I didn’t and blew smoke in his direction and raised my brow in surprise.
“I suppose you’re the sort that would smoke just anywhere you please?”
“It ain’t illegal.”
“It is in some places,” he said.
“Like where, for instance?”
“Say, in a restaurant.”
“It ain’t illegal to smoke in a restaurant.”
“Yes, it is,” he said indignantly.
“Since when?”
“Since nearly always.”
“You sure?” I asked.
“Yes!”
I looked to Mia who nodded slightly.
“Huh, ya learn something new each day.” I blew a huge cloud of smoke out at Bruce and Eglin, who both overreacted and began to cough. Bruce fussed around and found a suitable object for me to use as an ashtray but I stayed on the move to agitate him and he followed, holding the glass dish under my cigarette to catch the ash.
“You are a detective?” Bruce asked.
“Of course.”
“A real detective?”
“Well, yah.”
“A police detective?”
“Is there any other kind?”
“I thought maybe you were a store detective.” He grinned smugly, thinking he had one over on me.
“About Jennifer Swanpool?”
“Ah yes, you wanted to know where she is?” he said.
“Nope, I know where she is. I was wondering if you did.”
He grinned smugly. “But I don’t know her, so how can I know where she is?”
“That’s funny because we found her cellphone, and guess whose personal number showed up on it multiple times?”
His face dropped and he realized he’d walked into a trap.
“Okay, I admit it, I know her, alright?”
“Did ya see what I did then? I lulled ya into thinking I was an idiot – then wham! Hit ya from the side.”
“I know her, so what?”
“Well, earlier you denied knowing her.”
“So?” he said exasperated.
“Well, that’s what we call in the police ‘lying’, which makes you . . .?”
I signaled for him to give me the answer.
“. . . A liar?”
“There ya go, see. That’s wasn’t so hard, was it?” I gave him my best smile, confusing him further. “And?”
“And?” he repeated in confusion, then, “I’m sorry.”
“See? Not so difficult, huh? I knew that ya knew her all along, I just wanted to see if ya would lie to me or not and ya did.”
Marcus Eglin took over. “Oh, I know who you mean. We sacked her for stealing and she reacted badly and had somehow gotten hold of Bruce’s private number and kept ringing, threatening to go to the press with a fictitious story.” He smiled in what he thought was a ‘there you go’ smile.
I picked up a glass award with a jester’s face engraved on it.
“Would you put that down, please? I was awarded that for best all-round performer of the 70s. I have others for the 80s and the 90s,” he said proudly.
I tossed it up in the air and pretended to drop it. Bruce acted flustered, which was the whole idea. I flicked ash into a gold-colored bowl.
“Do you mind? I was awarded that for ‘The Bruce Matherson’s Hour.’”
“What’s that?”
“What’s that!?” He asked incredulously. “Number one show of all time. Is what that is. You ask the average man in the street what was the number one show of all time, and most people would say Ed Sullivan, or Johnny Carson. Uhuh, not so, it was yours truly, Bruce Matherson.”
“Oh yah, I remember it now,” I said and he smiled broadly. “Man, I hated that show.” That threw him, which is what I hoped.
“About Jennifer?” he prompted. “You wanted to know where she is.”
“No, I know where she is,” I said with a smirk.
“Where?”
“The morgue.”
A look flashed from Bruce Matherson to Marcus Eglin. “She’s dead?”
“I sure hope so,” I said. “They did an autopsy on her yesterday. Guess what they found in her stomach?” He shook his head slowly. He did not want to play. “The memory card from her cellphone showing all the calls she made to you.”
“But she’d gone home to her folks.”
“Oh, I thought ya didn’t know her?”
Bruce gulped and looked to Marcus Eglin nervously for help.
“Best all-rounder my ass. He can’t lie, or act to save his life,” Elvis said.
I thought, yah, Elvis, you’d know all about bad acting.
“I remember now, she wanted to go home, so I gave her some money.”
“That was nice of ya,” I said sarcastically.
“I think Mister Matherson has answered enough of your questions,” Marcus Eglin interrupted.
“Just one more thing.” I took out my cellphone and selected my photo albums. “I wonder if you’d mind taking a look at these pictures, of some other girls. They could be related to the case.”
He looked more worried than I imagined. We’d stumbled onto something here. I didn’t know what and went with my gut instinct.
I handed over my cellphone and he flipped through the photos.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
He handed back my cellphone and I took a quick peek. “Oh, sorry, man, wrong photos. That was me on my vacation to Tijuana. At a nudist beach.” I found the right file and handed back my cellphone.
“Argh! I feel sick,” he said.
“I know I need to lose some weight and I ain’t been to the gym in a while, but that’s a bit harsh.”
“Not of you! These sick photographs of autopsies. Why are you showing me them?”
“I wanted to know if you recognized any of the girls.”
“No, I don’t know these girls and I don’t know Jennifer. I told you –”
“You said ya did. You gave her money, remember?”
Marcus Eglin said, “That’s enough questions, my client has been more than helpful. If there’s anything further, do it formally. Arrest him and take him in. If you dare.”
