12 Days

by Chris Frank

  “Please put your gun on the floor, officer,” the killer said. “I really don’t want to shoot your friend here and ruin the linoleum.”

  Jim did as he was told.

  “Good. Now would you please grab a seat in that chair on your left? We have a lot to talk about.”

  Jim did not move.

  “Officer?”

  Roy cried out.

  “Jim, please man, do as he says.”

  “I’m not scared of this prick, Roy.”

  “Ah,” Marty said. “Jim. Does Jim have last name?”

  Jim hesitated before he answered.

  “Jovian.”

  “Jovian, very nice. Like the Roman god who ruled the heavens. Too bad it doesn’t fit into my little song.”

  “Yeah,” Jim growled. “What a fucking pity.”

  “Now please, Jim. May I call you Jim?”

  Jim remained silent.

  “What am I thinking? Of course I can call you Jim; I have the gun on your partner. Now Jim, I don’t want to sound like your mother and give you until the count of three to take a seat, but I will if you insist. One, two…”

  Jim took a seat.

  “Very good,” Marty said. “Now Roy, would you please take your friend’s cell phone and throw it into the corner?”

  Roy did as he was told.

  “What a good little cop. Roy, please remove the handcuffs from your belt and place them on Officer Jovian’s wrists. And please, no nonsense. I really do not want to shoot you.”

  Roy followed orders. The handcuffs were out and on Jim in no time.

  “Behind the back, behind the back. Did you think that I learned nothing from killing Artridge?”

  Jim capitulated and within seconds he was immobilized and Roy again became Marty’s human shield.

  Jovian felt an intense burning inside his gut. Here was the motherfucker that had been killing innocent people in his city on his watch, the creep that nearly killed his ladylove, Lisa. And here he was, Detective James Jovian, unarmed and handcuffed. Fuck this clown. He would not allow anyone under his skin, especially not this limping motherfucker. He was going to be cool as the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. He was going to man up until the hammer dropped. This dirtbag would get nothing more than a hard time.

  “So you are the famous Marty Lord.”

  “At your service.”

  “And your real last name is…Deus. What’s your first name?”

  The killer blanched, his eyes blinking. The dark-haired cop had once again surprised him with intelligence. He smiled and feigned nonchalance.

  “Marty Lord is my stage name; my birth name is Michael Deus, or Mickey as my mom used to call me. And now I finally meet the dark-haired cop. Officer Jim Jovian.”

  “Detective Jovian.”

  “Detective, how impressive. I must admit, Jim, that I’ve admired your work. You came close so many times. In front of Alice’s house, then Phyllis’. But the movie theatre, that one was unbelievable. You were ten feet away and you didn’t see me; like I wasn’t even there.”

  “I bet that’s happened to you a lot, huh Dickey?”

  The killer grabbed his head.

  “Fuck you! It’s Mickey! You can’t talk to me like that!”

  “I’ll talk to you anyway I please, douchebag.”

  Deus’s eyes grew bright red with rage.

  “You will, eh? Okay, we’ll see about that.”

  Deus lowered the Luger from Roy’s temple, aimed it at the officer’s left foot, and pulled the trigger. The silence in the room was instantly disrupted by the gun’s report and the scream of pain emanating from Roy’s lips. Roy collapsed to the ground clutching at his wasted foot. Marty kicked a pillow Roy’s way.

  “Sorry, Officer Roy, your friend was being disrespectful. Put some pressure on your foot, it will stop the bleeding.”

  Roy did as he was told. Deus returned his gaze to Jim.

  “That was unnecessary, Jim. Are you going to be polite or do I put one in his knee?”

  Roy yelled with pain.

  “Do as he says, Jim, please.”

  Marty smiled.

  “Jim, listen to your friend. I really don’t want to run out of bullets.”

  “All right, Mickey, what do you want?”

  “What do I want? What does anybody want?”

  Deus asked then answered his own questions.

  “I want to be remembered.”

  “You’re going to get that, don’t worry.”

  The killer was pleased.

  “I know. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “What’s so wonderful about killing nine people and having another person hanging by a thread in the hospital?”

  Marty looked confused.

  “Eight, nine, who cares about the number? My script was pure genius; it would make a fantastic movie. Now everyone in the world will know about it!”

  “Yeah, and you’ll end up like Charles Manson, the musician.”

  Deus’s face flushed red; obviously not the response he wanted. He limped noticeably as he walked around Roy who was still in agonizing pain on the floor.

  “Now it’s time to end this, Detective Jovian. I have completed my script and I need to roll the credits. You and Roy here are going to help.”

  Deus stood in the doorway and called to the injured cop.

  “Roy, I need you to stand up. Can you stand up, Roy?”

  “How the fuck am I supposed to stand up on this foot?” Roy yelled back.

  “I have spent my entire life walking without a hip, you piece of shit; you don’t see me complaining.”

