12 Days

by Chris Frank

  Day One: 9:45 p.m.

  Jim drove quietly through the ‘Fruit’ streets of West Covina, lost in thought. His conversation with Lisa had gone well. She would be able to run the story of the death of the Hollywood attorney without having to worry about angry relatives and, more importantly, without Lisa’s source being traced back to him. All the media outlets would have the information by now. Lisa would probably have the most complete coverage given that she’d known the dead Santa’s real identity for hours, while her rivals would be scrambling for last minute details. She deserved to be in the loop; after all, she had found the body.

  Jim was more concerned about the next phone call, if there was one. Should he initiate the next interaction with more privileged information, furthering his journey on the path of professional irresponsibility, or possibly call her socially, for a real cup of coffee or a hearty Armenian meal, like his mother used to make? She seemed responsive but he had been wrong about the inclinations of a woman’s heart before.

  And what did the Captain want? Jim had never seen his boss at the station after two in the afternoon and now he wanted an audience at midnight? That could not be a good thing.

  Jim drove down Peach, knowing that he wouldn’t find the Civic; by this time, it would be at the central L.A. lab for processing. He checked the address he had written down from the early Christmas morning car alarm call and stopped in front of Alice Edwards’ house. It was on a corner lot, the kind of typical single story tract home that permeated the neighborhood, a modern imitation of the Spanish missions that dotted the landscape two centuries before. Although it was a moonless night, the twinkling lights of the season gave the houses an eerie green and red pall. He looked to his right, down Pear Street. Not more than one hundred yards away, he could see the yellow police tape and the numbered sycamore that had delivered attorney Paul Artridge to perpetual sleep, after a stop off as the lead story of the Ten O’clock News Hour on KVTM. So Alice Edwards had seen him, and most likely saw the killer as well. Alice had called him for help, but he had failed to respond. Sick to his stomach, Jim drove off into the darkness.

  Day One: 10:00 p.m.

  Stacy Davenport had moved to Los Angeles from Paducah, Oklahoma. She was the third child of the six born to a Baptist minister and his God-fearing wife. Stacy grew up with homespun, small-town values and killer good looks. She achieved all the requisite accomplishments expected of one so beautiful in a small town; she was head cheerleader, prom queen, and arm candy for the starting high school quarterback. But as seems to happen to pretty young girls who have been blessed with perfection, she grew restless in Paducah. And so, on her twenty-second birthday, she waved goodbye to Oklahoma and headed for the “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” in Hollywood, California, confident in her belief that she would not only stand out, but also excel. She read for parts in half a dozen independent films and then some television pilots but did not find her niche until she met Lisa Klein at the Sky Bar on the Sunset Strip, a late night watering hole for entertainment want-to-bes. Lisa had been interviewing possible anchors for the Ten O’clock News Hour and Stacy, with her looks and presentation skills, fit the bill to a tee. Although Lisa had met dozens of prom queens, Stacy had a real asset that often spelled success in Hollywood - blue eyes. You could be dumb as a thimble and have a horn growing out of the middle of your forehead, but if you had bright blue eyes in Tinseltown, you had a shot. And Stacy Davenport had big, bright shining blue eyes of a rare shade. They reminded Lisa of the blue tint that Michelangelo used on Ezekiel’s robe in the Sistine Chapel. Once Lisa determined that Stacy was capable of reading from a teleprompter, the job was hers. Stacy took her position at the anchor desk for KVTM News at 10 O’clock on Christmas day, looked into camera one and read the news.

