Redzone

by William C. Dietz

  “Good,” Lee said as she took one last look at the man who, based on what they knew so far, had to be the Bonebreaker. There was a problem though . . . A significant problem. The face on the screen was too damned young to be the Bonebreaker’s. No one knew how old the Bonebreaker was exactly—but he’d been killing cops for a long time, and Lee figured that Mr. Goodbar was thirty or so. So what the hell did that mean? It could mean that a copycat killer was responsible for the Vasquez murder. But how to prove it?

  ELEVEN

  DESPITE THE FACT that Lee didn’t like having cameras in her apartment, they did provide her with an additional sense of security, and she slept well as a result. So she woke up feeling rested and was only ten minutes late when she arrived at work. And that was the same thing as being on time in her book.

  After sitting through roll call, Lee went to her cubicle, where she was scrolling through her e-mail, when Yanty plopped down on her guest chair. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “I have bad news, good news, and bad news. In that order.”

  “That sounds like a shit sandwich,” Lee replied sourly. “Okay, what’s the first piece of bad news?”

  “We were hoping to recover video of the Bonebreaker dumping the garbage bags next to the freeway,” Yanty said. “Unfortunately, the nearest camera was dead. Somebody put a high-velocity rifle slug into it.”

  Lee frowned. “The Bonebreaker?”

  Yanty shook his head. “We don’t think so. I’m told that gang members and vandals use cameras for target practice on a regular basis. So odds are that the Bonebreaker had nothing to do with it.”

  The occasional report of gunfire was part of LA’s eternal sound track along with the wail of sirens. And Lee could imagine gang members shooting at the cameras for fun and to reduce the extent to which authorities could keep an eye on them. “Okay, that sucks. So what’s the good news?”

  Yanty smiled. “We got lucky. A passing motorist saw the bags being dumped and is willing to tell us all about it.”

  “Uh-oh,” Lee said. “Something about the way you said that tells me that I’m about to receive the second piece of bad news.”

  “Yup,” Yanty confirmed. “Unfortunately, the aforementioned motorist is none other than a four-time loser named Mr. William Rawlings . . . A man better known to his friends, neighbors, and cellmates as Slick Willy. At the moment he’s over at the Metro Detention Center waiting to be arraigned for grand theft auto.”

  Lee eyed the other detective. “Don’t tell me, let me guess . . . On top of the fact that he’s an ex-con, Slick Willy was driving a stolen car when he witnessed the bags being dumped. A fact that would make his testimony less credible.”

  Yanty’s grin grew wider. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “And he wants to cut a deal.”

  “Exactamundo. That’s why they call him Slick Willy. He refuses to say what he saw unless the DA cuts him some slack.”

  “And will he? Cut Willy some slack?”

  Yanty nodded. “Given the nature of what we’re working on, he’s willing to drop the charge from grand theft auto to theft. Even though Rawlings was driving a car worth 40 thou.”

  Lee knew that the lesser charge was likely to result in a shorter sentence, and nodded. “Good work . . . So let’s stroll over to the MDC and see what Mr. Rawlings has to say.”

  The jail was a short walk from the headquarters building. Once inside Lee and Yanty had to show ID to get past the reception desk. Then they had to show it again once they arrived at a checkpoint, where they were asked to surrender their weapons.

  After logging in the officers were herded through a metal detector and a health screening before being escorted to one of the interview rooms. The walls were lime green, ceiling-mounted cameras were ready to capture the interview from two different angles, and the table was bolted to the floor. Brightly colored plastic chairs completed the décor.

  The detectives sat down, and Lee continued to work on her e-mail via her phone until the door opened, and Slick Willy was shown in. He had longish brown hair that was parted on the right, a high forehead, and slightly protuberant eyes. A neatly trimmed mustache and Custer-style goatee completed the look. “Cuffs on? Or cuffs off?” the uniformed guard wanted to know.

  “Cuffs off,” Lee replied. “Thank you.”

  “Dial five when you’re finished,” the jailer said, as he pointed to a wall-mounted phone.

