12 Days

by Chris Frank

  “Hi, Officer Jovian.”

  Jim reflexively reached for his gun and answered without turning around.

  “Ms. Klein.”

  Jim suppressed a smile. There was a brief pause, something between them, before Lisa replied.

  “What were you looking at?”

  “Nothing, just looking.”

  Lisa paused again.

  “You spotted it, too. Didn’t you?”

  Jim tried to sound noncommittal and turned to face Lisa.

  “Spotted what?”

  “Listen, Officer Jovian, I thought that we had an understanding. You want to play amateur night with me, that’s fine. I’ll see you around.”

  She turned to walk away.

  “Wait!”

  She turned back, looking peeved.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t see it this morning, but I wasn’t really looking.”

  He jerked a thumb at the tree and watched her eyes. He could tell she was interested in the same thing.

  “What do you think it means?” Lisa asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jim lied.

  He knew that she knew. He could feel the rattle in his bones. This was the beginning of something. No doubt about it. There was going to be more to this, a lot more. They stared in silence at the sycamore tree that earlier that morning had borne its heaviest burden, the dead man who was now at the morgue. The flash of Lisa’s iPhone went off, illuminating what they were looking at. There, carved into the bark on the eastern portion of the tree, plain as day, was a big number ‘one’.

  Day One: 2:46 p.m.

  He sat in the empty parking lot of the McDonalds on Glendale Avenue, north of the 134, finishing off his fries. He never really understood greed, or how people could replace need with want. Janette McDermott was a woman with a nice home and a fancy car; things that he certainly would never have. All that money and still the good Catholic soccer mom wanted to sell a house on Christmas day. Unbelievable greed. Fucking sacrilege. Somewhere in Heaven, an angel was puking rather than getting his wings. But that’s why he was there; to make things right. The silent pleasure that he had hoped to derive from the final two slurps of his vanilla shake was spoiled by the sound of Janette kicking the inside rear quarter panel of his truck. She was making quite a racket back there and it was giving him a headache. He should have used the chloroform on her, he thought, like he did with the other guy. That would have kept her quiet and prevented the blinding pain that was now pressing against the back of his eyes. But no, he would have to be content with the salty pleasures of his meal and the potential of what was to come. Less than ten hours, he reminded himself, less than ten hours. Soon you’ll be quiet, my little dove.

  Day One: 2:59 p.m.

  The West Covina police station was essentially a large room with six desks and a holding cell. There was an office for the lieutenant and a conference room in the back, but a tour of the facility normally took little more than a sweep of the eyes. Jim did not give Lisa a tour. He led her to his desk and sat her down on a very uncomfortable chair.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks. Cream, if you have it.”

  She was already keyed up from her earlier caffeine jolt and from the discovery on the tree, but what the hell, she liked the feeling. It made the excitement more intense. Jim returned moments later with two paper cups of something that looked like coffee. With the added cream, Lisa tasted something reminiscent of a glass of dishwater and milk, but she sipped it like a trooper, hiding her grimace as Jim sat down in his chair. Jim was not so polite. Upon his first taste, he gagged and shouted to no one in particular.

  “Jesus Christ, who made this shit?’

  Lisa smiled. A voice from across the room shouted back. It was Roy Winston.

  “This ain’t Starbucks, princess.”

  Roy swiveled on his chair and saw Jim sitting with an attractive brunette.

  “Why are you back here, anyway?”

  “Just got some things to check on,”

  “Like dead St. Nick?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jim got up from his chair and headed in Roy’s direction.

  “Got anything identifying the victim yet?”

  “Prints came back from the California Bar Association. Our dead Santa is Paul Anthony Artridge, 9776 Wilshire Blvd. #1403, Los Angeles, California. Apparently, he was some hot shot litigation attorney, a partner in a big firm in Century City.”

  “What the fuck was he doing in West Covina?”

  “Besides hanging from a tree?”

  Jim gave Roy his ‘fuck you’ look.

  Roy continued.

  “The jumpsuits found ligature marks around the guy’s wrists and traces of chloroform on toxicology screen. Mr. Artridge did not kill himself. He definitely had help.”

  Jim was not surprised. When something looks and feels like homicide, it usually is.

  “I asked forensics to print the Civic around the corner; could you let me know when the results are back?”

  “You got it.” Roy nodded towards Lisa, “Who’s the chick?”

  “Witness who found the body. Just got some questions I need to ask.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to ask her some questions, too.”

  Jim flipped Roy the bird and walked back to his desk. He was shuffling some papers when Lisa broke the silence.

  “I’ve been living in West Covina for three years, Officer Jovian. Besides the occasional gang banger, I don’t remember there being that many murders in the area. This has to be a big deal for you guys.”

