Grace snorted in disbelief. “The man’s a fool,” she said and cackled at the thought. “Imagine me and Szymon. Ha.” Murphy shot Johan a glance. A name. They had a name. Murphy kept her tone calm even as she was bursting inside.
“Szymon? That’s unique,” she said, holding her breath.
“It’s Polish. My name was Grazyna, but I changed it to the English equivalent, Grace, after the war.” Grace stared into the gardens right outside the sunroom. “Another life that was.”
“Did you know each other in Poland?” Johan asked.
“Oh no. We met here but…” Her voice grew soft and quiet. “We shared a…history.”
“Oh?” was all Murphy said. The best way to keep a witness talking was to listen and not interrupt. She pushed down her growing excitement and sat on her hands. Her nervous tic of flapping her hands in front of her when she got excited could throw Grace off, and she didn’t want to give her any reason to stop talking.
Grace nodded with a faraway look. “Those were terrible times. Hell on earth. It was so nice to chat in Polish. I spoke Hebrew, of course, but my parents had been less religious then most and we really considered ourselves Polish. Szymon and I spoke in Polish every chance we could. Such a gift to have as the end of life looms ahead of you.”
“Do you mean the Holocaust? Was Szymon Jewish as well?” Murphy watched as Johan took out a small Moleskine notebook and jotted down some notes.
“I do. I was in Auschwitz. The concentration camp. I don’t think Szymon was Jewish though. He always said Polish. He spoke about his mother often and how they’d been separated. He told me she died in the streets. I could never get it out of him how he survived the war, but we all did things. Survival sometimes takes over entirely. We spoke of the happy times before the war,” she said and lifted up her sleeve. Murphy’s heart dropped at the sight of the faded tattoo of numbers. “He didn’t have one of these, I checked,” she added.
“Did you know his daughter well?” Murphy said after a moment.
“I never thought of her as his daughter, if you can imagine. She was a satisfactory nurse. Kept to herself. I’m not sure she liked me much. I never got the feeling she appreciated my talking to her father as much as I did. I thought she was jealous for a while, but her eyes looked so haunted. I don’t know.” She frowned at the memory. Murphy didn’t have the heart to tell her who her old world buddy had been. It would have been too cruel.
“Did you ever hear from him again? After they left?” Murphy asked instead.
“You know, that was a funny thing. They left in the middle of the night and never said goodbye. Never heard another word from them. I missed him something terrible. He’d been a good friend, but troubled.” She nodded to herself. “He couldn’t let the past go. Sometimes, I wondered if he’d rather be there then the present. Oh, how he missed his mother,” she said and nodded. “Horrible times. No one can understand how depraved those times were. Not unless you were there,” she said and shuddered, tears forming in her eyes. She gazed out into the garden without saying another word.
Murphy wanted to ask another question but didn’t want to disturb Grace’s thoughts. Johan gave her an imperceptible nod and Murphy cleared her throat to get her attention.
“He never mentioned his last name to you, did he?” Murphy asked.
Grace shrugged. “I always assumed it was Pickford. He never said any other. All of us changed our names in some way, and he loved the silent pictures. Mary Pickford was a particular favorite of his,” Grace said, the faraway look back in her eyes. Murphy knew that was all they were going to get from her.
She got up and touched the woman’s shoulder. “Thank you for your help, Grace,” she said.
“Another thing. He mentioned a German family had adopted him. The way he said adopted made me think it was something more…sinister. He told me they were the worst of people. I think they could have been Nazis.” The woman’s teary blue eyes looked up into hers. “He’s done something terrible, hasn’t he?”
All Murphy could do was nod.
“He had it in him. The rage. You don’t fully survive that kind of experience. Not intact anyway,” she said and turned back to the garden. Johan clasped her hand in his in farewell and joined Murphy at the door.
“We got it. A name. A place. This is it. This is the keystone that holds everything,” Johan whispered. Murphy couldn’t take her eyes off Grace, who had visibly shrunk in her seat.
“We should go. I’ll call Ritchie on the way to the airport,” Johan prodded gently. Murphy nodded and let him lead her out into the hallway.
She wasn’t old enough to have any direct contact with World War II vets or Holocaust survivors. She’d never known her grandparents, and her parents never spoke of the past. It was hard to imagine being so haunted your entire life. The keys to the mystery of Szymon, the Jerry killer, lay back almost 60 years ago and in another part of the world.
Johan’s voice penetrated her thoughts. “Murphy? You there?” he asked.
Murphy blinked at the hazy sunlight of early afternoon. “Yea. Sorry. What did you say?”
