“Why, thank you, kind sir,” he said with a theatrical bow. He was speaking like a Southern gentleman. You never knew who you were going to meet with Clarence. I waved casually and continued my journey when I heard him spit it out. “What in the name of God is that?”
I told him and he was singularly unimpressed.
“Is that bacon? I got my cholesterol to think about!” A health nut tramp? Maaan, only in California! He offered it back to me and, as hungry as I was, I didn’t want a tramp’s leftovers.
“Give it to Jabba-The-Mutt.”
“You think I should poison my dog, is that it? You’re like those others that were here today.”
I thought he was ranting about aliens – that was his usual diatribe. Aliens from outer space and those from across the border. He hated them in equal measure. He nodded over to my block. “They sat over there most of the day watching your place.”
My place? Surveillance? It had to be Internal Affairs. I damn well knew it. I forced myself to turn slowly and pretended to fiddle with the back of my cowboy boot and saw them in a plain, unmarked crappy green Impala, a typical government car. They were watching me. I wasn’t being paranoid.
Interesting. I’ll have to be more careful. Forewarned is forearmed and all that. I wandered away pondering this, and saw the dog sniff the BLT and turn up his nose. Even the dogs in California are health-conscious. At home I decided to make Clarence and Jabba-The-Mutt healthier sandwiches. I know, I know, I couldn’t be bothered to make one for myself earlier, but hey, this was different. I went to the knife drawer and noticed that it was slightly ajar. It bothered me and I wondered if Internal Affairs had done more than just surveillance. It looked as though they did an illegal search of my home, too. I wondered if they had put bugs in my place. I know paranoia is a classic sign of my condition, but as far as I knew I had I.A. watching me, my friend Perry watching out for me and probably the Hangman watching me.
I finished preparing the sandwich. I know it was a lot of trouble to go to for an ungrateful tramp and his equally fussy hound, but I know what it’s like to be hungry and homeless. I’d been homeless once: it was for less than a month, but it left a lasting impression. I thought back to my suicide attempt that led to my incarceration in a local secure hospital, which ultimately led to my escape and life on the streets. The quacks had suggested that my mental problems stemmed from my father’s death. I was the one that found him hanging. He was still alive. I tried to hold him up, but my ten-year-old muscles weren’t up to the task. His legs vibrated and twitched, and he kicked out at me – he didn’t want to be saved. I took his weight, but I was too weak. I sagged and he dropped, but I held him tightly and that’s where they found me, sat with my arms wrapped around his legs.
I’d became fixated with death and suicide which inevitably led to my own attempt and I replicated his suicide, same house, same place, same clothes, but I messed it up and I slowly choked; I still have a very visible scar to prove it. I was committed to a local hospital’s psycho ward, where I found the conditions and medication made me ten times worse. It wasn’t a prison and I was free to come and go after the initial twenty-eight days. The doctors felt I would be better off with them, but one day I didn’t return: it was a hot summer’s night and I didn’t want to go back to the sweltering hospital and stayed out the night. I slept under a bridge and it was the best night’s sleep I’d had in ages, so one night became two, and I spent the days hiding until I realized that no one had come looking for me. No one cared about a teenage runaway. Then days became weeks, I wandered the streets pan-handling and I ate with the tramps in soup kitchens. Luckily, I was found at one of the soup kitchens and put into a program by one of the workers. So, I knew what it was like to sleep rough and stand in line at soup kitchens for food. For some people it’s a lifestyle choice and if you’re going to sleep rough there can’t be much better places than near the beach in California, but I know for sure that I ain’t ever going back to that. That’s why I made them sandwiches and hoped in a karma sorta way that my good deed will keep me from sinking again. I trotted back down to Clarence, who’d moved along to a bench on the Boardwalk overlooking the ocean. “Hey, man, I brought you some food.”
“Your patronage is appreciated,” he said with a slight tilt of the head, sounding like a mafia Don.
He doesn’t remember me. That’s just brilliant! “I was here earlier, remember?” He didn’t. “Well, ya were telling me about,” I lowered my voice, “the men in black, parked over there?”