  Jim put the papers aside.

  “Why do you assume that this was a murder, Ms. Klein?”

  “Come on, Officer Jovian, of course he was murdered. I mean, he could have done it himself but there was no ladder and that branch might not have supported his weight while he tied the rope.”

  Jim looked at her and said nothing. He sipped his coffee, thinking.

  “What do you think about the one carved into the tree?” Lisa asked.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Do you think the killer put it there?”

  “Maybe. It’s impossible to know at this point. I mean it could have been made by anyone. Maybe two young lovers to commemorate their first kiss.”

  Lisa smiled at the thought of the officer being a romantic.

  “That’s very sweet, but you don’t think that, do you? I mean really.”

  Jim shook his head.

  “No.”

  “Me neither. You think the killer was telling us that this was just the beginning?”

  Jim looked away from her, staring into the murky brown water of his Styrofoam cup.

  “Do you think there will be more murders? This guy scares me.”

  “I hope not,” Jim answered. “Why do you assume it’s a man?”

  “If it’s not, based upon the weight of our Santa and the height of the tree branch, she would have to be one gigantic buffed-up woman.”

  “You’re a pretty sharp cookie, Ms. Klein.”

  “Lisa,” she corrected.

  “Lisa.”

  “Well, thank you, Officer Jovian”

  “Jim.”

  “Okay, Jim.” Lisa hesitated. “Jim, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why are we here?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why are we at the police station?”

  Jim thought for a second.

  “We need to talk about our arrangement. We need to set some ground rules.”

  “Like what?”

  “I surmise you must have seen the carving on the tree from the footage you shot this morning.”

  “And?”

  “You know that you can’t air that.”

  “Because?”

  “Because releasing that information at this point might put our investigation in jeopardy.”

  “First, I can’t show the corpse hanging from the tree, now this.”

 
Lisa shook her head in feigned disbelief.

  “Airing the carving would be irresponsible,” Jim warned. “Showing our victim as you found him is just bad taste.”

  “Let’s say I do as you ask, what’s in it for me?”

  “What do you want?”

  “A name.”

  Jim hesitated as Lisa continued.

  “I know Deputy Horndog over there told you he got a match on the prints. Give me a name and I’ll show you the edited piece before it airs.”

  “Lisa, I would love to do that but I don’t even know if the family has been contacted.”

  “We go on in seven hours. That gives you six hours to find the next of kin.”

  “If someone found out I was divulging confidential information, I could lose my badge.”

  Lisa thought for a second.

  “I have an idea. Why don’t you take your pal over there into the back and keep him distracted for a minute. I’ll walk over to his desk, find the name and be on my way. I’ll call you at seven tonight and confirm that his family knows. I air my story, you clear your conscience, and nobody is the wiser.”

  Jim stared at Lisa, knowing better than to say ‘yes’ but feeling he could not say ‘no’ to this woman. There was something about her. Her hair, her voice, her confidence. She could be the ingredient missing from his life. He knew this as surely as he knew there would be more murders.

  He rose from his chair and called to his fellow officer. “Roy, can I talk to you in the back for a second?”

  As Jim and Roy moved out of view, Lisa grabbed a pen from Jim’s desk and skulked over to Roy’s workspace. The file was easy to find - the only one on Roy’s desk. She opened it with the pen and read the name.

  Lisa gasped.

  “Paul Artridge, holy shit.”

  She closed the file and hurried out of the office. Jim and Roy returned from their sojourn just as the door closed behind her. When Jim saw that she was gone, he felt a strange emptiness. He was not concerned that he may have compromised his future as a police officer in West Covina. He realized he was more concerned that Lisa would not call at seven as promised.

  Day One: 4:35 p.m.

  The Los Angeles Zoo was in Griffith Park, about fourteen miles north of downtown L.A. Not as famous as the renowned animal sanctuary 150 miles south in San Diego, the L.A. Zoo was closed to the public on holidays. Stupid, he thought, for when else would people want to see animals, other than on days off? Regardless of the calendar, rain or shine, the denizens of the zoo needed to eat. He knew that feeding time on Thanksgiving was completed by 5:00 p.m. and then everyone, except a single watchman, would be gone for the night. The same was true Christmas Day. He sat in the parking lot and waited for the employees to leave so that he could enter the zoo and continue his work. He heard her kicking against the canopy that covered the truck’s rear bed. Jesus Christ, she was persistent. He wanted to scream, threaten to kill her now, but he thought better of it. For this whole symphony to crescendo correctly, he needed to be precise. Patience was his master. He closed his eyes, visualizing the grand work in his mind, visualizing as he had learned from The Secret and all those other self-help books. He was tapping into his source, the power that connects us all. Somewhere deep inside the zoo, an elephant blared a trumpeting cry.

