The Kill Clause

by Gregg Hurwitz

  He just had to get to Bowrick first.

  He showered, dressed, and headed out for a cup of coffee. He sat in a corner booth at a dive of a breakfast joint one block down, flipping through the L.A. Times. The Debuffier execution had grabbed the headline again, but the story contained little about the actual investigation. Man on the Street reared his ugly head again, claiming, “You don’t need the law to tell you right from wrong. The law told that voodoo bastard he was in the right, but he wasn’t. Now he’s dead, and the law says that’s wrong. I say it’s justice.” Tim noted with some alarm how clearly Man on the Street was articulating his own supposed position.

  Another article announced that a moral-watchdog group was protesting a vigilante game Taketa FunSystems had put into development called Death Knoll. The player had a choice of automatic weapons with which to outfit his video-screen counterpart before setting him out on the streets. It featured tomato-burst head shots and limb-severing explosions. A rapist got you five points, a murderer ten.

  A back-page story about two immigrants shot in robberies took the edge off some of Tim’s hypocritical indignation.

  He returned to his apartment and sat in his single chair, feet on the windowsill, phone in his lap. For reference he’d smuggled out three pages of notes he’d taken from Bowrick’s file. For inspiration he logged on to the Internet and found the L.A. Times photograph of the coach clutching his dead daughter outside Warren High School. For a long time he looked at the man’s face, twisted with anguish and a sort of shocked disbelief. Tim was struck, now, with the heightened empathy that fear fulfilled provides.

  And he was struck also with the alarming needlessness of it all.

  He rubbed his hands, studied his three pages of notes, and formulated a strategy. Bowrick had skillfully arranged his own relocation to duck threats and possible attempts on his life; he was going to be hidden smart and well. Normally Tim’s tracking resources were virtually unlimited. Each government agency, from the Treasury Department, to Immigration, to Customs, controlled an acronymous computer database or eight—EPIC, TECS, NADDIS, MIRAC, OASIS, NCIC—but they were all inaccessible now. To obtain information about Bowrick, Tim couldn’t call his rabbis at other agencies, his CIs, or his contacts inside companies. He couldn’t talk to anyone in person, nose around any locations, or leverage any snitches. He’d have to street-smart his way through, like a criminal, which he supposed he was.

  He started with Bowrick’s last-known, reached the apartment manager, and pretended to be a bill collector. A long shot, but Tim knew to start with the ground-ballers. No forwarding information. But he did get the date Bowrick moved out: January 15.

  Posing as a postal inspector investigating mail fraud, he called the gas, power, water, and cable companies and presented a gruff voice and a false badge number. He was amazed—as always—at how easy it was to elicit confidential information. Unfortunately, all Bowrick’s listings were for addresses prior to January 15; he had been smart and registered everything under his new name, whatever that was. Telephone was usually the most current listing, but the address Pac Bell had was for his last-known, and the number had long been disconnected.

  Giving Ted Maybeck’s name and badge number—he figured Ted owed him one for throwing the infamous high five—Tim tried to talk his way through the DMV bureaucracy but got nowhere. DMV staff was either incompetent or tough; those displaying the latter trait were also well schooled on privacy policies. According to the case binder, Bowrick had no car of his own—his mother used to drop him off at school, which, Tim recalled, had made him the object of derision among other seniors. In fact, the majority of the student character testimonies had been scathing—all except for that of one girl, an Erika Heinrich, who’d pointed out the vicious bullying that Bowrick and the now-deceased gunmen had received at the hands of the basketball team.

  Dead ends all around. Tim had fallen into the pursuit as if he were working up a warrant, and the sudden halt brought him quickly to frustration. He slid open the window and leaned into the slight breeze. He hadn’t realized how stifling the room had grown with the rising sun and his own body heat. He closed his eyes and thought about the police report, waiting for a piece of information to rise out of place and trip his thoughts. None did.

  Tim thought of the slump of Bowrick’s shoulders, his caged-rat unappeal. He tried to imagine having a child capable of such destruction. Could even a parent love someone so cruel and odious? Could anyone?

  Tim sensed a shift in instinct, a puzzle piece sliding and dropping into place. The jagged half-coin pendant that he’d seen in Bowrick’s booking photo—a lover’s necklace. Each party wore one piece of the same coin. Erika Heinrich’s character testimony suddenly stood out all the more. The one sympathetic account. The girlfriend.

