Sons of a Brutality

by Daniel Jeudy

  “Okay, then.”

  “Thanks, Ad,” the lieutenant replied before the line went dead.

  Collins was a decent boss and very hands-on with his management style. Most of the men Addison previously worked under operated in more of an overseeing role. They left the groundwork to their detectives and swooped on anybody who tried punching out extra hours.

  Lieutenant Collins wasn’t known to implement strict policies and rarely scrutinized his detectives’ practices with a magnifying glass. The captain, on the other hand, was an entirely separate story. He was the most penny-pinching individual found anywhere within the department and not just in matters concerning the job. It was hard to know what was more important to him: closing a red ball case or ending the year under budget.

  The policing landscape was a vastly different beast from the one Addison cut his teeth on during the nineties. To be accepted back then meant being somebody who wasn’t prepared to concede ground, but detectives these days were much less inclined to break rank. Temperament was quickly being supplanted by diplomacy as officers became increasingly cautious of taking the kind of gamble that might see them step outside procedural guidelines, even when it meant breaking a case open. There were too many hazards involved, and no one wanted to find themselves stuck at their desk all day going bat-shit crazy while internal affairs set a fire beneath their ass.

  Addison slid across to the edge of the bed again, debating whether he should heat the iron and press a shirt before quickly discarding the idea. There was something off about going to the effort to look sharp while the brass discussed a homicide victim. It felt too much like sticking a knife through someone’s heart with a smile on his face and a bandage in his hand. Addison dialed his partner’s number and was surprised when Jed answered so quickly.

  “Hey.” The kid’s voice sounded hoarse.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing, I was still in bed.”

  “Well, get yourself up; we’ve got an address for the victim from last night.”

  “Seriously? Fuck, that was quick.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When do you want to head over?”

  “I was hoping you could swing by to pick me up in about an hour; the address is over in North Hollywood. Her girlfriend ID’d the body.”

  “This morning?”

  “Yeah,” Addison replied, mildly irritated at having to elaborate.

  “Okay, Ad, I’ll be there soon.”

  “And make sure you look respectable, whatever the hell that means. Collins made a point of saying we’re going to press at five-thirty.”

  “And that affects me how, exactly?” Jed asked.

  “If you’re lucky, you’ll get to stand on camera with the boss and appear Californian.”

  “Sounds like a real blast. I’ll jump under the shower and then head over. You want me to grab you anything on the way?”

  “Nah, I’m all good, kid. I’ll see you when you get here,” Addison replied, ending the call and reaching for the bottle again.

  Most people presumed he and Jed were as distinct from each other as any two persons might possibly be, but that was incorrect. They shared several common traits, most of which boosted their chances of getting into trouble. Even so, the kid was reliable, and as far as Addison was concerned, loyalty and liquor were the two best friends a detective could have.

  Four

  Narek Avakian wiped a piece of lavash around his bowl and scooped up the remaining sauce from the porridge, appreciating the different spices before washing it down with a mouthful of sweet red wine. There wasn’t anywhere in the city he’d rather have dinner than his cousin’s Armenian restaurant. Erik was an absolute maestro in the kitchen, and Narek made sure he dined there at least three times a week.

  The temperature outside continued to rise. Everybody on the West Coast was bracing themselves for another hot fucking day. Narek was five years old when his family migrated to the USA during the summer of 1979, and he’d adapted to the dry heat without a problem. Like many other Armenians who flooded into Los Angeles at that time, the Avakians found a home in the suburb of Glendale. The neighborhood was located eight short miles from Downtown and provided its residents with an unhindered view of the Verdugo Mountains.

  In the year before the Avakians landed, ten local broads were murdered and raped in the surrounding area in what became known as “The Case of the Hillside Strangler.” Two black-hearted Guinea cousins were responsible for the carnage. Just a couple of sick fuckin’ Wops who awoke one morning and started killing women as a way of getting some kicks.