“I just got off the phone with Ritchie. He got us plane tickets. We leave in an hour and a half.”
“Did you give him…”
“First thing I did. He’s on it.”
Johan Luken and Murphy didn’t have to wait long for their ride. The moment they stepped out of the terminal, Ritchie was there with his four by four, fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel. He grinned wide when he saw them and the locks clicked open. Johan got in the back and Murphy took the passenger seat as Ritchie hit the gas. They sped away from the Los Angeles International Airport Arrivals terminal, Murphy clutching at the door.
“You found him,” Johan said.
“How did you know?” Ritchie looked back at him.
“Watch the road, Ritchie!” Murphy pushed his face back to look forward.
“You’re out of your loft, aren’t you?” Johan said. He had never seen Ritchie out in the world. Ritchie grinned.
“That woman gave you gold,” he said as he took the exit for the 105 East. “I first started with the Shoah Foundation and the Holocaust Survivors and Victim’s Database but didn’t find a name with the right age or name.” Murphy gave a small yelp as Ritchie jerked the car into the right most lane heading to the 405 South. Ritchie continued. “So then I hit up the immigration records…”
“How did you…” Murphy asked with incredulity. Ritchie waved her off.
“And you’ll never believe what I found.” He waited for their reaction.
“What, Ritchie?” Johan’s heart fluttered in his chest. They were going to find her alive.
“I found a secret government program.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Murphy interrupted.
“This is legit. I’m not some crazy conspiracy theorist, I swear. Reporters and a novelist got info on it through the Freedom of Information Act. It just got declassified. It was called Operation Paperclip and consisted of a bunch of Nazi doctors and scientists brought to America in secret to help our government create all sorts of bombs and bio warfare gear. They seem to have looked the other way on the fact that some of these doctors experimented on human beings in the extermination camps. I found the list of names and came across several here in Southern California. One stuck out, a Sigmund Schrieber with his wife and young son named Simon,” Ritchie said. Johan sucked in his breath. It had to be him.
“The old man died in 1948 from an apparent suicide in his bathtub. The wife died the year before from cancer. The son disappeared on the same day of Daddy’s suicide. Sounds fishy, right?”
“The English version of Szymon is Simon. The time frame, the bad parents. It fits. So what happened to the house?” Murphy asked.
“It went into foreclosure some years back and was snapped up by a woman named Regina Ann Michaels.”
“How do we know he’ll be there?” Murphy asked, holding on for dear life as Ritchie peered ov
er the dashboard.
“I did some checking on Regina Ann Michaels. I found a name of a woman who lived down the road from them by the name of Regina Michaels, but the strange thing was she died in 1960.”
“You really found him,” Johan said.
“Do we call in reinforcements?” Ritchie asked as he took the Manhattan Boulevard exit.
“Let’s find out if this is the right place first. If there’s some poor old woman named Regina Ann Michaels living there, I don’t want to give her a heart attack when the SWAT team comes through her window,” Murphy said.
“It’s him. It all fits,” Johan muttered under his breath. He couldn’t believe they had finally found him.
They flew by shopping centers and small bungalows before Ritchie slammed on the breaks to take a left onto Elm Avenue. The car crawled down the street until Ritchie found number 19782. They parked right in front.
“I’m going in alone. If this goes sideways, I’m police,” Murphy said as she checked her gun in her holster.
“You aren’t leaving me behind. I’m coming with you,” Johan said. She looked back at him, and he shook his head. “I’m going.”
“Fine. But I can’t protect you.”
“I can take care of myself,” Johan said.
“I’ll stay in the car. I might even duck,” Ritchie offered and then grew serious. “Bring Sara back.”
Johan nodded, and he and Murphy both got out of the car.
“How do you want to play this?” Johan asked.
“We knock on the door,” she said and gave him a small smile. “And take it from there. Stay behind me though.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Murphy banged on the red door. They heard someone shuffling inside, and the curtain on the window shifted. Dads peered out at them and then disappeared behind the curtains.
Johan threw his body against the door. It didn’t budge. He jumped back several steps and launched himself again. The door gave way with a loud crack. Flinching from the pain, Johan caught sight of Sara on the couch. He ran into the house. “Sara! Sara!”
“Johan, be careful!” He heard Murphy behind him.
“Go after him,” he yelled. He dropped down to his knees in front of her and checked her pulse. She had one, but barely. “Sara. Wake up. Sara! SARA!” He shook her but got no response. He took out his flip phone and dialed 911.
“My friend needs medical attention. I can’t wake her up. 19782 Elm Avenue, Manhattan Beach. Please.” He lifted Sara into his arms and began to sob.
