I took the earphones off. This was harder than I thought. “Hey, Ferdy, man, how can I get a close-up on this?”
Ferdy looked pleased to be included in the real detective work. “You zoom in using this.” He showed me the necessary sequence.
“I wanna see the time on her watch.” I zoomed in and got the time in a clear display. “Wait up, according to her watch this was filmed over an hour ago.”
Others crowded around my desk. I asked, “What does it mean, could someone have triggered it to start playing at a certain time?”
“Easy as pie,” Ferdy said.
“So even if we could work out where the place is, they could be long gone?”
“Exactly.”
I threw my pencil down on my desk, put my hands behind my head and leaned back on my chair, stretching out my legs, when something caught my eye in the close-up of the victim’s wrist. I fell forward, making the chair bang on the floor as I did so, getting the others’ attention. “I’ve seen that watch before, well, the strap, to be precise.” I moved the image forward a frame at a time and spotted the top of the pentagram tattoo and I froze. After a long moment, I breathed out, “Maaan.”
The captain was alerted to the fact that I had something and he came over and said, “What is it, what have you seen?”
“What is it?” asked Mia.
“I know who the victim is. . .”
Disused warehouse, 9980 Wilshire Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90036 – 08:30.
In the Hangman’s torture chamber, Doctor Ruiz twisted and turned in a futile effort to escape. “You’re making me do this,” the Hangman told her. The voice had a metallic tone as he spoke through a voice distorter, adding to the madness. “You dirty little slut!” He paced towards where she was strapped to a gurney. “This is your fault. You are filth! You know why?” He held up his scalpel to her: it glinted in the light, and her eyes opened wider in fear. “You act like a slut, a disgrace to your gender, flaunting yourself, giving away your body to all and sundry. Well, bitch, this is your come-uppance. Do you understand? I said, do you understand?”
She thrashed against the bonds but to no avail.
“I know all about you, the sick parties you attend, for your own depraved pleasure, I’ve seen you with my own eyes, you dressed as a waitress, moving through the throng, short skirt tucked into your belt, panties down showing everyone your womanhood!” His voice reached an insane pitch. “Your shaven, pierced vagina, allowing anyone to have a feel. You part your legs like a whore as you stand there with your eyes averted while a man or woman’s fingers thrust into you, they grope and touch you and you love feeling debased. Why would you do that?” His metallic voice raised to a scream. “Because you’re a filthy slut! That’s why. Being abused turns you on, you whore!” He flashed the scalpel once more. “I saw you on your knees in front of a group of men, a row of disgusting middle-aged, overweight, foul men, you were sucking like a good little slut. How can you find pleasure in that? Well, you’ve led a disgusting secret double life and now’s the time to pay the penalty.”
He calmly used the scalpel to draw a circle around her left nipple, the blade so sharp she barely felt it. She managed to raise her head and to her utter horror saw him cutting away at her nipple. She struggled against her straps when with a flourish he detached it and held it aloft like a trophy. She screamed in agony and thought she would pass out with the pain. Why was the Hangman doing this to her? Why had he singled her out for this torture? She was a consenting adult and she attended the parties with other like-minded adults. She went there willingly, no one held a gun to her head. She knew the human psyche and found it a safe outlet, for whatever reason: her favorite fantasy was to be used and abused and she had found a harmless outlet for it to become a reality. Where was the crime in that? Now she was being judged by the crazed lunatic.
The Hangman lifted the executioner’s hood and swallowed the nipple whole, enjoying the doctor’s wide-eyed terror, but the Hangman knew that would have to do for now. He turned to the camera and knew the audience would be drooling watching the torture-porn, having tired of ordinary stuff, of staged snuff and torture. The connoisseurs could tell the real thing and would pay through the nose for it and they would be back for the next installment of the doctor’s agonizing death.
* * *
I pushed myself back on my chair and took a deep breath. I had to stop watching the scenes unfolding on the screen. It’s one thing to be detached at a crime scene. The evil deed had been done; the murder was over. I could empathize with the victim and could feel the agony and the pain, but to see it being committed live and to someone I knew was all too much. I’d just witnessed the Hangman cut off her nipple and eat it.
Doctor Ruiz was out there somewhere. Being slowly tortured and there was nothing I could do. The Hangman was torturing the police as a whole as we were powerless to help. We had no idea where he was committing these sick acts. I had to sit and watch, knowing she was going to suffer immense agony before he was finished. I shook my head and thought I should watch the video once again. Maybe I’d get lucky with a clue, but figured the Hangman was confident in his abilities that he could post his video to the world, safe in the knowledge that he would evade capture.
Still, I’d got lucky with the watch, the time delay and recognizing the tattoo, which was a start. I returned to the video with a sinking heart, wondering what sort of world we lived in. The counter in the corner showed over half a million hits and rising. Not one of the viewers thought to call the police, yet they knew, without doubt, they were watching a crime unfold, the ultimate crime, that any one of them could stop, or at least attempt to stop, but they would rather watch a fellow human being tortured to death. With a sigh I watched, ignoring the cutting, looking at the background, looking for clues, closing in on the label on the gurney hoping for a manufacturer, but it was a brand used by most hospitals in LA. The walls were whitewashed; there were no windows to reveal a telltale vista and no background noise had been detected by the techie guys. All I could do was listen to the hideous, metallic voice taunting the victim, but no revealing words or expressions to give away age, country, or State of origin. Nothing. He was of average height and right-handed. Big deal.
