On The Edge

by Daniel Cleaver

  “Yuh don’t have a clue how high this goes.”

  “Ya think you’re gonna get away with her kidnapping?”

  “I will, I always do.” He grinned wide, showing his rotting teeth.

  “Not this time.”

  He saw me fiddling with the rope and that I had used it to fashion a noose.

  “If yuh trying to intimidate me, it ain’t working,” he said, but he was losing his bravado.

  “Here’s the deal – you’re a piece of worthless crap, right?”

  “If yuh say so.”

  “I do say so. You had choices and ya could’ve made something of your life, but ya chose to give in to your urges. Ya came out here, got in with a bunch of sick pedophiles, who for whatever reason protect ya, and in return ya procure girls for them, knowing that they’re gonna be raped by many men and then murdered. Ya know that, right?” I asked and he nodded dumbly, still not seeing the problem. “Tell me, what do ya do to a person happy to tie an innocent child to a bed, keep her here till the big guys are ready, knowing that she’ll be raped and killed? You tell me, does a person like that deserve to live?”

  “Not when yuh put it like that.” Then he smiled his annoying smile again. “But I’ll get off. We’ve already agreed that’s what’ll happen.”

  “This is the way I see it: you’re gonna go to jail for the rest of your life and as a child molester, can ya begin to imagine what that’ll be like?”

  He shook his head. That was not the future he had in mind. “Here’s the address.” He quickly scribbled it onto the back of his cigarette packet. “Now, yuh said you had a deal for me?” he prompted.

  “Yah,” I smirked and I threw the noose over a metal strut that formed part of the roof structure and left it dangling. “Do the right thing, or I’ll show that gang of Hell’s Angels out there what you did to this little girl. Your choice, but I’d advise ya to do the right thing this time.”

  I led the girl out to my car and put her in the back; I put the light cup on the top of my Camaro and radioed for backup. I heard a chair fall over as he jumped, and the caravan rocked. I smiled grimly: one less scumbag in the world.

  CHAPTER 38

  The Child Protective Services took the girl into their care and contacted her parents. Another win for the good guys. She’d be home soon but God knows what sort of psychological scars she would have. She wasn’t talking, she’d turned mute apparently. The captain looked inside the trailer and came back out quickly: there’s no air conditioning and the metal box was already overheating without a rotting corpse inside. “And you found him like that?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Hand on heart,” I said.

  He glared at me balefully. “How fortunate, you’ve got to wonder why he’d untie her from the bed, then commit suicide.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” I said, sounding like Milo.

  “Not much. Did he give you any information?”

  “Nope, he was dead, remember?”

  “Nice try, Captain, baby,” chuckled Elvis.

  “You didn’t find anything of any value?”

  “Nope, not a thing.”

  The captain asked, “Are we going to find your prints on the ligature?”

  “The what?”

  “Ligature – the rope.”

  “Why didn’t ya just say rope?”

  “You really must learn the correct terminology.”

  “Yah, it’s the next –”

  “Don’t tell me – next thing on your list.”

  “Well, yah.”

  “Luckily for you, the girl has been struck mute, but it will only be temporary. None of the Hell’s Angels will talk to us. I guess that lets you off the hook, for now.” He gave me a long look that said, I know what you did.

  I went over to the young girl and she whispered, “Thank you, you saved my life, don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

  Mute my ass.

  Thorpe Park Private School, N Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills, CA 90210 – 16:30.

  I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over the scumbag hillbilly: I couldn’t even begin to think of the number of lives he’d ruined. He’d gotten off lightly. Besides, I had a schoolteacher to visit. I didn’t know if it’d help Mia. Somehow I had a gut instinct that the two cases were intrinsically linked. Ferdy and his pals had proved that the bodies in the canyon had been used by the pedo ring, then passed onto the Hangman to practice his hanging techniques. So, there was a connection there. Someone in the pedo ring knew of the Hangman, or how to contact him at least when a new body was available. I knew the guys at the top of the ring wouldn’t sully their hands personally, but probably would orchestrate the deed, but the actual task would be handed out to a lackey further down the food chain. And if nothing else this trip would rid the city of one less active pedophile. It was a worthy mission and if I was on a one-man crusade so be it. I felt that time was of the essence; they’d had a good run for their money but knew the game was up and they were about to fold up their camp and leave town and start again somewhere else.

