Bloodthirsty

by Marshall Karp

  Of course, they wouldn’t ship it anywhere. The police would take his wallet and run the name Roger Dingle through their computer. Then they’d contact LAPD to let them know that they had the remains of the guy you’re looking for, and LA would ask for positive ID.

  No problemo. Someone at the Tijuana police would contact someone at the local morgue and ask for fingerprints on the gringo suicide victim. Eventually, they’d realize that they had Roger Dingle’s wallet and somebody else’s faceless corpse. But that would take time. Mexican time. By then Roger would have returned to LA and finished what he had started.

  Roger took one last look at Arvin Skett’s body and felt a pang of regret. Arvin was lying on the bed, the .45 in his right hand, his blood and brains spattered from the pillow to the far wall. Damn shame, Roger thought. I hate having to leave that gun behind. I’ve had it a good twenty years.

  A half hour later he was driving across the border in the Dodge pickup. The guard waved him on through. “Welcome back to the U.S., Mr. Skett.”

  Sunday night he checked into the Best Western on Century Boulevard close to LAX. He used Arvin’s credit card. He’d have rather paid cash, but the card wouldn’t be reported stolen until Arvin was identified, and his cop sense told him that since 9/11 anyone who checked into an airport hotel using cash would raise red flags.

  Monday he shopped for the things he needed to do the job. That night he made the six o’clock news. Roger Dingle, the mass murderer known as the Hollywood Bloodsucker, has taken his own life in a motel in Tijuana.

  Then they cut to Halsey Bates, the only survivor of the vicious killing spree. Bates prattled on about the tragedy of Joy Lee and her parents. But that was the past, and he wanted to talk about the future. He was dedicating another rescue mission on Wednesday at noon. They expected at least five hundred homeless people for the inaugural celebratory lunch.

  “Five hundred and one,” Roger said to the television set.

  Tuesday was painfully long. Roger spent most of the day in his hotel room flipping from news channel to news channel. The good news was he was still dead.

  On Wednesday at 4 a.m. he checked out of the hotel and drove downtown. The new rescue mission was on East Fifth Street, the heart of Skid Row. Roger parked ten blocks away. The windshield would fill up with tickets until they finally impounded the truck. He didn’t care. He wasn’t coming back.

  It was still dark out. He hopped out of the cab and made sure there was no one in sight. Then he got the wheelchair out of the back. He had bought it used, then beat it up some more. Finally, to give it a little character, he plastered a dozen bumper stickers to the metal sides and the vinyl seat. His favorite was Jesus Loves You. Everyone Else Thinks You’re An Asshole.

  He hadn’t shaved in nearly a week, and his clothes were torn and well stained. This wasn’t Roger’s first outing as a homeless man. Two years ago, a new sport had caught on in Houston. Bum hunting. Packs of teenage boys would attack homeless men with paintball guns and baseball bats. Roger was still with the Houston PD then, and he had gone undercover. He dressed in rags, staggering around in alleys and side streets for five nights until a gang of teenage boys pounced on him.

  They were all white and rich, and their lawyers blamed their senseless acts on the Bumfight videos, which were corrupting the nation’s youth. They all got jail time, and Roger got a commendation from the department. Joy and Aggie had been at the awards ceremony. It seemed like a lifetime ago. It was. Joy’s lifetime.

  He wheeled himself toward East Fifth. Halfway there he saw a large black man urinating against a wall. “Hey bro,” Roger yelled.

  “What do you want, crip,” the man said.

  “If you can lift that monster you got in your hand, you can probably push an old man down to the Nickel.”

  The guy laughed and zipped up. “You got the monster part right, but what is it about me that makes you think I’d want to push an old white cripple around the Row? What’s in it for me?”

  “I’m a real good tipper,” Roger said. “Especially if you like Jack.”

  “Jack who?”

  “Daniels.”

  “Yeah, right. You ain’t got Jack shit, whitey.”

  Roger had a backpack strapped to his chest. He reached in and produced a pint of Jack Daniels. “Have a taste,” he said.