“Oh yeah, right, right,” he said between big mouthfuls of cheese.
“Did they break into my place?”
“Where do you flop?”
“I don’t flop.”
“No kidding? I had you pegged as a tramp.”
“Thanks a bunch,” Sheldon said for all three of us. I sighed and said to Clarence, “Ya know I have a home. Ya know where I live. I pass ya every single day.” He looked blank. I pointed to my duplex, prompting him. “Up there.” I indicated the second and third floor.
“They acted all secretive and furtive-like. But I saw them, looking for aliens, they were.”
“Thanks, man.”
I gave him the rest of my six-pack and as I walked away, I heard him holler. “What’s this? I’m a tramp, so therefore I must be a wino? You think I’m a meth drinker, too?” I heard him pop a can. “Yuk! Next time buy something decent, an imported beer, not this domestic crap, you cheapskate!”
I tell ya, some days it’s not worth getting up.
My duplex, Driftwood Street, Venice Beach, CA 90292 – 23:55.
I unbuttoned my jeans and threw them into the corner of my bedroom where they joined a pile of clothes destined for the washer. I removed my boxers and noticed that the hamper had been moved, only slightly, but just enough for me to spot it. Had I.A. been in my home? I went around the rest of my bedroom, checking drawers and the closet, and everything was slightly out of place. They’d made a good attempt at covering their tracks. I went downstairs and it was the same story, it was all slightly out of kilter. Someone had been in my home and as they hadn’t taken anything, it dismissed the notion of burglars, which could only leave Internal Affairs. Damnit. They were on my case, which meant they were following my every move. I knew I hadn’t imagined the green Impala following me. So, if I was under surveillance that would definitely cramp my style. I was gonna have to be far more careful. I smirked, as I realized that I could turn this to my advantage. I would go along with the charade, pretending that I hadn’t noticed them, and I would live an exemplary life until they were called off; if not, I reckoned I could give them the slip easy enough.
I had last time.
I heard the tune: I Fought The Law and The Law Won, The Clash’s version. It was my cellphone ringtone. My heart thumped in my chest when I saw it was Mia’s number. She was ringing me on my private number at home this late at night. It could mean only one thing. “Spooky,” she gasped, sounding out of breath, “we’re in pursuit of a blue Pontiac.”
Okay, two things. So it was police business, who was I kidding anyway?
“What have ya got?” I asked.
“We’re chasing the Hangman and this is the best bit, we’re heading your way. Southbound on Pacific.”
Southbound, Pacific Avenue, Venice Beach, CA 90291 – 23:57.
Within two minutes I was in my Camaro. I slapped a revolving light onto the roof, switched on my siren and roared into action. I slammed through the gears and soon doing ninety, crashed through red lights as the other cars pulled over to give me a clear run. I skidded onto Pacific Avenue and could see a bunch of flashing lights in the distance. I bumped up onto the sidewalk to maneuver around a stationary car, scattering the late-night pedestrians left and right, much to their annoyance. I slammed my foot to the floor and soon was gaining on my colleagues. I overtook rows of cars and hurtled down the wrong side of the street until I caught up with them and swerved in and out of their cars until I was in the lead. I hear
d George McGinty’s voice come over the radio. “Spooky, we’ve been told to stay back; do not apprehend, slow down and back away. You must keep your dista –”
I accelerated and rammed the Pontiac from behind. The Hangman turned to look at me and I saw that he was wearing his executioner’s hood. At least I knew we had the right guy. I put my foot to the floor and rammed the car again and there was a screech of metal as I made it mount the curb. It bounced back down again in a shower of sparks. The Hangman got the vehicle under control and hammered it up a side street and deliberately hit a woman, knocking her up over the hood and back down onto the street. I slammed on my brakes to avoid running her over. She looked as though she was breathing. A uniformed cop was there in seconds. He said, “I’ve got this, you go. Go get him.”