  “Got it,” Yanty replied. “Thanks.”

  “Have a seat,” Lee said, as the guard left. “So you’re the famous Slick Willy.”

  Rawlings liked that description of himself, and his expression brightened as he sat down. “Yeah . . . That’s what they call me.”

  “I’m Detective Lee—and this is Detective Yanty. We hear that you have some information regarding the Vasquez murder. We’re all ears.”

  Rawlings frowned. “Not so fast . . . What’s in it for me?”

  “That depends,” Yanty responded. “What sort of information do you have? If you can ID the killer, we’ll carry you out of here on our shoulders.”

  “I don’t know who killed Officer Vasquez,” Rawlings said cautiously. “But I saw the Bonebreaker guy dump the bags. You know . . . the ones filled with body parts. I saw a report on TV.”

  Lee pretended to yawn. “Whoopee. We have video of that taken from the other side of the freeway. This is a waste of time.”

  “Not so fast,” Yanty said. “Rawlings had a different angle on what took place . . . Maybe he noticed something important.”

  “Whatever,” Lee said dismissively. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Rawlings . . . You tell us your story, and we’ll ask the DA to reduce the charge from grand theft to theft. You’ve been through the grinder before—so you know that’s a righteous deal.”

  Rawlings appeared to think about it. Then he nodded. “Okay . . . I’m in.”

  “Excellent,” Yanty said. “So, give . . . Tell us what you saw.”

  “It was about 4:30 A.M.,” Rawlings began, “and I was headed north on the Hollywood Freeway.”

  “In someone else’s car,” Lee reminded him.

  “Maybe,” Rawlings said with a quick glance at one of the cameras. “There wasn’t much traffic, but I had a big pickup in front of me. It had a canopy on the back. Suddenly, the flashers came on and the truck swerved over onto the shoulder of the road. I figured the guy had a flat tire, but that was when the tailgate fell, and the first garbage bag tumbled out.”

  Lee remembered the scene—and the way the bags were spaced out. “Okay . . . Then what?”

  “Then a second bag fell out—quickly followed by a third,” Rawlings said. “That was when the flashers went off and the truck veered onto the freeway. I figured the bags were filled with trash until I saw the news reports later that morning.”

  Lee’s mind was racing. Two people. It would take two people to dump the bags. One to drive the truck and one to kick the containers out over the tailgate. And the Bonebreaker was a loner. Never, not once, had there been any evidence of an accomplice. Not until now. That suggested that a minimum of two people took part in the Vasquez murder. And that was a big deal.

  Three hours had passed since the interview with Slick Willy. Lee, Jenkins, and Wolfe were seated in Chief of Police Corso’s private conference room. They were about to take part in the kind of meeting that Lee hated the most, which was to say a meeting that Corso was involved in. The walls were decorated with artistic black-and-white photos of the “new” LA; there were a lot of green plants, and the redwood conference table was large enough to seat twenty people.

  A good fifteen minutes passed before Corso entered the room. The thousand-megawatt smile was on, and he was dressed in a beautifully cut blue suit. Corso was careful to acknowledge each person in the room before getting down to business. “I understand you have a new theory regarding the Vasquez murder,” Corso said. “Please proceed.”

  “There have been a couple of developments,” Jenkins said carefully, “neith
er of which is definitive. But taken together they raise the possibility that the Bonebreaker didn’t kill Vasquez.”

  Corso was visibly surprised. “Really? What makes you think so?”

  Jenkins turned to Lee. “Cassandra? You did the legwork—tell the chief what you discovered.”

  It was an attempt to give Lee credit for what she’d accomplished. She knew that. But the effect was to grant her full ownership of the theory. And she was fully aware that such ownership could cut both ways.

  With all eyes upon her Lee told Corso about the video of the last person to be seen with Vasquez, the way the bags had been spaced out on the freeway, and what Slick Willy Rawlings had seen. “So,” she concluded, “it’s possible that we’re dealing with a copycat killer. Or killers, since it would require two people to dump the bags out of a moving pickup.”

