rap, but when Loohan’s bail was set at $300,000, he surprised everyone by coming up with thirty grand to post bond.

  The detective added notes to the file over the years, documenting instances where Loohan was suspected of violent crimes but never charged, and commenting on two more cases where he was charged but found not guilty. The first dealt with the alleged poisoning of his supervisor at a department store job. The second was considerably more insidious, and was in the newspapers for weeks before it faded from public scrutiny. It had to do with the murder of an infant, to be used as a human sacrifice in a satanic ritual. The case had gone to court, but since the body could not be found and the mother committed suicide while being held, Loohan walked. The mother was suspected of being his girlfriend and cohort, and the child his son, but without DNA evidence, the case fell apart.

  Sam Nguyen offered his perspective in a closing paragraph: “Loohan is no doubt a psychopath, and as such poses a significant risk to society. The horrors of his childhood, in conjunction with his natural inclinations, have created a man with no conscience. Though I don’t believe he fits the profile of a typical serial killer, i.e., killing to satisfy a psychological urge, he will not hesitate to kill if he feels it suits his needs. His criminal behavior seems calculated, not the result of emotion but instead cunning and well planned. He thrives on the element of surprise, the unexpected, and considers himself more intelligent and capable than US law enforcement agencies. The fact that he is, as of this writing, a free man, seems to validate his opinion.”

  “Lovely,” I muttered, closing the folder and joining Cody where he was watching TV at the bar.

  “What’d you learn?” he said.

  “Jason Loohan is a little beyond your typical career criminal.”

  “How so?”

  “You read it.” I handed him the papers and ordered a double in a tall glass.

  Cody lit a cigarette and I took one from his pack. “Any clues where he might be hanging out?” he asked.

  “Not really. There’s a cop out in Jersey who seems to have an obsession with him, though. Maybe he could give some direction.”

  “It’s nine P.M. out there. Why don’t you give him a call?”

  I went back to the table, hitting off my drink, watching the cars pass by on 50 until there was a break in the traffic and I could see a radiant stripe of silver splitting the lake and stretching all the way to the north shore, where the sun rested just above the sharp edges of the gray peaks. When the flow of cars resumed, I opened the file and found the number for Sam Nguyen. He answered after two rings.

  “A bounty hunter from where?”

  “South Lake Tahoe,” I said. “It’s four hours east of San Francisco, in the Sierra Nevada.”

  “Oh. I’ve never been out there.”

  “It’s a nice place to live, for the most part. Except recently I’ve been having some trouble with a man I think you know well—Jason Loohan.”

  “Loohan? He’s there?”

  “Yes. He skipped bail a couple months back—”

  “I know he did. I’ve been looking for him here.”

  “You can stop. He took a shot at me and winged my partner two days ago. I think he’s still in the area.”

  “I’d say you’re fortunate to be alive, then. How long have you been a bounty hunter?”

  “What’s it matter?”

  “I’ve been a cop for thirty years. I’ve been trying to put away Loohan for almost half that long.”

  “So?”

  “You want my advice or don’t you?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I traveled to Southeast Asia to research him. I talked to convicts who served time with him in prisons that make Attica look like a country club. I met friends of his father who told me stories I still sometimes wake up at night and wish I’d never heard.”

  “Yes, I’ve read his police report. I understand his background.”

  “You do, huh? I doubt it. I’m convinced Loohan has killed at least a dozen people. Does that make him special? Not really. But I think he crossed the line from a murderous thug to a full-blown psycho about three years ago. You read about the baby killing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of all the criminals you’ve dealt with in your career, how many have murdered an infant?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Let me rephrase that. How many have killed a newborn baby that was their own offspring?”

  “I get your point.”

  “Good. Now I’m going to give you the best advice I can about how to find him.” Nguyen paused and the scratchy flick of a lighter sounded over the line. “Loohan became active in a devil worship cult prior to the infanticide case. Most Satanists talk the talk and that’s about it. But Loohan’s group was the real thing—they were into voodoo spells, animal sacrifices, vampirism, human sacrifices, all culminating in a thing they call the black mass.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s considered the grand event of Satanism. Imagine this—a blood-splattered virgin on the alter with a cross stuck in her vagina, a dead child at her feet, a bunch of psychotic meth heads chanting homage to the devil, before the virgin is gang raped, sodomized, subjected to bestiality, then finally killed.”