I turned and saw the Pontiac’s tail lights in the distance. I revved the engine, let out the clutch and left a trail of rubber behind me. The Pontiac hung a left onto South Venice Boulevard. My tires screeched under protest as I took the corner without slowing, I was gaining on him when, without warning, he swung a right onto Dell Avenue, his first mistake. He was heading down a one-way street the wrong way. Dell Avenue was famous for having humpback bridges over the many canals that gave Venice Beach its name. This was good news; I’d upgraded the suspension on my muscle car and had the top dampers money could buy. My car would take the bridges effortlessly, although I doubted that the Pontiac would. I gained on him, to force him to take the bridges faster, so that he would take off and more importantly land badly.
The Pontiac hit the first bridge, took off as expected and landed heavily in a shower of sparks as the front fender hit the ground first. I floored it and put the pressure on him, as we bunny-hopped the next two bridges in unison. Each time I saw sparks fly off the Pontiac and what looked like his front fender flew over the top of my car. He swerved out onto Washington Boulevard and into the tourist district and I was still hot on his tail. I could see the Pontiac was damaged and that the steering seemed astray. I halved the distance between us easily. The Pontiac was blowing smoke big time and I knew it was on its last legs. I smiled grimly and knew that the Hangman’s days were numbered. The Pontiac gave it a last push and whacked into a VW compact, spinning it around into my path, causing me to lose valuable seconds. I waited for the car to come to a halt, drove around it and saw the Pontiac turn up between two high-rise blocks, but more importantly, I recognized it as a short, dead-end street.
“Yes!” I shouted aloud in jubilation. I swung into the short, narrow street and saw the Pontiac abandoned at the end with the driver’s door left open.
My headlights illuminated the shadows. At the end was a twenty-foot wall: no way out there. Cop cars swarmed in behind me, blocking any possible exit. We had finally trapped him. I approached the Pontiac gingerly, with my Glock 22 raised two-fisted in front of me. I smiled in grim satisfaction as I was going to meet the Hangman. I had a feeling that I might need all seventeen bullets in the magazine. I could see under the car, no one could hide under there. No one in the front; I took a quick peek in the back, no one there. I looked to make sure he wasn’t in the footwell, but no one was there either. Milo joined me, holding a tire lever. I nodded and covered him as he wrenched open the trunk, but it was empty.
I gazed around the dead-end street, there was no one in the shadows and there were high-rise buildings both sides and the twenty-foot wall straight ahead. There was no way out.
If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it. The Hangman had simply vanished.
PART II
Wednesday – June 29th
During the second minute of ligature strangulation, the blood vessels in the eyes burst, the eyes bulge, the tongue protrudes and the skin takes on a bluish tinge. Internally, in the brain starved of oxygen, cells start to die off and if I’m not rescued soon, I will end up brain-dead. I try to jig up and down to gain momentum as if my body weight might finally snap my neck and end this misery. As I swing slightly, like a pendulum, I’m reminded of the lynchings of the outlaws in the Wild, Wild West that would go spectacularly wrong. As in the case of the outlaw, Black Jack Ketchum. His hanging was a big attraction with stores closing and saloons remaining open, doing a brisk business. Even the local lawmen sold tickets to view the hanging, as well as little dolls of Black Jack hanging on a stick.
The lawman had misjudged the type of rope and the length of the drop and Black Jack Ketchum’s head ripped right off, not that the guards cared, they even posed next to the headless corpse for photographs that would be turned into souvenir postcards. Man, the things you think of in the last few precious moments on earth. I’d gladly accept decapitation over this long-drawn-out torture. What did I care? Had my time on earth been valuable? Not really. Would anyone mourn me? Probably not.
I thought of the frontier lawmen again: they would often fail to tighten the noose properly and the outlaw would choke and pass out and sometimes they could be revived and rescued by their allies. The other regular occurrence would be that the hastily assembled gallows would sometimes collapse, killing the executioner, too. That thought made me laugh, or what passed for a laugh, as my air supply had been cut off. Whatever had emitted from my mouth startled the Hangman who looked around uneasily and I tried a grin just to annoy him. I can see flashing pin pricks of light fly from the back of my orbital sockets to swim in front of my eyes, making me feel like they are being jabbed with needles and the blood in my ears hisses. I can hear a banging sound, that seems to be coming from my brain, but I guess it’s the blood pressure building up that I can hear from my ears. The root of my tongue is swelling up but I still block it from exiting my mouth. I don’t want my body discovered with bulging eyes and protruding tongue.