  Corso had been a street cop once, and as Lee watched his face, she could see him processing what she’d said. But Corso wasn’t a street cop anymore. He was a cop/politician. And one who wanted to become mayor. So his analysis was bound to be more complicated than hers. And that was reflected in the noncommittal response. “That’s interesting . . . Very interesting. I’m scheduled to meet with the mayor this afternoon. I’ll share your theory with her. In the meantime let’s keep the lid on this . . . An announcement, if any, will require some planning. Is there anything else? No? Okay . . . Thanks, and keep up the good work.”

  Corso left at that point, and Lee felt a sense of disappointment. Shouldn’t they start looking for Mr. Goodbar and his accomplice? Why wait? But Jenkins was more philosophical. “Don’t let it bother you,” he said, as they got onto the elevator. “Ignore the bullshit. Things will come right in the end.”

  * * *

  The decision had been made the previous evening. That was when one of Channel 7’s reporters announced that an individual who identified himself as the Bonebreaker had called the LAPD to take credit for the Vasquez murder! And that constituted an outrage insofar as the real Bonebreaker was concerned. First because he was innocent, and second because the name Bonebreaker belonged to him, and him alone. It was his brand . . . And woe be to the asshole who was trying to hijack it. The solution was obvious. Find the impersonator and kill him.

  So when the Bonebreaker rolled out of bed the next morning he had a long list of things to accomplish. The first of which was to find out where the Vasquez family lived. And that wasn’t easy because phone books were a thing of the past, and the media were part of a police-led conspiracy to keep the information private.

  But the date and time for the memorial service had been announced along with the name of the cemetery where Vasquez’s body parts were to be buried. The same graveyard to which most of the Bonebreaker’s victims had been sent.

  It was a simple matter to call the cemetery’s business office, schmooze the female secretary, and claim to be an undertaker who wanted to confirm the exact location of the Vasquez gravesite. “Hundreds of people will be there,” he said. “Imagine the hullaballoo if I pull up at the wrong site.”

  The secretary could imagine it because that very thing had occurred before. Not for a policeman, but for a state senator, and there had been a lot of bad press. She gave him precise directions to the site, and was happy to provide the Bonebreaker additional information as well, including the Vasquez family’s phone number. He thanked her and promised to drop by the office some time.

  With that accomplished the Bonebreaker went to work on the next task, something he’d done before, and that was to create a fake identity for himself. The materials required for that purpose were kept in what he called the costume room.

  It was a fully enclosed space that had been painstakingly sealed off from the rats and was located just off one of the halls that connected his many rooms together. By necessity the costume room was better lit than most of the Bonebreaker’s underground kingdom. And it was equipped with a dehumidifier, a beat-up makeup table, and a full-length mirror.

  A variety of carefully maintained clothes hung along one wall, with floor-to-ceiling shelves on the other. That’s where more than two dozen latex masks sat waiting, each on its own styrofoam head. Below them were the belts, shoes, and other accessories required to successfully build a character. In this case the Bonebreaker had chosen to become a police detective, both because that would help him achieve his goal, and to make the LAPD look stupid.

  So the rest of the day was spent assembling all of the elements required for his disguise and prepping himself for a return to society. And that was more difficult than it sounded because after staying in the ossuary for long periods of time he found it increasingly difficult to carry out what most people considered normal interactions. That’s why he spent a couple of hours chatting with the AI on an interactive computer program intended for ESL students.

  By the time darkness fell on the outside world, the Bonebreaker was ready to leave his spiritual retreat, and enter the world of God’s apocalypse. He was wearing the full head mask that the manufacturer called “The Doctor.” The Bonebreaker had chosen that particular countenance because of its bland, middle-aged quality.

  His clothes consisted of a white shirt, a nondescript tie, and a gray suit. All of which were a good fit and were consistent with what Detective Lou Harmon would have worn had he been alive. Fortunately, for the betterment of humanity, Harmon had suffered through the last few seconds of his life in the ossuary twelve years earlier.