  The man broke the seal and unscrewed the cap. He took a swallow, then a second. “This is top-shelf,” he said. “Where’d you get this?”

  “I hit the lottery. Now, you interested in pushing me downtown? I have a lunch date. I’m going to the grand opening of that new rescue mission, and I want to be at the front of the line.”

  The black man took another swig. “I got your booze, and I got two good legs,” he said. “Why do I have to push you anywhere?”

  Roger tapped the backpack and got the distinct sound of glass hitting glass. “You only got one bottle, Brother. I told you I hit the lottery.”

  “Buckle up, dude,” the guy said. “You don’t mind me drinking and driving, do you?”

  “What do I look like?” Roger said. “A cop?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  They stopped off for breakfast. Roger had bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee. The black man had four doughnuts and a Coke.

  “My name is Carl,” he said. “My friends call me Chain Gang.”

  “That sounds like a story I might want to hear,” Roger said.

  “Not on the first date,” Carl said, pouring the rest of the first pint of Jack into his Coke. “You got a name?”

  “Heywood,” Roger said. “Last name is Yafuckoff.”

  “Heywood Yafuckoff. What kind of a—” Carl let out a loud cackling laugh. “Hey would you fuck off. That’s a good one. There’s more to you than meets the eye, Cracker. You can afford booze and breakfast, but you show up six hours early for a free lunch.”

  “What can I tell you? I love grand openings,” Roger said. “They’re so festive.”

  They killed five hours and three pints. When the doors to the mission opened, they were at the head of the line. Carl wheeled Roger to the front row. He pulled his baseball cap low, slouched in his wheelchair, and took inventory.

  Roger was here on a mission. He didn’t expect to escape, but as he looked around the room, he began to get his hopes up. There were no cops. Just two security guards, one white, one black, both old. I can take them, he thought. And the nuns, the priests, and the other do-gooders who were opening their new home to crazy people in rags were no threat either.

  The only thing between me and that front door are five hundred of the least motivated life forms on the planet, Roger thought. I should have hired Carl to run interference for me.

  And then Halsey entered. The nuns started applauding and the rest of the room joined in. He was wearing khaki pants and a pink sweater. Pink, Roger thought, and his mind flashed to the photos he’d seen of Jackie Kennedy dressed in pink that day in Dallas.

  Blood shows up real good on pink, Roger thought.

  Halsey stood at a podium just six feet in front of Roger and began to speak. Roger slipped his hand under his thigh and wrapped his fingers around the grip of his Ka-bar. It was the same knife he had used on the pigs and the Mexican kid. It’s just as well I don’t have my gun, he thought. I’ll get a lot more blood with a blade.

  Halsey knew his audience, so he kept the speech short. Roger couldn’t focus on what Halsey was preaching. Every now and then he’d pick up a few phrases. New beginnings…always hope…I know hardship too…my goal is to help…and more bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

  In two minutes it was over. Polite applause. Halsey stepped away from the podium.

  “Halsey, we love you,” Roger yelled. “Come shake hands.”

  Halsey smiled, stepped up to the wheelchair, and bent over, his arm extended. Roger’s hand whipped out from under his leg and thrust the Ka-bar directly toward Halsey’s heart.

  There was a scream, and Halsey fell to the ground, his pink sweater drenched in bl
ood.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Roger Dingle completely blindsided us. We had been watching for him, but we never saw him walk in.

  There were half a dozen undercover cops in the room, but most of us were either in the back or on the sides, covering every possible escape route. What we didn’t count on was the suicide bomber mentality. Roger didn’t care if he got caught. All he wanted was to kill Halsey Bates.

  I had scanned the crowd while Halsey was speaking. Then I watched him as he approached the guy in the wheelchair. Even as I was thinking, this is a bad idea, I saw the knife come up and the center of Halsey’s sweater go red. Then he hit the floor. Hard.

  All hell broke loose. The crowd began to push their way out, pushing me with them. I plastered myself to a wall and radioed for backup and paramedics. Then I started fighting my way toward the man in the wheelchair.