  “Good evening. I’m Stacy Davenport and here’s what’s happening in our world tonight. A gruesome murder shocked the quiet neighborhood of West Covina this morning when a local jogger found a man dressed as Santa Claus hanging from a tree. The man, identified as prominent Los Angeles attorney Paul Artridge, was pronounced dead at the scene. KVTM’s Jay Yamamota is in West Covina at the scene. Jay…”

  “Yes Stacy, I’m here in West Covina where the residents of this quiet hamlet woke not to the sound of delighted children tearing open their Christmas presents, but to the blare of police sirens. High profile criminal defense attorney, Paul Artridge, was found dead this morning, hanging from the neck in front of this house on Pear Street…”

  Lisa looked on from the wings, smiling like a proud parent. She had her story and for the time being, she had kept her promise to Jim. He had been very nice on the phone, charming, conscientious, and yet shy and unsure. After she hung up the phone, Lisa was sure of two things. First, that despite whatever may come from their arrangement, she had no doubt that she could keep her objectivity about her work and second, that Jim wanted to keep their lines of communication open. Lisa wanted that, too. She figured that she would make the next move and phone Jim in the morning, maybe invite him out for lunch as a thank you. She had the day off, anyway. She thought again about the carving on the tree and got excited. If it meant nothing, so be it. But if it was what she thought it was, she was going to ride the story right to the national news, and maybe a network position.

  Day One: 11:35 p.m.

  He was freezing. He could see his breath and feel the snot frosted around his left nostril. The temperature in the reptile house had dropped considerably since he had arrived almost six hours ago. He huddled for warmth in the corner, closest to the broken door. Janette was lying on her side next to him, sobbing but unable to make much noise through the rag he had duct taped into her mouth. Why are you crying? he wondered. I thought you loved these reptiles. Wasn’t it tortoises that she worked so hard to save? He popped two pain pills and swallowed them dry. He could have killed her hours ago but, for aesthetic reasons, he waited. That was his plan. He looked at the back of her head and stroked her hair. It’s almost time, he wanted to say. Thirty minutes and then you can rest. He had picked up the Los Angeles Times that morning and reread the article on the Best Restaurants in L.A. His next victim was profiled there. That pompous French bitch and her delicious little pastries; have I got a recipe for you! The thought, mixed with the meds and Jeanette trembling next to him, warmed his body with a dark pleasure. Must be the devil stirring inside me. He looked one last time at the chef in the Times picture.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, my sweet,” he said aloud.

  At his feet, Janette squirmed and moaned.

  Day 2: 12:00 a.m.

  Jim Jovian entered the West Covina police station and punched in. He made his way to his desk, unlocked the top drawer and removed his gun. He had made a habit of leaving his piece at work. After the recent rash of shootings by off-duty policemen throughout L.A., the department strongly suggested that if you were not on the clock, leave your handgun at the station. It didn’t bother the cops too much, as most of them had personal backups on their ankles and in their vehicles; Jim was no exception. He holstered his .45 and looked for the captain, who was sitting in the lieutenant’s office, sifting through some charts.

  Captain Robert W. Jones, Jr. was a 33-year veteran on the Los Angeles Police Department. To Jim, he was tough, fair, and politically astute. Jones was considered by many to be a cop’s cop. He grew up in Compton, California; the South Central section that gave the world the Rodney King riots and gangsta rap. Jones’ older brother had been killed while holding up a liquor store at the tender age of 14. His mother, who raised her kids alone, was not about to let the same fate befall her only remaining son. She forced him to work hard in school and helped him with homework every night. She would not let him play basketball with the local hoodlums. She made him play the piano, exercising his gift of music - the only thing that the absentee father had left with his son before splitting to play jazz clarinet in the south of France. Robert excelled at everything he tried and was rewarded with a full scholarship to USC, not because h
e was black, not because of affirmative action, but because he earned it with grades. He could have gone to law school or had his alumni friends set him up in the private sector, but Robert Jones, Jr. wanted to be a cop, help police Los Angeles, and give back to his community. He worked hard and played by the rules. He rose quickly in the police ranks and now sat in a seat of authority, overseeing fifteen precincts stretching from Boyle Heights to Diamond Bar. Captain Jones watched Officer Jim Jovian get his bearings before calling him into the office.

  “Jovian, in here,” he called.

  Jim entered the room and saluted his commanding officer.