I’m convinced that this slow strangulation is deliberate, the Hangman wishing me to die in agony rather than swiftly breaking my neck, so that I suffer greatly. The hissing in my ears increases as the rope digs into my carotid artery: surely that’ll cut off the oxygen to my brain any moment now and render me unconscious? I feel fluid dripping from my nostrils and realize that it’s blood and I feel it dripping onto my chest and running down my stomach.
There’s an immense pain in my chest as my heart hammers away. I try for one last, raggedy breath, but all I manage is a rattling sound and if anything I feel worse. I felt dizzy and light-headed. Then bizarrely I see my father, which is impossible, as he died many years ago, but his image is as clear as anything and then I realize I am hallucinating . . .
CHAPTER 11
Homicide Special Section, 100 W 1st St 5th, Los Angeles, CA 90012 – 08:00.
I arrived at the building at 8 am sharp, then I dialed my partner’s cellphone. I’d warmed to the idea of Mia as a partner very quickly. I heard the opening bars of the Hawaii Five-O theme tune echoing around the corridor behind me and could not suppress a smile. So apt, I noticed the other cops smiling at it, too. I turned to see Mia right behind me. I’d first heard her cellphone ring last night after I’d lost the Hangman. I’d phoned her and heard the iconic opening bars of the theme as she appeared around the corner out of breath but smiling and I’d laughed aloud. It was what I’d needed after that fiasco. We approached my cubicle in the squad room. Candy said fearfully, “Here comes another message.” She pointed at her computer screen and bit the inside of her cheek. She clicked some buttons and put the image onto the giant screen on the squad room wall.
It was an image of a darkened room. The Hangman passed the camera wearing his executioner’s hood, but I was unable to distinguish any feature, as it only had slits for eyeholes. Behind him, there was a woman tied to the table. She had many lacerations across her stomach. Her petrified screams reverberated around the room. Candy turned down the volume and shuddered.
A number in the bottom corner spun so fast it was hard to read. “What’s that?” I asked Ferdy.
“That would be the number of subscribers.”
“There are more than one hundred thousand already.”
/>
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it topped a million.”
“That many sickos?” I asked in disbelief.
“Worldwide? Sure.”
“All paying, what – ten bucks each?” I whistled as I work out the math. “Ten million bucks to rape, torture and execute someone.”
The screen went blank and a message read, ‘to continue viewing enter credit card details.’
“What’s that about?” I asked.
“That’s how they subscribe. They pay for the privilege of watching live torture and executions.”
“Can’t we track it?”
“The payment system is encrypted. We have no idea in what country the money ends up,” Ferdy said.
“Maaan.”
“We tried to track the website last time, but it bounces around the globe changing every thirty seconds, Russia would be my guess. They’re good at this sort of stuff.”
“Play it again. See if we can get any clues from it. Maybe with sound.”
“Are you serious?” Candy said.
All eyes turned towards me. I said, “I’ll do it.”
“With the sound down?” Candy asked nervously and George patted her on the back.
“Gimme the earphones,” I said as the others shuffled out and I settled down to watch on my monitor with my earphones on. I used my credit card to continue the rest of the video and watched as the Hangman turned to the camera. I tried to distinguish skin and eye color but they were just two slits in the executioner’s hood. He brandished a scalpel. It glinted in the camera lights. He turned and showed it to the victim. Her terrified screams rattled around inside of my skull and I knew the sound would stay with me long into the night. She thrashed around but her head was held in some sort of restraint and I was unable to make out any identifying features. She had olive skin and curly, dark hair, but that was about it. The Hangman ran the blade through her hair, cutting it easily. She saw the blade and shrieked again.
On The Edge Page 10