  Terry got there before me. He grabbed Roger’s right arm and pulled him to the ground. I didn’t know if Roger still had the knife, but I could see blood all over Terry’s face and his priest’s collar. Then a large black man fell on top of Roger and helped roll him over so Terry could get the cuffs on.

  Halsey was flat on his back in a puddle of blood. Someone yelled, “He could have AIDS,” and people backed off quickly—all except a few for whom catching the virus was no longer an issue.

  I put my hand behind Halsey’s head and tipped him forward. “Hang on,” I said. “We’ll get you to the hospital.”

  “No, I’m fine, really. It just hurts a little.” He reached behind his head and rubbed it. “How bad is it back there?” he said.

  I pulled my hand away from his head. It was wet and sticky with blood. And then I realized. Halsey was bleeding from the back of his head. I lifted his sweater. The blood on it wasn’t coming from Halsey. The vest had done its job.

  “It looks like the knife hit him square in the metal shock plate,” Terry said. “But it didn’t penetrate. The blood all over his sweater is Roger’s. The vest stopped the knife, but his hand had so much momentum, it kept going right along the blade. He practically sliced it off. He’s bleeding bad.”

  I turned back to Halsey. “And you?”

  “I’m okay. I just hit my head on the way down. We have a nurse here. She can patch me up. I really want to stay and feed these people.”

  “And how about you?” I said to the big black man who had helped Terry get Roger cuffed.

  “I’m fine,” he said. He stood up. “And assuming you don’t arrest good Samaritans for helping, I’m gonna just take my stuff and go.”

  He picked up his backpack, and I heard the clinking of glass.

  “Empties,” he said. “I get a nickel for each one I return.”

  “Do you have an ID?” I said.

  He laughed. “Nobody here has an ID. And even if they did, I wouldn’t believe it. I didn’t do nothing wrong,” he said. “Am I free to go?”

  “Sure,” I said. “And thanks for your help. Do you have a name?”

  “Only if it’s required by law.”

  “How about just a first name,” I said.

  He flashed a big smile. “Heywood.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  There were five of us in Terry and Marilyn’s dining room. Jett, their black Lab, was under the table. Terry, Marilyn, and Diana had consumed the better part of three bottles of Kendall Jackson chardonnay, and were well on their way to joining the dog. I was the designated driver, so I let the three of them do the heavy drinking.

  We were having our Case Closed dinner. Marilyn made jambalaya. Diana and I brought pecan pie and ice cream. Terry had just rehashed the details of Roger Dingle’s capture at the rescue mission for the third time.

  “I would have loved to see you in your priest’s outfit,” Diana said.

  “I’m going to wear part of it later on tonight,” Terry said. “But I have to wait for you and Mike to leave. Only Marilyn gets to see me.”

  “Which part are you wearing?” Marilyn said.

  “The collar and the black socks.”

  “Wouldn’t you have wanted to see Mike in his homeless outfit?” Marilyn said. “I wish we had pictures.”

  “I’ve seen Mike dressed like a homeless man,” Diana said. “On Sundays during football season. How did you guys figure out that Roger Dingle didn’t commit suicide?”

  “His wife told us,” I said. “Not on purpose. She didn’t give him up. But on Monday when Terry and I broke the news to her that her husband was dead, she thanked us, and that was it. It just didn’t feel like the right reaction.”

  “But different women react differently,” Diana said. “How do you know what the right reaction is?”

  “You just do,” Terry said. “Like if they told Marilyn I was dead, she’d call the insurance man and start remodeling the kitchen. Aggie Dingle reacted like…like she didn’t believe us. I think she knew Roger would try to kill Halsey before he’d ever kill himself.”

  “Now what happens to them?” Marilyn said.

  “It’s up to the system,” I said. “Aggie may get out one day when she’s eighty years old. Avenging her daughter may resonate if she gets the right judge and jury. But Roger murdered this guy Arvin Skett in Mexico just to get his truck and his ID. Best guess, he’ll die in prison.”

  “It’s all very sad,” Diana said. “They were leading a perfectly normal happy life, and their daughter gets killed and look where it ended up.”