  “This is what Loohan was involved in?”

  “Not just involved. He was a leader.”

  “You say he went off the deep end three years ago. Is he still into this stuff?”

  “I have no doubt he is. He was active here recently.”

  “You’re talking a cult that practices rape and murder. How do they get away with it?”

  “The full-blown black mass is not something that happens often. The daily practices of these people are not necessarily illegal, and they stay underground for the most part.”

  “All right. So, back to your advice on how to find him.”

  “Loohan is a loner, but Satanism is usually a group activity. Fortunately there’s not many people deranged enough to go there. My recommendation is to track down local devil worship groups. It’s possible Loohan has already done so.”

  “Thanks. Mind if I ask you a question?” I heard him exhale a lungful of cigarette smoke. “Go ahead.”

  “Why have you taken such an interest in Loohan?”

  He was silent for a second. “My daughter went missing ten years ago. She had been dating him.”

  14

  Back before the Internet became ubiquitous, a detective’s job was a matter of phone work and face-to-face encounters. Get a lead and follow up in person, and if the answers aren’t forthcoming, apply a little physical pressure. The old tried and true. What’s changed now that it’s possible to log on to a PC and access vast stores of information? Maybe a few shortcuts, a quicker route to clues, but not much more. While the digital age may have revolutionized many industries, its benefit to the art of people finding has been modest for the most part.

  But that didn’t stop me from spending all night scouring the web, reading up on the varieties of Satanism and incidents involving devil worship cults over the last five years. I read the contents of a few sites from start to finish, then skimmed dozens more, looking unsuccessfully for anything indicating the existence of Satanists in Reno, Carson, or the communities on the shores of Lake Tahoe. I was considering posting a bogus profile on Facebook, when around midnight I came across an article buried deep in the search engine. A pair of young men had been arrested two years ago for spray painting pentagrams on two churches and a synagogue in Reno. The names of the accused and the arresting officers were listed.

  “Find anything?” Cody said, his feet on my coffee table. He knocked back a beer and crushed the can in his fist.

  “Get some sleep,” I said. “I want to drive to Reno in the morning.”

  • • •

  The covered parking stalls at the Pine Mountain Apartme
nts were shrouded in the predawn darkness, the cement floor and walls musty with decay from years of snowmelt. Pedro fumbled his keys from his jacket pocket and eased into the Impala, his mind on picking up a breakfast burrito and more pain pills from the nearby convenience store. Fastening his seatbelt, he started the motor and dropped the transmission into reverse. He raised his eyes to check the rearview mirror, and froze, his breath caught in his throat, his skin buzzing as if he’d stepped on a downed power line. A pair of eyes in the backseat stared back at him silently, the face indecipherable save for the silhouetted sheen of black hair hanging straight over the ears. Pedro knew immediately who it was. The Angel had come.

  “Turn off the engine,” the voice said. “Do not look in the mirror again.”

  Pedro stared out the windshield, blood pounding in his ears. The garage’s gray, tomblike walls felt like they were closing in on him. His mind raced, as if a day’s worth of thoughts were crammed into a few seconds. Then a key ring fell into his lap, the sudden motion and sound causing him to jerk, his eyeballs bouncing in their sockets.

  “On the street is a tan Dodge SUV. Wait five minutes, then drive it to the police station where you were taken.”

  “I’m not sure…” Pedro started, then he heard the clunk of the door closing.

  Pedro held the keys in his fingers and told himself he would not speak unless spoken to. If he portrayed himself as one who knew how to keep his mouth shut, maybe it would improve his chances of survival. Clinging to the thought, he walked out to the street and drove away in the Dodge, the face of the man in the backseat hidden by a newspaper.

  When they reached the Douglas County complex, the man told Pedro to turn onto a road that ran past the parking lot and climbed into the forest. They drove for a few minutes, the road twisting, the pines and fir obscuring the police station, until the woods fell away beneath a sharp corner, affording a clear view of the buildings a thousand feet below.

  Pedro parked on the shoulder and a gloved hand passed him a set of binoculars. A tiny spark of sun flickered atop the ridgeline above them, and blue-green tapestry of the valley floor emerged from the darkness. But the police complex had not yet awakened—save for two neat rows of squad cars, the parking lot was empty and still.