  I hung a left onto Balboa Boulevard. “Adrian,” said Elvis in a bad Sylvester Stallone impression.

  “Rocky,” mimicked Sheldon joining in.

  “Seriously, guys?” I said. “Do we have to go through this every single time I take Balboa?”

  They chuckled away and called me misery guts as I followed the address up into the Hills, arriving at the elite, private school. I rolled up the driveway with lush green lawns on either side and into the school parking lot. Judging by the vehicles, that this was an affluent neighborhood and I guessed that water ballet would be a white-collar sport for well-bred young ladies, like owning a pony. I asked a pimply youth the way to the pool and he directed me to the outfield and said follow the noise. I watched the water ballet for a while, keeping an eye on the schoolteacher with a bad comb-over. I seethed. I felt an overwhelming urge to take out my Glock and shoot him between the legs. I could see him crumple and howl for an age as a bullet wound there took a while to die from.

  “Good,” said Sheldon, getting less liberal by the day.

  I didn’t care about the parents being direct eyewitnesses, for at that moment it would be the right thing to do. I really hated this guy and couldn’t wait to take him down one way or the other. William Pitter hollered at the students. A vein throbbed at his temple and I thought he was going to have a coronary. He clearly took his job seriously, but, come on, it was water ballet. He berated the girls and yet the parents in attendance nodded in agreement with his pearls of wisdom. If they were going to turn out on a Saturday to watch a practice session, then they would support the coach and his instruction as if he was some sort of demigod. He’d coached them to the State finals and that was good enough for them: he must know what he was doing.

  I had a vision of pulling my Glock, seeing the top of his head explode and watch him topple into the swimming pool. I wanted to see red blood pool around him, but I kept my anger in check: a bullet would be too swift and merciful. This was the guy that had bragged to me that he interfered with the girls and that if they didn’t like it, they’d be off the team: what a charmer. I also knew that he bid on the young runaway at Bruce’s party and that he usually won. He knew he’d never get caught because the girls were silenced for good. Another law-abiding citizen who was complicit in the heinous crimes. Another scumbag who was about to give me the name of the Hangman, or proof on Bruce Matherson’s gang: their kingdom was about to fall.

  He yelled at a girl who was close to tears, the jerk. It was just a game, what was wrong with him? Then I remembered – plenty. I walked up and stood near him at the edge of the pool. He turned and glared at me. “No parents allowed beside the pool: if you want to be supportive please join the rest of the clowns up in the bleachers.” Clowns? Such a smooth-talker.

  “I ain’t a parent,” I told him, “and if I was I sure as hell wouldn’t let ya talk to a daughter of mine like that.”

  “Oh really? Well here’s the thing, I d
on’t care what you think.”

  I gave him my best smile.

  “What?” he said. “Did I hurt your feelings? Is that what I’m doing to the girls? Do you think I should treat them with kid gloves? You don’t create winners treating them like babies.”

  “It’s a sport, it’s meant to be fun.”

  “Fun? Fun!? What planet are you from? Get the hell out of here. I’m busy training my girls.”

  “Training?” I said quietly so the parents the other side of the pool couldn’t hear it. “Is that what ya call it?”

  He blanched for a moment then, realizing that some of the girls were tittering. He snarled, “Do you want me to call the parents over? Some of them are teamsters, if you know what I mean, they have connections.”

  I turned away and I thought I heard him say, “Jerk.”

  He leaned over the pool to scream at one of his charges when I gave him the gentlest of bumps, sending him into the water with a mighty splash. The girls loved it and whooped and cheered, as did most of the parents until he surfaced, then they all went quiet. He splashed over to the ladder; it was hard to hear what he was saying but it was general cursing by the look on his face.