“Not right now, but don’t leave town.” I gave them both my best smirk. “Bruce,” I nodded to him and noticed that he looked ashen-faced. “Eggplant,” I said, acknowledging his lawyer.
Homicide Special Section, 100 W 1st St 5th, Los Angeles, CA 90012 – 16:15.
I was butting heads with the captain again. He yelled, “You keep away from Bruce Matherson. He’s fireproof.”
“I’m on to something. He’s giving off all the signals – I could smell it on him. Ask her!” I shouted back, pointing at Mia.
“‘Mister Entertainer’ is the Hangman?” said the captain in disbelief. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Not the Hangman, but something’s wrong with him. Extremely wrong. We’ve stumbled onto something and it needs delving into.”
“He’s friends with the governor, the mayor, even the chief of police, leave him alone. Do me a favor, concentrate on the Hangman case.”
“Man!” I kicked a trash can, but it wasn’t satisfying, it sounded ‘tinny’. So I kicked the filing cabinet and that made the right sorta ‘clang’.
“Anyhow,” said the captain, calming. “We have a prime suspect, sitting in room one. He’s coughed, admitted being the Hangman, and I’m handing him to you on a plate. His name’s Lyndon Johnson, like the former president.”
“You’ve caught the Hangman, seriously?” I was truly stunned. “How did ya catch him?”
“We didn’t.” He looked pleased with himself. “He handed himself in.”
“Then it’s not the Hangman. He wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble just to hand himself in. Your suspect will be a sad, lonely attention-seeker.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Years of experience. Do ya know how many people confessed to kidnapping the Lindbergh baby?” I asked, looking from the captain to Mia.
She shook her head.
“Over two hundred. Do ya know how many tips and confessions we’ve had regarding the Hangman? Close to a thousand. How many have led to a bona fide clue? None. We’re buried under a ton of useless information. That’s why I don’t like these time-wasters.”
We stood in the observation room staring at a nervous young man, looking more like a librarian than a serial killer. “It ain’t him,” I said.
“So what do serial killers look like?” Mia asked. “Remember Bundy? He was nice-looking. Serial killers look normal, like your neighbors, your family.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, looking at the suspect. He didn’t look right. “It’s not him.”
“Go do your stuff,” the captain said, adding, “Then, after that, go see your shrink, no excuses this time. That’s an order.”
Mia asked me, “Can I sit in on this?”
We entered interrogation room one and the suspect went to speak but I held up an index finger for silence. I walked up to him and gave him the evil eye.
“What is the –”
I silenced him with my finger again and said, “Ssh!”
The suspect twisted in his seat as I stood behind him and bent in close to sniff at the air around him.
“Hey, what the –? What are you doing?”
I said to the two-way mirror. “It’s not him.”
“What? Are you crazy, what are you doing?”
“I can smell the guilty,” I told the suspect.
“Bullshit!”
“I’m always one hundred percent correct. I’ve never been wrong. I’m right eleven times out of ten.”
“Eleven out of ten?!”
“At least, sometimes more.”
He thought about this for a moment then said, “Well, you’re wrong this time because I killed those women.”
“Not you. I can smell the guilty and I can smell fear, but all ya give off is despair, a feeble apathy.” I sniffed in deeper. “A sad, lonely, pathetic loser.”
“You don’t understand.” He looked down and mumbled. “You see, I hear voices.”
“No way – me, too!”
“Do your voices order you to kill prostitutes?”
“Nope, mine tell me to stroke wild dogs.”
“Hur?” He looked me up and down. “Why?”
“In order to catch rabies.”
“Hur?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Dude, you’re crazy.”
“That’s what they’d tell ya,” I said, cocking a thumb at the two-way mirror. “But I’ve had tests to show I’m not. I’ve got certificates to prove it.”
“Who are you talking to? Your voices?”
The captain’s voice boomed over the speakers buried in the ceiling. “Finish this off, book him.”
The suspect cringed and glanced around. “I can hear your voices, too,” he said, panicking.
I wasn’t sure if he was serious or not but went along with it. “There are cops in there.” I pointed at the mirror.
“What? In the mirror?”
Was he for real? “Yah, they live in the mirror, like Alice.” Jesus, what a nut. He stared in wonder at the mirror. I shook my head at it. “He ain’t the Hangman, I’m telling ya.”
The boy quickly whispered. “I’ve got a message for you, from him.”
“Who, Satan?”
“No, the Hangman.”
“How did he communicate? Was it through a giant talking rabbit?”
He looked at me sideways, then said, “No, through the internet.”
He had my full attention now. “The what?” I asked in disbelief.
“The in-ter-net,” he said, breaking it down into syllables as if I was so old that I might not know of it.
I made a gimme gesture with my hand for him to come out with it.
He looked up, thinking, making sure he had the message right. “Look at the right heel of the first three victims.”
CHAPTER 3
Medical Center, 2018 Hollywood Boulevard, Hollywood, CA 90028 – 18:10.