  Deus pointed the Luger at Roy.

  “I’ll give you a choice. Get up and walk or I’ll shoot you right now.”

  With every last ounce of energy left in his body, Roy pushed himself off the floor and stood on his right foot. Deus looked impressed.

  “Very good. All right, gentlemen. Let’s go for a ride.”

  Day 8: 8:01 a.m.

  Nurse Samantha was changing Lisa’s thoracostomy dressing when she saw her patient open her eyes. She pressed the call button and another nurse popped her head into the room.

  “What’s up?”

  “Page Dr. Rooney. It looks like Ms. Klein has decided to wake up.”

  “You got it. Want me to get wrist restraints?”

  Lisa was awake but intubated with intravenous as well as intra-arterial lines everywhere. If she started to thrash about, everything could come loose and she’d be in a world of trouble. Samantha checked the chart.

  “I think she’ll be okay. She’s not going anywhere.”

  The other nurse left and Samantha returned to Lisa. She briefly touched the trauma patient’s hair and whispered.

  “Just rest, sweetie, you’ve been through a lot. I’ll call your friend to let him know you’re awake. I have a feeling that Detective Jovian will be thrilled with the news.”

  A light of recognition flashed in Lisa’s eyes; the nurse was certain that meant a smile.

  Day 8: 8:08 a.m.

  The West Covina police car that Roy had requisitioned that morning made its way slowly westbound along the I-10 freeway. When it approached the 110 on-ramp, Deus told Roy to take it south, toward Long Beach. He had Roy duct tape the bloody pillow to what was left of his foot before they left. Now the maimed West Covina officer was behind the wheel with Jim, still cuffed, to his right. Deus sat directly behind Roy and Jim, Luger ready.

  “Where are we going?” Jim asked.

  “South,” answered Deus.

  Jim thought for a second before he spoke again.

  “Mexico? It’s not really safe there any more.”

  Deus laughed.

  “No, the next best thing. San Pedro.”

  San Pedro was a small town on the eastern edge of Palos Verdes, bordering the Port of Long Beach. The town was known for two things: the largest population of Italian-Americans in all of Los Angeles and secondly, the launch point for several of the large cruise ships that made daily trips to
all points in the Pacific Ocean.

  “Are we going on a cruise?” Jim asked.

  “You are a curious fellow, Detective Jovian, aren’t you?”

  Jim looked straight ahead.

  “It’s part of my charm.”

  “I see,” Deus replied. “You’ve been so clever up to this point. I’m surprised you haven’t figured out the next step.”

  Jim closed his eyes and thought about the song. After maids-a-milking, he always got confused about the gifts of the remaining days. He thought back to the killer’s bedroom wall. The ninth day was ladies dancing, wasn’t it? What did that have to do with San Pedro?

  Jim made a guess.

  “On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Nine ladies dancing.”

  “Bravo, detective, bravo. You remember.”

  “We’re going to a strip club in San Pedro?”

  The killer sighed.

  “Alas, we are not. The woman I chose lives in El Segundo, so the whore will get a reprieve, never knowing how close she came to death. To be honest with you, I never really believed that I would get to eight. I had pretty much resigned myself to seven but then Phyllis knocked on my door like a gift from the Divine. Number eight actually came to me. Can you believe it?”

  The killer’s casual demeanor was irritating as hell. The guy was a fucking maniac, but Jim knew he needed to keep him talking.

  “So then, if the dancer gets a pass, you’re done? That’s the end of the murders?”

  “Maybe. I’ll see how I feel when I get there. You never know, I might be able to squeeze out one more ‘gift’. Now, please, stop talking for a little while. Your questions are giving me a headache.”

  Day 8: 8:37 a.m.

  Captain Jones was getting angrier by the second. He had been calling Jovian for over twenty minutes and had not gotten a response. Why wasn’t he answering the phone? He called the ICU at Huntington, but no one had seen Detective Jovian in several hours. I’m going to West Covina, the Captain thought. Fuck the mayor, and fuck this fucking breakfast. Jones apologized, claiming an emergency, and hurried to his squad car. Once the driver hit the freeway, Jones dialed Jim again; finally, his call was answered.

  “Hello,” said an unfamiliar voice.

  “Jovian? Did I get the right number?”

  “This isn’t Detective Jovian.”

  “What? Who the fuck are you?” asked Jones.

  “You called the phone, who the fuck are you?”

  Jones was on the verge of apoplexy.

  “This is Captain Robert Jones, Jr. of the Los Angeles Police Department. My friend, you had better have a damn good reason why you are answering the phone that belongs to one of my detectives.”

  Officer Levins almost swallowed his tongue.

  “Oh my god, Captain, I’m sorry. This is Officer Levins from Rosemead.”

  “Levins? What are you doing with Jovian’s phone?”