  I stood at the top of the ladder and extended my hand. “I’m sorry, man, I don’t know what happened.” I extended my hand further. “Allow me,” he reluctantly took my hand and I squeezed it with all my might: I’d caught him by the fingers and I felt bones crunch under the pressure. He squealed like a little stuck pig and fell back into the water and some of the parents mooched on over to see what the fuss was about. Two of them were big and burly: the aforementioned teamsters, I’d guessed. William Pitter managed the ladder one-handed and placed the other in his armpit trying to ease the throbbing.

  “I’m calling the police and I’m –”

  “No need, I’m already here.” I pulled back my shirt to show my badge, also to show my gun for the really dense.

  “What do you want?” he asked through gritted teeth. His broken bones hurt like hell but he didn’t want to give me the satisfaction of seeing it.

  “Just a couple of questions.” I took out my cellphone and selected the photos. “Have ya seen her before?”

  “What the hell?” he said.

  I took a quick look at the picture and realized it was the wrong one. It was me on my vacation at a nudist beach, again. I shrugged and showed him the next picture. It was a close-up of Sharron’s post-mortem, showing her sliced-open stomach. I thought I’d see if there was a connection between the Hangman murders and the runaway killings. His eyes didn’t linger on the photos. So, he wasn’t into snuff, big deal.

  “Do ya recognize her?”

  “Not from her stomach, no,” he said archly.

  I flicked the photo and it was replaced with a headshot. “What about now?”

  He looked at the protruding eyes and tongue and I thought he was going to vomit. “No, I don’t. Why are you showing me disgusting photos of a dead woman?”

  “Well, that’s what they look like when they’ve been murdered.”

  “So?”

  “So, that’s what happens to the little girls ya discard after the parties.”

  “What parties?”

  “I think ya know.”

  “Well, I don’t,” he said, glancing around at the parents nervously. By their expressions maybe one or two had their doubts about him. “What do you want?”

  “Names, times, or codes. How do ya know when another girl is available?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then I think ya should accompany me to the precinct, for your own safety.” I nodded towards the angry mob of parents.

  “I will not, I have nothing to hide, I know nothing about a party and have no idea of what you’re insinuating.”

  “Well, then, it’s a good thing that my cellphone has a recording facility on it, see. Not only takes photos but it also videos and records, watch.”

  His eyes swiveled to the screen, wondering what he was going to see.

  I spoke to the burly teamsters amongst the parents. “You fellas might wanna see this. Gather around, make a nice semicircle, that’s it.”

  When they all could roughly see the screen, I played the recording that I had filmed at Bruce Matherson’s party. I witnessed William Pitter shrivel before my eyes. He had the backbone of a jellyfish and I thought I could carry him down the station in a bucket. He recognized the shot and his own voice, and of him showing me the pictures on his cellphone.

  “Good, huh?” he said, “Plenty more where that came from. I teach the under-fourteens water ballet class: they spend most of the time with their heads under the water and their tushies in the air, plenty of time for me to video the results!”

  “No one queries your presence?” I said via my cell.

  “Hell, no, why should they? I’m their teacher.”

  “Not the parents?”

  “Hey, we’re State champs. I have hundreds of prepubescent girls begging me to take them on the team. I mean, who’s going to expect me? No, as long as their kid’s winning, they don’t care what else is going on. Besides, I only video, I don’t touch.”

  “Don’t the older kids suspect? They must know that you shouldn’t be filming them.”

  “Ah, that’s the clever part: I have a camera hidden in my gym bag, it lets me film everything. Ha ha!” He smiled lecherously. “Works like a dream, see?” He showed me another moving shot, the girl looked so young and happy and was quickly changing her clothes.