Detective Eva Murphy held her gun in front of her as she navigated through the house in search of the Jerry Killer. She heard Johan calling 911 in the other room as she walked down a small corridor. She opened the first door on the right. An older woman stood in the doorway.
“Ma’am, close the door and get into the closet,” Murphy whispered. “I’m LAPD. Do you know where he went?” The older woman pointed to the last door in the hallway.
“My fault. This was my fault,” the woman said in a thick, German accent and closed the door with a click.
Murphy readied her gun and stared at the door. Was that Elvis Presley playing on the radio?
She took a deep breath and approached the door with great care, trying not to make a sound. The carpet softened the small creaks of her footsteps, but she worried they still gave her away. What the hell was she doing here without backup? How was she going to explain this to the bosses upstairs and the FBI?
“Not now, Murphy,” she muttered and stopped when she heard the faucet turn. He had to be in there. The sound of water filled the hallway.
Why was the water on?
“Simon, we know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up,” she shouted as she pressed her back against the wall next to the doorway. She had no idea how many weapons he had inside, and she’d seen what he was capable of.
“We can do this nice, and easy, or I come in there shooting.” Could the old man even hear anything over the sound of that water? Larson would have gone in there swinging and this felt like the right time for just the same.
She checked the handle. He’d left the door unlocked. She turned it and let the door swing open. Steam poured out of the bathroom as she swung her Glock in front of her.
“Get your hands up, where I can see them?” she demanded and peered into the small bathroom, waiting for the steam to dissipate.
Dads, Simon, Szymon, the Jerry Killer, stood in a bathtub filled with water holding an old fashioned blow dryer in his hand. His hair stood on end, and his eyes were maniacal and the brightest blue she’d ever seen.
“Put the hair dryer down, Simon,” Murphy yelled over the running water. Simon cocked his head in response.
“It’s time to die,” he said. “I wanted to kill them all and in the end I became just like them. Funny how things end, don’t you think?”
“Put it down!” Murphy yelled again as Simon switched the hairdryer on and dropped it into the water at his feet. Murphy shielded her eyes from the light flash as the stench of burning skin and ozone filled the small room. With her eyes still closed, she backed out of the room.
Thanks very much for spending your time on my book, The Elk, not to mention your hard earned money. This book was quite special for me to write. I’ve long been fascinated by the dark underbelly of Hollywood and was so excited to use The Knickerbocker Hotel, a historic Los Angeles hotel catering to the burgeoning film industry from the 20s to the 50s, as the setting, under the pseudonym of the Hollywood Bockerman Hotel, for this novel. Using bits of its sordid history as inspiration for the goings on in The Elk, I also wove my two other great passions, World War II era Polish history and serial killer thrillers into this genre bending story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it.
The Elk is the first book in the Caine & Murphy thriller series about disturbing murder cases in Los Angeles with a supernatural bent. The second book, The Lamb, continues the developing working relationship between Sara Caine and Detective Eva Murphy and will be available March 2015. The novella, The Missing Soul, is available now and chronicles Sara Caine’s first case and her struggles with coming to terms with her unique abilities. And on top of that, I’ve also included the first two chapters as a preview for Book 2 in the Caine & Murphy Paranormal Thriller series The Lamb. I’ll send this novella and the two chapter preview to you for free if you sign up for The Searchers Newsletter!
This is a self-published book and means I depend greatly on you, the reader, to help me find a bigger audience. If you enjoyed reading this book and have a moment to spare, I hope you won’t mind in sharing your experience with another reader who might enjoy it as well. Two things you can do to help:
• Rate and review the book on Amazon
• Sign up for The Searchers Newsletter!
One of the best things about being an independent author is that I’m more accessible to my readers. If you see me around online, please do say hello. I’d love to hear from you!
Thanks so much and happy reading!
Dominika
Dominika Waclawiak is the author of The Elk, The Missing Soul and the forthcoming novel The Lamb. She is a graduate of Cornell University and the American Film Institute’s prestigious Directing Workshop for Women program. Dominika currently lives in Los Angeles busy writing her next novel, several film and TV projects, and plotting a visual effects laden science fiction feature film project to direct. In her former life, Dominika created visual effects for blockbuster movies that netted three Oscars: LIFE OF PI, HAPPY FEET, and the CHRONICLES OF NARNIA: THE LION, THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE. She also created images for THE GOLDEN COMPASS and THE INCREDIBLE HULK to name just a few.
More about Dominika at www.dominikawaclawiak.com
Follow Dominika at www.twitter.com/domWaclawiak
The Elk (A Caine & Murphy Paranormal Thriller Series Book 1) Page 24