  Captain Jones smiled and saluted back, then motioned for Jim to take a seat.

  “Evening, Skip. What brings you out here at this hour?”

  “That nightmare on Pear Street. This Artridge thing has got everybody’s balls twisted downtown. It’s not enough that you found a man hanging from a tree, or that the dead man was dressed as Santa Claus on Christmas. No, this guy has to have a butt load of friends at City Hall. Apparently, he got the mayor out of some kind of jam when he was running for the last reelection and the little shit feels like he owes him. Also, some people think this was a hate crime directed at Mr. Artridge for his alternative lifestyle, which is a whole other can of worms. Now the mayor has the gay community leadership council up his ass, pardon the pun.”

  Captain Jones took a breath.

  “I know that this is a big case, Skip, but what’s this got to do with me?”

  “Look, this is a tough spot for everyone, but as in all things, the mayor has to look like he’s doing something. I read your report on the incident as well as your call log from your last shift.”

  Jim could feel dryness and tightening in his throat as he listened, only catching fragments of speech in between the emotional gongs that were going off between his ears:

  “Failure to respond…”

  “Dereliction of duty…”

  “Temporary suspension pending further investigation…”

  They were phrases Jim never thought he would hear applied to him. Captain Jones could see the growing disbelief on Jim’s face.

  “Look, I know that this is hard on you and under any other circumstances, no one would even say a word about the car alarm. But this is a big case and someone has to take one for the team. I’ll make sure you get full pay, we’ll do a cursory investigation, and it will all go away. I got to be honest, Jovian. In the short term, it won’t be pleasant. You’re a good cop, but I’m sorry.”

  Captain Jones reached out a hand.

  They made eye contact and Jim stopped short of a handshake. He could sense what was next.

  “You know how this goes. I need your gun and badge.”

  Insult to injury. The pit in his stomach exploded in a burst of bile that rose in his throat. Jim fought down the rage and urge to puke. He took a deep breath and nodded his head, like he understood or even agreed with the disciplinary action. Jim had seen that cliché move on television a thousand times; he could not believe it was happening to him. He handed over his badge and gun with dignity and turned to leave the room. He walked slowly to his desk and sat down; he wasn’t sure if he could move his legs.

  Day 2: 12:23 a.m.

  He left the zoo as if he had not a care in the world, as though it was a Sunday afternoon in July and he was a man going to retrieve his car from a distant lot to bring it around to pick up the wife and kids. Kids. Jeanette had kids; they would miss their mother. It gave him pause, but then he thought, ah, they would adapt. After all, he didn’t have a mother any more and he was doing just fine. Right?

  He sighed in satisfaction. Jeanette had been much easier than the queer. She was half the weight, and easier to handle. He learned from his first foray into murder that you need to tie your prey’s hands behind the back, not in front. This time, he did not need attach a rope to his truck in order to hang a man from a tree branch twenty feet above his head; he merely needed to hold the lady’s head under water for a minute or two. She didn’t put up much of a fight for such a fit and determined woman. And the gargling noises as the last breath left her body gave him a tingle down his spine. For a moment, he wished that he had more time, that he had started this work years ago.

  Death could be such a beautiful thing.

  But now he had to sleep; he had to step back and watch his drama play out on the television and in the newspaper. They wouldn’t connect her to Artridge, in spite of his hints, at least not yet. He guessed that they would start to put it all together after the next one. And he had that one all scoped out. He eased his truck into drive and left the parking lot.

  Chapter Three: The Cackle of Crazy

  Day 2: 12:26 a.m.

  Shell shocked, like he just survived a bombing raid while hiding in a tin roof house, Jim sat at his desk and put the last of his affairs in order. He had to take another deep breath to settle his nerves before he finished typing. He had realized that his original report did not contain the information about the carving found on the murder tree, so he knew he had to add that to the supplemental report. He was anything if not thorough. Like most officers, he could either type a report on the computers or record it digitally for support staff to type. The typed reports, however produced, were then sent to supervisors electronically, who approved them and sent them on to support for inclusion in the case file. Jim still typed his own reports, so he wouldn’t miss anything, and he was doing the same with the supplemental.