  Day One: 5:47 p.m.

  The ringing phone jolted Jim from his slumber. At first, he thought the noise was part of his dream, an annoying distraction as he hunted deep in the woods for a prey that had no form. The fourth ring was the wake up blow. He bolted upright and looked at the clock radio, its LED numbers proudly displayed 5:47. Too early, he thought, for Lisa’s call.

  “Jovian.”

  The voice on the other end was masculine in gender.

  “Jim, Stan Kramer.’

  “Kramer, what’s up?”

  “From the sound of your voice, not you. You asked me to call you after we got the prints back from the Civic on Peach.”

  Jim fought back a yawn.

  “Right, right. What did you get?”

  “There were a lot of prints on the car; apparently the old lady didn’t wash it too often. But on the driver’s side front window were two palm prints, very close to one another, and a partial thumb. We ran it against Artridge and got a positive match. Nice call, man.”

  Jim was astonished.

  “Holy shit!”

  “I know, I know. I couldn’t believe it when it came up.”

  “We need to talk to that old lady and we should canvass the houses in the area. Our killer may live in the neighborhood.”

  “Captain already sent Roy to her house. And by the way, he wants to see you when you come in tonight.”

  It felt a hundred pound rock was sinking into his gut. The Captain wants to see me. Shit.

  “He’s going to be there at midnight?”

  “How the fuck should I know. He said he wanted to see you, I’m just the messenger, man.”

  Jim hesitated.

  “Well, thanks, Stan. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Later, amigo.”

  “Wait, Stan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Has the victim’s family been notified?”

  “Guy had no family. Never been married, lives in the Wilshire corridor in West L.A. Says here he’s a queer. Why?”

  “No reason. Thanks again.”

  “You got it.”

  Jim hung up the phone and sat up in bed. The motherfucker set off the car alarm. I could have been there. I could have stopped it. Now the Captain wants to see me. Fuck. No one checks out car alarms. Especially when Alice Edwards is on the phone. The batshit old hag calls the precinct all the fucking time; kids on her lawn, music from the neighbors too loud, never ending. God damn it. What am I going to do?

  Jim sized up the situation. He’d play it as it rolled, just like he always did. He rose from his bed and headed for the shower. He turned on the hot water and let it run, hoping it would have a cleansing effect on his mind, body and soul. But it was just warm water, not a baptism. That sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was growing with every breath, like a cancer. He couldn’t help but feel that everything was about to be lost. Every damned thing.

  Day One: 6:30 p.m.

  Lisa sat quietly in the editing bay at KVTM News, reviewing Milt’s footage. She read the copy she wrote and smiled when she saw that it hummed. The story was unsettling, but the story would sell, and that’s all that mattered. She tried to focus on her work, but it was difficult; she could not get her mind off the carving on the tree. Lisa wouldn’t show it on the air, as she promised, but at some point, the public had a right to know. She was not going to lie to Officer Jovian, at least not yet. Besides, Jim might be very useful if the “one” led to a “two, three, four.”

  And it was more than that. She sensed something in his eyes, something about the way he looked at her. Lisa had seen that look before, many times in her early twenties; not so often lately. Long ago, she had given up thinking that the perfect guy was out there. And although most unmarried career women of her age spend their time believing that thirty was the new twenty, Lisa was not that delusional. She saw the early signs of age after every smile, the random silver streak peaking anxiously through her auburn hair, the sagging. All of it was a little unnerving. Under the right circumstances, any imperfect man could fill the void that ambition had carved into her life. She was looking forward to their conversation at seven. A brief thought of kissing him crossed her mind; where did that come from? Getting her mind back on her work, she hoped beyond hope that the Artridge family had been notified. She was going to use his name in the story regardless and she did not want to lose Jim as an ally. Not yet, anyway.

  Day One: 6:55 p.m.

  The reptile exhibit at the zoo was protected from after-hour visitors by a door with a single deadbolt lock, which proved not to pose a significant deterrent to a forced entry. Once breached, the coolness of the air rendered a pleasing sensation, even if the smell did not. He hated th
ese prehistoric survivors and had protested vigorously against them to his father when they made their mandatory monthly visits so many years ago. His mother had not minded the hideous beasts; she told him that she admired their survival skills, their ability to defend themselves against evolutionary forces. If she were alive, she might be angry that he would use this place as a canvas for his masterpiece, but his mother had not possessed enough survival skills to get her past her fifth decade.

  He looked at the realtor, curled up in a corner of the room, and sighed contentedly. Tonight, Janette McDermott, he thought to himself, this cold room will be my stage and you will be my star.