  Tim logged on and entered Erika Heinrich into Yahoo People Search and got two hits—a seventeen-year-old in Los Angeles and a seventy-two-year-old in Fredericksburg, Texas. The grandmother? One of Tim’s former saw gunners in the Rangers was from Fredericksburg, so Tim knew it was a predominantly German community—maybe that explained the k in the first name.

  He located the more eligible Erika’s phone number on the screen and dialed. When a woman answered, he tried his best salesman voice, and it came out surprisingly well. “Is this Erika Heinrich?”

  A voice edged with irritation. “This is her mother, Kirsten. Why, what’d she do now?”

  “I’m sorry, we must have the names crossed in our database. I’m calling from Contact Telecommunications to let you know you’re eligible for—”

  “Not interested.”

  “Well, if you have family out of state, our rates are extremely competitive. Two cents a minute state-to-state, and just ten cents a minute to Europe.”

  A weighted pause, broken only by mouth breathing. “Two cents a minute long-distance? What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. Can I ask who you’re with now?”

  “MCI.”

  “And for local?”

  “Verizon.”

  “Well, we beat both MCI and Verizon by nearly four hundred percent. There’s simply a once-a-month twenty-dollar charge for—”

  “Twenty-dollar charge? See, I knew you guys were all full of shit.” She hung up.

  Tim had no phone book in his apartment, Joshua was out, and the corner telephone booth’s had been ripped from its cord. Two blocks down he located another booth, this one with the book intact. He flipped through and found the nearest Kinko’s, then picked another a bit farther away from his apartment. He called and got their number for incoming faxes, a service they provided for people without fax machines willing to abide the buck-a-page fee.

  Back upstairs he called MCI and got a male customer-service rep. He hung up and called back twice before he got a woman. He softened his voice, trying his best approximation of pitiful. “Yes, hello. I’m hoping you can help me with a…with a somewhat embarrassing personal problem. I’ve just…um, been separated from my wife, our divorce papers went through last week, and, uh…”

  “I’m sorry, sir. How exactly can I help you?”

  “Well, I’m still responsible for paying my wife’s…” He let out a sad little laugh. “My ex-wife’s bills. Her lawyer just sent along her telephone bill, and it seemed…well, it seemed unreasonably high. I don’t mean to imply my wife is dishonest—she’s not—but I’m worried her lawyer is monkeying around a bit with the numbers. You know how lawyers can be.”

  “I was divorced once myself. You don’t have to tell me.”

  “It is…it is hard, isn’t it?”

  “Well, sir, it’ll get easier.”

  “That’s what people keep telling me. Anyway, I was wondering if you could fax me the telephone bill for review, just so I can make sure these numbers are accurate. If they are, of course, I’ll happily reimburse my wife, it’s just that—”

  “If some lawyer’s giving you the markup, you want to know.”

  “Precisely. My wife’s name is Kir
sten Heinrich, and she’s at 310-656-8464.”

  The sound of fingers flying across a computer keyboard. “Well, as much as I’d like to help you, I’m not permitted to turn over her records to unauthorized…” More typing. “Sir, this account is listed under Stefan Heinrich.”

  “Yes, of course. That’s me.”

  “Well, technically it’s still your account, so until she changes the name, I am authorized to grant you access to billing information. Which fax number would you like me to send your last statement to?”

  “It’s actually my local Kinko’s—I lost my fax machine along with my new Saturn—and the number is 310-629-1477. If you could send the last several bills, that would be most helpful.”

  With Verizon, Tim claimed to be Stefan Heinrich from the outset and asked for the last three months of bills to be faxed over so he could review what he believed were some false charges.

  He ate lunch alone at Fatburger, giving the faxes an hour to trickle through the various bureaucratic chains of command, then drove over to Kinko’s and picked up the stack. Back at his apartment, he hunched over the pages with a yellow highlighter, looking for triggers, his tongue poking his cheek out in a point.

  Bowrick’s move had occurred less than two months ago, and Tim prayed he and Erika had, in fact, been a couple and that they were still in touch. He’d seen men forsake their cars with their telltale Vehicle Identification Numbers, their pets with registered pedigrees, even their own children to go into hiding, but they could always be counted on to contact their girlfriends. Drawn back to the bang, like a dog to his vomit. With a loner like Bowrick, the chances were even better.