I watched once more as he ran the scalpel around her breast, but I had to look away, even after all the things I’ve seen in my career it was never live, leaving me incapable to help, plus I knew it was going to get worse.
Much worse.
* * *
The others watched, stunned that even I, with my iron-lined stomach to the horrors of our job, was having trouble witnessing the torture. I waited for the screams to subside then forced myself to look back at the screen as the Hangman lifted the black executioner’s hood and popped the severed nipple into his mouth. I took the earphones off and turned to the others. I held my arms wide to signify I was ready for them to throw out questions.
“Why did he pick on her?” Candy asked in a trembling voice.
I looked to the captain who nodded slightly. “So far,” I said, “All the victims have had a certain body modification.”
George said, “Hur?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Milo.
“They all had something in common,” I told them.
“They had nothing in common apart from being women,” George said.
“There was one thing we’ve been keeping quiet about so we would know that it was definitely the Hangman and not a copycat,” I said.
“When were you going to tell us?” Candy said.
“It’s his signature. All the victims have pierced genitalia.”
“Hur?” George grunted.
“What do you mean?” asked Milo.
The captain looked from Mia to Candy and felt embarrassed. Mia stepped in. “They all had piercings through their labia,” she said.
“You mean their . . .?” George started but was unable to finish.
“Why?” Milo asked.
“It is meant t
o stimulate sexual organs, even enhance sexual acts,” Mia said matter-of-factly.
Candy said, “I’ve a friend who’s had it done, swears by it. She says it’s supercool.”
“Others do it to be nonconformist,” Mia said.
“That’s our doc, alright,” I said. “I’ve been going through her personal life, she led, ah, what’s known as an alternative lifestyle, shall we say, swinging, orgies and suchlike.”
George looked shocked. “That’s kind of a strange way for a doctor to behave, don’t you think?”
“Why? Who goes to orgies?” Mia asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Perverts,” said George.
“You’re very enlightened for a police officer,” Mia remarked.
“Wouldn’t catch me at one of those,” he said.
“You’re unlikely to be invited,” said Candy.
“Please,” said the captain, placating with his hands, “let’s remain focused. Mia, if you would continue.”
“Genital piercing has been going on for centuries. It even gets a mention in the Kama Sutra from the 2nd century. Many tribes around the world –”
“Tribes!” interrupted George, “You said it. Squaws maybe – not American women.”
“Don’t be so naïve,” Candy said, annoyed.
George continued. “Maybe those ugly Emos with their pierced noses, lips and tongues. I’ve heard they do their nipples, too.”
“What a woman does in her private life is just that – private,” Candy said defensively. “Why can’t a woman do what she wants with her own body?”
“The doc got caught going through an airport scanner several months ago, the piercings set off the metal detector,” the captain said, tapping a report in front of him. “She got pulled in by security and questioned.”
“Do ya think that’s how the Hangman finds his victims?” I asked. “Could he work at the airport? That would certainly give him a long list of victims. What’s the ratio? I know piercings and tattoos are incredibly popular at the moment: does anyone have the stats on how many women are likely to have genital piercings?”
“My friend works for the security at LAX,” said Candy. “It’s her job to do the searches and each time the metal detector is set off by genital piercings it’s a compulsory cavity search and, well, she says it’s several times a day now.”
“They’re just the ones who have forgotten to remove the jewelry. How many women are pierced down there.” The captain pointed downwards. “What do you think, one in a thousand?”
“What about the ‘ouch’ factor, that’s gotta hurt?” I asked.
“It feels like being shot,” said Candy a bit too quickly.
“Have you been shot?” asked George.
“Yes, in the line of duty, remember?”
“Have you been pierced?” he asked with a grin.
“That is none of your damn business.”
“Methinks she protests too much,” he said.
Mia saved Candy’s blushes and said, “Men have it done, too. The Prince Albert is immensely popular amongst the counter-culture movement. They have a metal bar pierced right through –”
“Stop, stop, please,” begged Milo and I noticed all the guys squirming, myself included.
“It’s not only a woman thing,” Candy said.
“You seem very knowledgeable, Candy,” said George. “You’ll have to be careful, Candy. Next time you go on your Club Med vacation, remember to take your rings out!”
She went bright red and yelled, “Shut up!” and threw her pen at him, making him roar with laughter. She got up and stomped out of the room.
The captain said, “You will apologize to her.”
“I will, soon as she comes back, I didn’t think she’d be so touchy about it.”
“You mean she’s . . .” Milo asked.
George grinned.
“No way,” Milo said in disbelief.
George nodded slowly and his grin got wider.
“But she’s so prim and proper,” Milo said.