  Narek remembered how the local kids exaggerated their crimes to frighten each other while they roamed about the streets after dark. The embellished stories created an urban legend that continued to evolve long after the greaseballs were caged.

  There would have been an entirely different ending to the situation if the Armenian Mafia were around when everything unfolded. The boss was adept at smoking out a target, and he used a dull blade on any perverts stupid enough to prowl in his territory. Davit would have enjoyed opening them up before dropping their carcasses on the street for everyone to see.

  A detective on the payroll had provided information about the new nutjob dumping bodies up in the hills. Narek didn’t have any problem understanding how somebody might find pleasure in killing but drew the line at murdering innocent women. He was well known for losing his head with bitches on occasion, mainly when some mouthy fuck checked his patience by getting lippy. But a good slap put them straight real fast, so ten minutes later, he might be found shoving their cunt face into a pillow while he fucked them in the ass. Still, each of them had what was coming, and they all walked away from the experience breathing.

  He never understood why certain predators ended up sobbing when they got themselves caught, neither. Nor the way they attempted to excuse their behavior by telling the world about all the horrible shit they endured as kids, fabricating a sob story as the primary reason for why they turned into a monster. And it was generally everybody else’s mistake, like maybe their mommy didn’t love them enough, or their daddy was a hooch hound, or some other piss-weak reasoning. Like there was a justification for why they implemented their illness and became the twisted monsters they were always destined to be.

  Narek had just turned fourteen when the Armenian Mafia was established in an East Hollywood parking lot during the summer of 1988. He’d been working on the fringes at the time, selling dime bags of weed for one of the older boys. Four years later, he shot a man dead, a crime that elevated him to the next level within the organization. The Armenian Power quickly transformed into a structured syndicate, no longer resembling the loosely organized street gang they were in the beginning.

  The people at the top got to make all the rules, and blind allegiance was essential for anybody hoping to clamber their way up the chain. A kid must be prepared to stick around and prove themselves by doing whatever the bosses instructed. Eventually, they might be afforded an opportunity to commit a crime there was no coming back from.

  Narek made his bones by whacking a neighborhood rat in 1992. Sammy Bedrosian was just a bottom-feeding junkie with loose lips. They sprung a trap to lure the bastard down to Pelanconi Park with a promise to provide him some low-priced crack. Narek had been faithful from the get-go and jumped at his chance to be a triggerman.

  He recalled waiting in the darkness while his heart pounded against his chest like a kick drum and how the anticipation became so intense, he almost pissed his trousers. When he finally spotted Bedrosian coming toward him in the distance, his stomach twisted and roiled because popping someone for the first time was so much harder than people could imagine.

  Any aspiring hitman must engage in a confrontation with their own mind, regardless of how tough a kid might be or how desperate he was to be a part of something. Nothing had been more challenging than pulling the trigger on that rat fuck all those years ago. He’d pumped five bullets into Bedrosian’s
upper body, thinking the job was complete. After all, five slugs from a high-caliber revolver should kill a man dead, right? What the asshole taught him was that people rarely go easy when it comes to dying.

  It sure as hell was nothing like what he’d see in the movies. Bedrosian’s lungs kept squealing in protest each time he attempted to draw breath, pushing crimson bubbles out the holes in his chest. Narek stood over him for a while, captivated by the confusion inside his eyes and the way they failed to comprehend what was happening. Then, when he’d seen enough, he placed the barrel on his brow and blew a big fat hole out the back of his head.

  Shooting someone up close was freakin’ messy, too; his jacket got covered in blood, brains, and bone fragments from all the spray back. Narek struggled inside his mind afterward, thinking about all kinds of weird shit as he attempted to deal with the reality of what he’d done. There’d even been a brief period where he endeavored to balance the morality ledger by doing good things for random people, like helping an old lady with her bags at Walmart or throwing a few extra dollars on top of the bill at the diner. One time his guilt even saw him buy a sandwich for a homeless bum.

  It was liberating when he realized there was no need to do any of that shit. Nowadays, he didn’t even blink when it came time to put a slug into someone or stick a blade through their guts. Hell, he could even dismember a body with half a smile on his face, and when he put his head down at night, he slept like a fuckin’ baby.