  The first two bills gave Tim nothing, and he felt a dread settle over him in anticipation of having to call every number in the entire stack, but then he noticed a recurring regional number matched with a recurring time. Roughly 11:30 P.M. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He looked closer and saw that there were also calls made to the same number, less regularly, around 7:30 A.M.

  Clever, clever Bowrick.

  Bowrick knew that if someone was determined to find him—a reasonable possibility, given that he was partially responsible for one of the most publicized mass killings in Los Angeles history—that his pursuer could trace calls originating from people closest to him. So instead of having calls ring through to his apartment, he’d set contact times where he could be reached out-of-pocket.

  Tim called the number and let it ring and ring, since he guessed it was a pay phone. After the seventeenth ring, a man picked up. He spoke with a strong Indian accent. “Stop calling, please. This is a pay phone. You’re driving my customers away.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but my girlfriend was supposed to pick up. I’m sort of worried she’s not there, so I want to cruise over and look for her. Would you mind telling me where you’re located?”

  “You will buy something and not just poke around?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Corner of Lincoln and Palms.”

  Tim knew already, but had to ask to clear the Politically Correct censor he was surprised to find lurking in his head. “And your store isa…?”

  “7-Eleven.”

  He hung up, checked his watch: 8:11 P.M. He was surprised to find he’d been going for nearly thirteen hours. The time had passed in a blur, unbraked by thoughts of wife and daughter, ethics and accountability. Just satisfying work, a blend of instinct and focus.

  He had a little over three hours until Bowrick’s possible scheduled Monday-night phone call but decided to drive over to stake out the territory. The 7-Eleven sat on a busy cross street, so it was easy for Tim to remain inconspicuous. He parked on the far side of Lincoln at a meter, where he had a clear angle to the store entrance. The meters weren’t in operation after six o’clock, so he didn’t have to worry about traffic officers.

  He entered the 7-Eleven and bought a Big Gulp of Mountain Dew and a tin of Skoal. Caffeine and nicotine—two bad habits forged on stakeouts. Debuffier peered out from a grainy photo on a tabloid front page by the register, beside another shot of his oversize body bag. The headline shrieked ANGEL OF GOD TAKING OUT THE TRASH. The pay phone was in the back, between a single bank of outdated video games. A pock-faced kid was getting jiggy on the Centipede ball.

  Tim settled back into his car and waited, keeping an eye on the twin glass doors that strobed in and out of view between passing trucks and cars. So his concentration wouldn’t be compromised, he kept the Nextel off; the Nokia he’d left at home. He worked his way through half his dip, spitting into an empty Coke can. A hypnotic state of dulled focus, similar to that elicited by distance running and vacation photos, overtook him. His ass grew numb. His reflection in the rearview showed that the black eye Dray had given him two weeks ago was in no rush to vacate his face, though it had considerately faded to a wide bluish smudge.

  Eleven-thirty came and went with no sign of Bowrick. Tim waited until 1:15 A.M., just to be stubborn. He finally pulled out from his spot, his lower back throbbing, his gums sore from Skoal, vowing to wear a weight belt and chew sunflower seeds the next day.

  At home he set his alarm clock for 5:30 so he could get back across town in case Bowrick had slid his call time to Tuesday morning. He slept, woke, and returned to his post, stopping only to buy a Polaroid camera and a weight belt, which he notched around his waist for added back support. The meters went live at 7:00 A.M., and within fifteen minutes he had to loop around the block to avoid being cited by a traffic officer.

  He sat spitting sunflower-seed shells into yesterday’s Big Gulp cup until 10:15 A.M. He had Bowrick’s occasional 7:30 A.M. call figured as a prework check-in with the girlfriend, so it was likely Bowrick would be tied up on a job for the next few hours. Tim left, ate a quick sandwich, and sat stakeout from 11:30 to 2:30, in case Bowrick decided to make a lunchtime stop. Tim returned again at 4:30 and sat a long post-workday shift, through the 11:30 P.M. target time until 1:00 in the morning.

  Exhausted and dejected, he headed for home. Gripped by insomnia, he sat up, studying the marked phone statements. Erika Heinrich’s most recent bill listed calls only through the first of the month—what if it was outdated? The call pattern could have shifted in the past three weeks. Tomorrow was Wednesday—one of Bowrick’s regular call days, so Tim vowed to give it another twenty-four hours.