  “I was outside the Crenshaw place when I heard a phone ringing over and over nearby. I checked it out and saw this house with the front door kicked in. The phone was on the floor. Captain, you had better get down here. There’s blood all over the carpet.”

  Jones sighed.

  “What’s the address?”

  “Hold on.”

  Levins left the bedroom and walked out to the front yard and looked at the number on the house.

  “2765 Apple Road in West Covina. I’m here with a couple of Feds and some locals who just arrived.”

  “Stay where you are, I’m on my way.”

  “Yes, sir, Captain.”

  Jones hung up the phone and called for more backup. Blood on the carpet, and Jim’s phone on the floor. It was not looking good for the new detective.

  Day 8: 9:14 a.m.

  Long Beach harbor was home to the second busiest seaport in the United States. Trade valued at over $100 billion dollars moved through the city each year, ready to make its way into the hearts and homes of residents of southern California and beyond. The 110 freeway in Los Angeles was one of two major routes that truckers used to transport the goods from the docks to merchants and consumers. During the morning rush hours, it was not unusual for cars and trucks to travel at no more than 10 miles per hour. But today was New Year’s Day so Roy, Jim, and Deus were moving along swimmingly at a cool 45 m.p.h. Deus kept his gun ready with his left hand while he fished around in his pocket for a pill with his mostly useless right. After struggling for several minutes, he was able to scoop an Oxycontin out of his coat and throw it down his throat. Jim watched the entire scene unfold before he spoke.

  “Got a headache?”

  Marty looked at him.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Jim continued.

  “Can’t use the right hand much, can you? That’s what David told us. You remember David, don’t you? David Swanza, number seven. He’s doing well by the way. He sends his best.”

  Deus did not respond but Jim could see a flash of disappointment cross the killer’s face.

  Jim went on.

  “We got a medical profile on you. The doctor said that you might have something wrong with your brain. Was he right?”

  Still nothing.

  “I’m guessing he was. He said you might have a bleed in your brain, but that’s not it, is it, Mickey? Take a look at you, no hair on your head, constantly rubbing your temple; you got something growing in there, and it’s fucking you up.”

  Deus waved the gun at Jim.

  “Listen, smart guy, I’m not in the mood for talk right now. So you need to make a choice. Either shut your trap or I unload some shots in your brain.”

  Roy had been watching the confrontation through the rear view mirror. He took his eyes off the road momentarily, just long enough to not see the brake lights shine on the truck in front of them. When Roy turned back and saw the truck, he slammed on the brakes sharply, barely avoiding a rear-end collision. The sudden stop caused Mickey’s to squeeze off a round from the Luger that blew out a significant portion of their car’s front window. Luckily for the two cops, it missed them.

  Deus screamed in pain as he pushed himself back into his seat.

  “Roy, pay more attention! You almost got your friend killed.”

  Jim stared stright ahead. He was plotting how exactly he could take this scumbag out.

  Day 8: 9:35 a.m.

  Captain Jones stood in the front bedroom of the killer’s home with his hands on his hips. He stared at the “number wall” in amazement. This guy is organized, Jones thought, and thorough. Pictures, newspaper clippings, maps. He pointed out the picture of Toni Richardson under the number nine to one of his officers.

  “We better find her,” Jones said.

  He lifted the picture off the wall and flipped it over.

  “Her address is on the back.”

  The cop took the picture, snapped a shot of the front, one of the back, and immediately emailed the pics to headquarters from his smartphone. Then he dialed a number and walked out of the room. The Captain once again stared at the wall. Like Jim, he noticed that nine was the last number listed. What happened to ten, eleven and twelve? And where was Jovian? His thoughts were disrupted by Officer Levins, who had some papers in his hands.

  “Captain?” Levins asked.

  “Yes, Levins.”

  “You asked us to contact you if we found anything.”

  Jones grew impatient quickly.

  “What do you have, Officer?”

  Levins proffered several pictures.

  “We found these in the master bedroom. The guy had these in the top drawer of his nightstand. I guess he liked bridges.”

  Captain Jones looked at the pictures. If you were a bridge afficianado, Los Angeles did not offer a lot to look at. There was the Hyperion Bridge, the one on Sixth Street, and a narrow suspension structure that Captain Jones knew well from his days growing up in South Central, the Vincent Thomas Bridge.

  “Why does he have pictures of bridges?”

  Levins answe
red.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Jones looked at the junior officer in disbelief.

  “I know you don’t know. That was a rhetorical question.”

  Levins was embarrassed.

  “Sorry Captain.”

  Jones stared hard at the last picture then dug into his pocket for his cheat sheet and read aloud.

  “Nine ladies dancing, ten lords a leaping…”

  He stopped and then ran from the room calling out to everyone.

  “People! I know where he is, or at least where he’s going. We need to get to Long Beach, now!”

  Day 8: 9:50 a.m.