“They say the quiet ones are worse,” George grinned.
“How do you know all this?” Milo asked.
He spread his arms wide. “How do you think I know?”
His grin got wider and I wanted to punch his head in, well, Elvis did, but it was my idea. I still might let him get the better of me. I’d had a fling myself with Candy earlier in the year. I’d been surprised by the jewelry to say the least. As George so eloquently put it, the quiet ones are the worst.
The captain cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed by the whole nature of the conversation. “Now, about her car,” he said, bringing the topic back to safer ground. “We’ve got CCTV footage of the doctor leaving work around 10 pm. We see her leave and approach her car; the Hangman is aware of the positioning of the security cameras because neither he nor his car is seen. When Uniform got there, they found the car door open, so we’re guessing he parked nearby.”
“Wouldn’t she have been suspicious? After all, she claimed she knew who he was,” asked Mia.
“If it was one of her patients as she claimed, she might think she had him under control,” said the captain.
“Or she had the wrong person,” Mia suggested.
“What did the security guards say, did they see anything?” I asked.
“They said a cop car swung by around 9:30,” said the captain. “That was the only car they remembered.”
I had asked the guys to patrol the doc’s office, just in case the Hangman had heard she knew who he was and wanted her taken out of the equation. The captain asked me, “Have ya spoke to them? Did they see anything suspicious, any strange cars? Anything at all?”
“Negative, captain, it was only a cursory check, like I said.” I sighed then added, “But we’re the only ones who knew the doc claimed to know the Hangman. That means that the leak came from this office,” I said, looking around accusingly.
CHAPTER 12
430 Glenroy Place, Bel Air, CA 90049 – 10:30.
Mia and I drove in my Camaro up into the Hills once again. We’d tracked Sharron’s address to her parents’ home in Bel Air and were about to give them bad news, the worst news. Parents should never outlive their children, it wasn’t right. It upset the order of things. I’d brought Mia along because I wasn’t too good at that sort of thing. As we climbed higher into the Hills the homes got larger and I wondered how Sharron had gone from such palatial surroundings to working at Mr. Yoon’s convenience store down at Venice Beach. They were worlds apart and it did not gel. Still, I was sure we were about to find out why. We turned into Glenroy and Mia pointed to a salmon-colored U-shaped house, featuring an Italian vibe with wrought-iron balconies on each of the windows, a turning circle out front and no doubt an Olympic-sized swimming pool around back. I gauged it to be at least twenty million dollars. Her dad was a sought-after plastic surgeon.
A maid showed us into a grand living room and formally introduced us. It was an austere room, decorated with marble floors, making the room feel functional rather than lived in, making it feel cold and harsh, little in the way of personal belongings, except for one trophy wall of Sharron’s father pressing the flesh with the rich and famous. No doubt clients that had gone under his knife in the vain hope of holding onto their youth. Her parents sat stiffly on an antique couch. He had a fake tan and wore a two-thousand-dollar suit, and she dressed expensively and looked as if she spent most of her life in the beauty salon. Neither of them looked anything like Sharron.
I said, “We’re attached to the Robbery-Homicide squad. We’d just like to ask ya a few questions, Mister –”
“It’s Doctor, actually.” He butted in as if it made a difference. Most people noticed the Homicide tag. Both seemed disinterested.
I played dumb. “Doctor Actually? Huh, unusual name. We’ve got ya down as Mister Willis.”
“It is Willis, Doctor James Willis.” He glared at me and I glared back. I glanced at his desk covered with more pictures of himself. I
picked them up and dismissed them; I put them down out of place and could see that this made him agitated.
“Is this a photo of you and Mike Tyson?”
“It is,” he said proudly. “Are you a fan?”
“Nope, can’t stand the man. Tell me, Jimbo, when did ya last see –”
“The name is Doctor Willis to you.”
“What does a pile of bricks like this cost ya, ten, twenty?”
“Twenty-two and a half if you must know,” he said with pride in his voice.
“Four thousand square feet?” I asked.
“Closer to five. What’s this got to do –?”
Mia broke the tension. “I understand that you’re a plastic surgeon?”
“That’s right,” he shrugged with false modesty. “For my sins.”
“These are the before shots, right?” I said, indicating the photos of himself on the desk. I’d ruffled his feathers and I was glad. I knew we weren’t going to get along.
“Why are you here?” his wife asked timidly.
“All these photographs are of you, Doc,” I said. “But none of your daughter, why is that?”
“Ah,” he grinned and nodded to himself. “That’s why you’re here. What has she done now?”
“We need to know her address.”
“We don’t know it,” said her mother, who almost let her guard down and looked embarrassed by the admission. “We’re estranged.”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” said Doctor Willis.
“That’s where ya wrong, it is our business.”
“Well, whatever she’s done she’ll have to sort it out herself. I’ve bailed her out for the last time.”
Sharron’s mother wrung her hands together. “We haven’t spoken in years, I have no idea where she is, if she’s married, has kids, or a job.”
“Not married,” I said, “No kids. Worked in a convenience store.”
On The Edge Page 11