  When Tim finally turned on his Nokia, he had only two messages from the past two days. The first was a couple minutes of monotone rambling from Dray, expressing her disappointment that the public defender’s notes hadn’t turned up any new leads. All day, he was alarmed to realize, he’d tucked his thoughts of Ginny beneath some defense mechanism in his mind, hidden from sight. The emotional sting returned even harsher, like a fresh wound slapped, shattering the respite he’d found in its hiatus.

  In the next message, Dray let him know that Marshal Tannino had called again—apparently for the second time this week—concerned about Tim and wanting to check in on him. Ananberg had called the Nextel last night around 3:00 A.M. Her message simply said, “Tim. Jenna.”

  He was pleased that the rest of the Commission hadn’t bothered him, as he’d requested. Having Robert and Mitchell out of the way for the time being was a relief. He replayed Dray’s first message twice, looking for places where her voice cracked around the edges, indicating want or longing.

  He sat at his small desk, studying his wallet-worn photo of Ginny, feeling his thoughts percolate, blur, disregard their boundaries. Later he tried to sleep but failed. He was on his belly, watching the alarm clock when it clicked to 5:30 and emitted its galling buzz.

  He sat the stakeout straight through the day, leaving only to piss twice and grab a burrito from a stand up the street. His head, displeased at its lack of stimuli, swam in hangover haze. The air felt more exhaust than oxygen, and the sea breathed no hint that it was hitting sand ten blocks away.

  At the stoplight ahead, a vendor of dubious naturalization was selling tiny U.S. flags for ten bucks a pop. America—l
and of ironic opportunity.

  Afternoon eased into dusk, dusk to night. When 11:15 rolled around, Tim loosened his weight belt one notch, letting the cramping tighten his lower back and push him to alertness. Twenty minutes later he was still sitting upright, eyes trained on the store entrance. At 11:45 he started cursing. Midnight came, and he turned over the engine and threw the car into gear.

  He was just pulling out when Bowrick rounded the corner.

  29

  BOWRICK SPENT A good forty minutes on the 7-Eleven phone before emerging, spitting once on the sidewalk and walking back up Palms. Tim had pulled the car over on Palms in anticipation of Bowrick’s heading back in the direction from which he’d arrived. He’d assumed Bowrick would show up on foot due to his history without a car; his new residence couldn’t be far away.

  Bowrick walked with a distinctive slouch, shoulders humped, hips tucked slightly like a spanked dog’s, favoring his right leg. His black-and-white flannel hung open, fringing his thighs like a skirt. Tim waited for him to turn the corner onto Penmar before following on foot. Two blocks down, Bowrick lifted the latch on a waist-high fence and slipped into a ragged front yard with an oval of dirt that used to be a lawn. The house itself, a prefab with tract-home simplicity, sat slightly crooked on the lot, its Ty-D-Bol turquoise clapboards water-warped and misaligned. By the time Tim strolled past, Bowrick had disappeared through the front door.

  Tim retrieved his car, parking a few houses up from Bowrick’s, and sat pretending to study a map. After about five minutes a tricked-out Escalade pulled up and honked despite the late hour. Bowrick emerged holding a small duffel bag and hopped into the car. As it passed Tim, he caught a glimpse of the driver—a Hispanic kid in a wife-beater tank top with orange fire tattoos on his shoulders and neck.

  Probably off to do a late-night drop.

  Tim waited until the sound of the engine faded, then grabbed the camera from his backseat and approached the house. He searched the front yard for dog shit and, not noticing any, hopped the fence. Six strides, then he flattened himself against the side wall and pulled on latex gloves. The neighboring houses were a good thirty feet away, not because the yards were ample but because Bowrick’s house was so small it couldn’t fill even its modest plot. Tim edged over and peered through the window. The house, basically a single large room, recalled Tim’s apartment in its bare functionality. A desk, a flimsy bureau, twin bed, sheets thrown back. Tim made his way to the rear and peeked through the bathroom window to ensure that the house was empty. The back door housed a mean Schlage and two dead bolts, so Tim returned to the bathroom window, popped the screen, and wormed his way through, coming down with his hands on the fortunately closed toilet seat.