  I clicked off my recording. William Pitter trembled with fear, looked around the grim-faced parents. I pointed at his gym bag. “If ya want further proof, take a look inside his sports bag. You’ll see a camera filming through a hole. He leaves it in the dressing room while they’re getting changed. Nice, huh?”

  One of the teamsters rummaged around in Pitter’s bag, moved some towels, and held up the camera. William tried to brazen it out. “That proves nothing.”

  The parents surrounded him and he gulped. I saw his oversized Adam’s apple bounce up and down. He mouthed quietly to me, “Take me with you, please.”

  “Not until ya offer up what I wanna hear.”

  He gulped again and then blurted, “It’s Marcus Eglin. He’s the one you want. He’s the brains behind it all. He’s the hatchet man. He deals with the dirty side of the business.”

  I lit a cigarette as the parents closed in on him. His eyes flitted around the circle and knew he was for it. His bullying persona had left him and he blubbered, “I gave you what you wanted, I insist you take me with you.”

  I took a drag on my cigarette and blew out the smoke casually. “Nah, I don’t think so. Not this time.”

  I strolled away and he cried pitifully, “Please!” I heard a strangling sound followed by a splash. I got into my battered Camaro and drove away.

  Eglin & Best Art Gallery, 680 N Canon Drive, Beverly Hills, CA 90210 – 18:15.

  A couple of taps on Google and I found where Marcus Eglin was going to be: at the opening of a new, prestigious art gallery. He was co-owner and hosting a snooty, invite-only soirée. I noticed with a snort of derision that he’d named the gallery after himself. What a pretentious jerk. I parked as near as I could to the gallery that was located in a cobbled street adjacent to Rodeo Drive, squashed in amongst the boutiques and high-priced coffee houses. I flashed my badge to the attendant and entered. The walls were covered in oversized canvases in the school of Jackson Pollock, splatter painting. I glanced at the price tag of one not only was it six figures, it also cost more than my duplex. “Holy crap!” I exclaimed. It had the desired effect. The buzz of chatter stopped and all the art freeloaders turned to look at me. Sure enough, Eglin spotted me and made a beeline over.

  “I want you to leave.”

  “Not gonna happen,” I said flatly.

  “I’m Marcus Eglin and you’re trespassing at a private function.”

  I gave him my deadeye gaze.

  “Are
you listening to me?”

  “Yah, every word, I practically have a photographic memory. ‘You’re mucus eggplant. I’m guest passing at a pirate junction.’” I smiled at my excellent recall.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I dunno. You said it first.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did, too.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just come to admire the art.” I looked back at the canvas spattered with purples and greens. It looked like something I may have done at kindergarten. “But man, get real, six figures for that.”

  “Worth every penny, I assure you.”

  “Maybe when it’s finished.”

  “It is finished,” he said indignantly.

  “How can ya tell?”

  “Not that I’d expect someone like you –” someone like me again? – “to understand, but this came from deep within the artist’s –”

  “Stomach by the looks of it. I saw something remarkably similar on my bathroom floor after a night on tequila.” I straightened the frame and made an alarm go off. Eglin signaled for the guard to reset the alarm. “Please don’t touch, Detective. Now, look, you’ve had your fun, but –”

  I picked up a metal sculpture. “What’s this meant to be?”

  “It’s subjective, it’s what you want it to be,” he answered and, noticing the crowd, played up to them, knowing they would be on his side. “What does it look like to you?”

  “A cross between a bear trap and a chastity belt.” That got a gasp from the art critics.

  “You’re not far wrong. Is the artist trying to say that sex is bad for you, or is he saying that sex is dangerous and far more fun when dangerous? Does the possibility of pain make it more tempting?”

  I picked it up, testing the weight, and the alarm went off again. Eglin nodded to the guard to reset it once more.

  “Please put that down. It’s worth over one hundred thousand dollars.”

  “For this?” I tossed it into the air and it fell apart. “Whoops!”

  “Tell us, Detective,” he sneered. “As you’re clearly a connoisseur, what’s your favorite type of art?” His audience sniggered.