“Nice to see you, at last, Detective,” said Doctor Ruiz, my shrink, a Latino in her late-forties, although she dressed ten years younger and had clearly had some work done. I wondered what message that sent out to her patients with body issues. She had an office in a building just past the Hard Rock Cafe in Beverly Hills, which always meant parking was going to be a bitch.
“I wouldn’t be here unless it was mandatory.”
“Well, it is, so let’s make the most of it, shall we?” she said brightly.
I acted uncomfortably and fidgeted. “Look, Doc, I know you’ve got a job to do, but these appointments are a waste. Use the time for cops who feel remorse. I don’t.”
“What do you feel?”
I went to answer, then smirked. “Nice try, Doc. Look, I know some people in the department want me out and hope that ya can give me a Section 8, claim I’m a psycho, or something. I’ve got my problems, sure, who ain’t, but –”
She smiled which I did not return. “Detective, I get that you’re here against your will.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“But those are the rules. You killed a suspect while on duty.”
“I killed a killer. A sick, twisted, scumbag child murderer.”
“If you had followed the protocol and waited for backup, you would have someone to corroborate your story –”
“I followed the protocol the last time I caught him. I arrested him, charged him, took him to court and then the case was thrown out and he went on to kill two more. Both of those deaths are on my conscience. I could’ve prevented that.”
“That makes you feel guilty?”
“Nice try. Move it along.”
“Why didn’t you wait for backup?”
“We heard a child scream. The door was open. We went in. He shot my partner dead. Then we had a shoot-out which he lost. End of story. One less scumbag in the world. But instead of getting a medal I’m subjected to an internal investigation.”
“That’s because you shot him multiple times before he allegedly jumped.”
“Allegedly? Whose side are ya on?”
She put down her pad. “Look, Detective, Internal Affairs and me, for that matter, we’re just trying to do our jobs.”
“Yah, so was I.” I saw her struggling with something. “Spit it out, Doc.”
“You’re known for catching serial killers, but . . .”
“But?”
“In each and every case you’ve killed them,” she said.
“In each and every case they deserved it.”
“It looks strange to all concerned.”
“I ain’t gotta problem with it.”
“Well, I think it marks you out as a cold-blooded killer. In fact, funnily enough, you’ve killed more than enough people to qualify as a serial killer yourself.”
“So, in your medical opinion, I’m a serial killer?” I asked incredulously.
“It looks funny that none are ever brought to justice.”
“Oh, they got justice.”
“Your brand of justice.”
“Do ya want ’em out on the streets?”
“No, certainly not, but there are procedures.”
“Do ya want ’em on your doorstep, stalking you, or your daughter?”
“No, but it’s not that simple.”
“Well, it is for me.”
She tapped her foot impatiently. “It’s put the police department in an awkward position.”
“I ain’t gotta justify myself.”
“Oh, but you have. That’s why you’re here.”
We stared at each other for a moment and I sighed heavily. “Look, I know you’ve gotta justify your job by finding something wrong with me.”
“I don’t have to look very far.”
“Meaning?”
“Not everyone hears voices.”
“I don’t as such. I’ve been through this hundreds of times,
with other quacks.” She looked at me to elaborate. “You must have inner voices telling you when you’re doing something bad,” I said.
“That’s called a conscience, it doesn’t have a personality. It’s not someone I talk to. I don’t speak with Elvis.”
“I know it ain’t Elvis, but when I first heard the voice when I was little, the Southern drawl, he was the only person I knew that spoke like that. I had to name him something. My voices are part of who I am. I’ve learned to live with them. Why does it bother other people?”
“It does not make one look like a well-balanced individual. It’s my task to assess if you’re fit for duty.”
“I know right from wrong; I know what reality is and what’s in my head.” I sighed heavily. “So, are ya with them, are ya gonna get rid of me?”
“Now you’re sounding paranoid, Detective. You’re acting delusional over the killing and showing signs of persecution.”
“That’s because I am being persecuted. A green Impala tailed me on the way over here. I figured it to be Internal Affairs,” I said with a shrug and then clammed up for knowing a temper display now could drop me right in it.
“You know, statistically, the police’s behavior is no better than the general public – in fact, it has a higher rate of wife-beating.”
“No way, no cop would hit a woman.”
“How quaintly naïve? There’s a higher rate of wife-beating, which inevitably leads to a higher than average divorce rate.”
I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair. The doctor pulled up her sleeve, checked her watch and I caught the top of a tattoo partially hidden by her wide watch strap. Well, well, well, so the doc’s a bit of a dark horse, who would have thought it?
“A higher rate of alcohol-related diseases and one of the highest rates of drug-taking.”
“That’s complete bull.”
“I see it every day, every single day. Your ‘innocent’ colleagues troop in here with their drug-related problems. Ironic, huh? Taking the very drugs they force the rest of us not to do?”
I shrugged.
She continued. “Cops are more likely to suffer financial ruin. Those two things alone, with the stress of the job, lead to a higher rate of suicide.”
I acted uncomfortably. She realized she had me on the ropes and jumped in. “Of course, you would know all about that.”
I rubbed my neck remembering my own suicide attempt.
On The Edge Page 4