  He thought about the situation as he did a spell check. He understood the Captain’s position; shit flowed downhill and Jim was stuck in a hole wearing a bib, staring straight into the biggest shit shoot he had ever seen.

  Still, the Captain was a man of his word and Jim truly believed him when he said that he would see Jim through the situation. Jim reassured himself of that as he printed his report and placed it in the “In” box on the Stan Kramer’s desk. He donned his coat and left the precinct, wondering when he would be welcome there again.

  Day 2: 6:30 a.m.

  It was an early start for Hector Ruiz, just like every other day. After cleaning up the dog shit his wife’s four dogs deposited on the back porch that morning, it was off to the Zoo for more of the same. Hector had worked in the maintenance department at the L.A. Zoo for a little over two and a half years; since he really only needed to talk to the animals, his failure to speak English was no detriment. Hector loved all the animals, and the monkeys most of all. He loved to get them so agitated that they would throw shit bombs at him. He stayed just out of reach, laughing as they exploded like fireworks at his feet. It was Hector’s job to clean the shit bombs off the floor. As long as the chimps failed to score a direct hit on his uniform, he could care less about cleaning it up; theoretically, monkey shit provided him with job security. Crap on the floor meant there would always be the need for Hector.

  The zoo would open at 10:00 a.m., plenty of time to give the cages a quick cleaning. If he got done early, he could play with the chimps. He wore his scarf that morning. He loved to put his scarf into the monkey cage and entice the monkeys to grab it. If one did, Hector would yank it as hard as possible, sending the monkey crashing into the cage. Luckily, none of them ever got noticeably hurt by the maneuver, but it agitated them to the point where the first paying guests might as well have worn targets on their backs when they entered the room.

  He was approaching the Reptile House, mop in one hand, master key in the other, when he noticed that the door was ajar and that there were fragments of the wooden jamb on the floor. Hector slowly opened the door with the business end of his mop and looked around. Everything appeared to be in order. Odd. But as he made his rounds, there seemed to be something amiss in the turtle pond. The old tortoise, which the staff lovingly called Nancy Reagan, was sitting very high above the water, as if on a podium, ready to make a speech. As Hector approached the pond, what at first seemed strange became very frightening. The tortoise was perched on top of a woman, who was lying face dow
n in six inches of water!

  “Ay mi madre!” Hector exclaimed, then turned, dropped his mop, and ran for help. He did not notice that the driver’s license of one Janette McDermott was affixed proudly on display on the railing that surrounded the turtle pond. He also failed to notice that the rocks in the pond near the dead woman’s head had been neatly arranged into the shape of the number ‘two’. All Hector Ruiz had noticed was that somehow, Nancy Reagan had drowned that poor woman.

  Day 2: 10:06 a.m.

  Club 44 was a Pasadena landmark. It had opened in the early 1940’s and kept going strong ever since. It was one of the few places in this affluent suburb north of L.A. where well-heeled society mixed amiably with those less fortunate. The food was so good that, despite the reasonable prices that might have kept many in “old money” Pasadena away, the rich overcame their elitist sensibilities and were often seen dining there for breakfast with truckers and maintenance workers. Jim sat across from Lisa at a table for four in the dead center of the room. They could have chosen a booth, but Jim wanted some elbowroom and he wasn’t convinced that they had reached the ‘booth’ stage of their relationship just yet; if this was indeed burgeoning on a relationship. They ordered omelets; Jim had salmon, scallions and tofu, while Lisa went with a less adventurous ham and cheese. Lisa knew the menu; while Jim studied it, she found herself thinking that Jim was easy on the eyes.

  “I wish you could have seen the show last night. We did a big piece on Artridge; having that info early in the day really helped, and for that I thank you.”