  Finally, with briefcase in hand, the Bonebreaker was ready to go. That involved a careful exit via one of many escape routes lest he inadvertently leave some sign of what existed belowground. Once outside the Bonebreaker paused to adjust. The area that belonged to him was like an island of darkness in an ocean of lights. The air was cool and tasted different.

  Having oriented himself, the Bonebreaker set forth on his mission. A three-minute walk took him to a cyclone fence. One section of mesh was connected to a metal post with hooks that the Bonebreaker had fabricated and installed years earlier. By pulling the fence off the hooks, he could pass through the resulting gap, and close the opening behind him.

  Once the Bonebreaker was safely through, he began the six-block walk to a major arterial and the nearest bus stop. It would have been more convenient to steal a car locally. But to do so would attract more police attention to the area, which the Bonebreaker wanted to avoid.

  And there were other threats as well . . . Including the gangs that ruled the night. Were some of them to come across a well-dressed businessman walking along a deserted street they would pounce. Then they would die. Because the Bonebreaker was armed with a .22 caliber Ruger Mark III semiauto pistol. A suppressor was attached to the black five-and-a-half-inch barrel, and that made the weapon too long for a holster. So he was carrying the handgun down along his right leg.

  Fortunately, the Bonebreaker was able to reach the well-lit bus stop without having to defend himself. The .22 was safely hidden within the outer pocket of his briefcase where he could access it if the need arose. Half a dozen other people were present and none of them were staring at him. A sure sign that the disguise was working.

  The bus arrived ten minutes later and the Bonebreaker followed a young man aboard. It was his experience that most people see what they expect to see. And so long as a person doesn’t appear threatening, and isn’t unusually attractive, they pay very little attention. That was why the Bonebreaker loosened his tie and closed his eyes. Anyone who looked at him would conclude that he was a tired businessman returning home.

  The Bonebreaker was forced to transfer twice before arriving in Northeast Los Angeles. A neighborhood that was a long way from the ossuary and therefore a safe place in which to steal a car. There was no particular reason why the Bonebreaker chose the street he did. Or selected that particular house other than the fact that he liked the car in the driveway. Not because it was fancy—but because it wasn’t.

  He made his way up a short flight of stairs and stood in a pool of light on th
e porch. Then he put the briefcase down on the “Welcome” mat so he could hold the ID folder with his left hand. Having made his preparations it was a simple matter to press the doorbell button and wait. There was the sound of footsteps followed by a moment of silence. The Bonebreaker held the ID up so the homeowner could see it through the peephole. Detective Harmon was dead—but his badge was still on duty.

  The Bonebreaker heard a discreet click as the person on the other side of the barrier turned the bolt. Then the door opened to reveal a middle-aged black woman. She had nice hair, brown eyes, and a pleasant smile. “Yes?” she said. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

  The Bonebreaker could smile, but the mask couldn’t, so there wasn’t any point in trying to do so. “I was wondering about the car parked in your driveway,” he said. “Does it belong to you?”

  “Why yes it does,” she answered. “Why do you . . .”

  That was when the Bonebreaker shot her in the face. There was very little sound other than a soft thump as the woman’s body collapsed on the floor. “Cora?” a male voice called. “Who’s at the door?”

  “That would be me,” the Bonebreaker said, as he entered the living room. The man who was seated in the Barcalounger attempted to rise but was at a significant disadvantage. The .22 produced a gentle pop, and a hole appeared between the man’s eyes. “Sorry about that,” the Bonebreaker said, as the body slumped back into the chair. “But have no fear—God has a place for you in heaven.”

  Never assume anything. That was an important rule—and one that the Bonebreaker was careful to observe. The fact that he’d been able to successfully eliminate what appeared to be the two homeowners didn’t mean that more people weren’t living in the house. Children for example—or a visitor. So the Bonebreaker went from room to room, pistol at the ready. But with the exception of the cat sleeping in a laundry basket the rest of the place was empty.

  After searching for and recovering both of the empty shell casings the Bonebreaker went looking for money. Not because he loved it but because he needed it, and was pleased to collect a total of $519.24 after going through the man’s wallet and Cora’s purse.