  “What would you do, honey?” Marilyn said to Terry.

  “What would I do about what?”

  “What would you do if, God forbid, somebody ever murdered one of the girls?”

  “No question,” Terry said. “I’d buy an AK-47 and get revenge.”

  “What if they murdered me?” Marilyn said.

  “No question on that one either,” he said. “Internet dating.”

  Marilyn punched him in the shoulder. Then she kissed him.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” Diana slurred. “To our two favorite crime fighters. Congratulations on another case closed.”

  “I’d like to propose a toast too,” Terry said, lifting his glass. “To the victor.”

  “You’re a little sloshed,” Marilyn said. “There’s two of you. To the victors.”

  “No, no, no,” Terry said. “I’m toasting the one and only Victor, the kid who works in the morgue. As of this afternoon, he’s a free man.”

  “What?” Marilyn said. “He interferes with a high-speed police chase, almost gets you and Mike killed, and they let him go?”

  “They dropped the felony charges and slapped him on the wrist with some community service,” Terry said.

  “Community service?” Marilyn said, the chardonnay causing her to mangle both of the words. “How could they—”

  “He’s got no priors,” I said, “and according to Halsey, that dumbass stunt of Victor’s saved his life. He is forever indebted to Victor Shea, and more than a little attracted to him. In fact, it was Halsey who pulled the political strings that got Victor off the hook.”

  “But that’s not all, folks,” Terry said. “The boy is not only free, he is now rich. Halsey is also going to produce and direct Victor’s movie.”

  “What movie?” Marilyn said.

  “This case we just wrapped up,” Terry said. “Halsey thinks it can be a blockbuster.”

  Marilyn was getting angry. “But it’s your case.”

  “I know,” Terry said. “But Halsey wants to come at it from Victor’s point of view. Victor knew Aggie and Roger. He was close to Joy Lee, whose murder was their underlying motive. He works in the morgue. He even got in the middle of a high-speed chase that resulted in one arrest and one escape.”

  “And one bullet,” I said. “Which was taken by guess who.”

  “Hell, if I had $250,000, I’d have optioned Victor’s story myself,” Terry said.

  Marilyn stood up. “He got $250,000?”

  “It’ll be in tomorrow morning’s newspapers,” Terry sa
id. “When we released Victor late this afternoon, Halsey showed up with a contract and a bunch of reporters. He gave Victor a pen, leaned over, and the kid signed right there on Halsey’s back. It was a great stunt. A true tribute to the late, great, exsanguinated Barry Gerber.”

  Marilyn took a fourth bottle of wine from the counter and grabbed the corkscrew. “He should have gotten five years in jail. Instead he gets $250,000?”

  Terry nodded. “Two-fifty is what we heard. But you know Hollywood. It might only be $150,000.”

  “That’s way more than you and Mike got,” Marilyn said.

  “I told Mike we’d get more money if he’d sleep with Halsey,” Terry said. “But you know how resistant he is to change.”

  “So Halsey is doing Victor’s Bloodsucker story and our Family-land movie,” Marilyn said. “Which one is he making first?”

  “Victor’s,” I said.

  “What about ours?”

  “It’s in something called turnaround,” Terry said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I asked Big Jim to explain it to me,” I said. “From what I understand, it means they say they’re gonna make your movie, but they don’t.”

  Marilyn began refilling their three glasses with wine. “So they just lie to you?”

  “They don’t exactly lie,” Terry said. “They just promise they’re gonna make your movie someday, but that day never comes.”

  “Do we get to keep the $25,000 Halsey already paid us?” Marilyn said.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “And God knows it was easy money. We just did our jobs, and somebody paid us to option it for a feature. I’d be glad to do that any day of the week.”

  “So then that’s what you guys should do,” Diana said. “Just go out there and solve another big case and sell that one too.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” I said.

  “It may be the wine,” Diana said, “but I think you guys are the smartest, bravest cops in the whole city.”

  “You left out funniest,” Terry said.

  Diana raised her glass. “To Mike and Terry.”