  Murder became his bread and butter, but he also trafficked drugs, extorted local businesses, and promoted illegal gambling. Narek had been involved in organized crime for more than two decades without doing serious jail time. Although his blessed luck almost ran dry the previous year when the LAPD connected him to a gat he’d used in a murder.

  The close call didn’t take place due to any carelessness on his behalf, and there was no forensic breakthrough from DNA left behind at the scene. He always applied meticulous planning to his work, irrespective of the payout. But when the weakness came from the confines of his own organization, it created the perfect catalyst for a fall.

  Narek returned the piece to the guy he’d purchased it from; the cocksucker had provided him with multiple firearms over the years and could be relied upon to make them disappear. Yet, for some bizarre reason, he got careless by throwing the gat into a dumpster in East Hollywood. Making matters worse was his associate sourced the Smith and Wesson from a local kid who’d lifted it from his father’s underwear drawer.

  A group of youths eventually stumbled upon the weapon when a union strike prevented the trash from being collected, and they were spotted fooling around by a passing patrol car. Ballistics paired the piece with the slugs the examiner pulled from the body, and then the LAPD traced it back to its owner.

  He didn’t imagine the detectives encountered many obstacles in getting the kid to fess up, and when his associate faced a murder one rap, the snitch made a deal by naming Narek as the shooter. If it weren’t for the boss having a contact in evidence to compromise the gun, he’d likely be caged up like a dog right now.

  Instead, he spent a few weeks inside LA County Jail while the piece was made inadmissible before being released back onto the streets without charge. The rat disappeared into witness protection, which meant he remained temporarily out of reach. They would eventually track him down and send him to hell, squealing like a pig. Then they’d take turns at tossing a quarter in the air to figure out who got lumped with the task of putting the asshole through a meat grinder. It might seem a little extreme to most, but that was the way things got handled in Narek’s world.

  His cousin’s restaurant was located on North Pacific Avenue, and they sometimes used the kitchen to make their plans. Davit insisted on having the building swept for listening devices each month even though he never really went there much. The boss was about as paranoid as any person could be, and his mood swings were legendary. He had even managed to work himself up about the vigilante who was popping bad guys around the city.

  Narek didn’t understand why he wasted a thought on the dick and would accept an encounter with the son-of-a-bitch at any time. After all, most of Narek’s fortune had been acquired by putting souls underground, so his attitude to any threat was—take your best shot. Crime had provided him with abundant riches, but he understood what it felt like to be poor.

  There was an endless flow of discrimination imposed on the citizens who resided in many neighborhoods around the city. Watching rich white cocksuckers live the dream on cash they never earned was rough. Being broke in LA was like getting sucker-­punched each time he went to sit down for a meal. It’s why people were prepared to risk their lives pushing dope on street corners, dodging bullets, and doing whatever it took to make bank.

  Narek was momentarily startled by the kitchen door swinging open and looked over as Bedros Darbinyan came lumbering inside. The old-school bruiser was one mean bastard who’d come to America four years earlier. Bedros had an enormous raw-boned frame and a huge belly. He was the complete opposite to Narek, who was muscular and lean with a smooth tanned complexion. Narek also had a full head of hair and great looks while Bedros was receding and ugly as fuck.

  The big gangster strode across the kitchen and embraced Narek, kissing him on both cheeks before his deep-set eyes scanned the room for food. When his thick fingers found the leftover bread, Narek shook his head, watching as Bedros stuffed lavash into his gob.

  “I’ve never met a person who eats like you,” he confided. There were times he’d seen the asshole grab a meal in a house where they’d just shot someone in the face.

  “It keeps me strong,” Bedros countered in accented English.

  “Did Davit explain what he expects?”

  “Ayo.”

  “Good, so you understand he wants us to make him suffer.”

  “Of course, of course,” Bedros assured him.

  Narek pointed toward an industrial refrigerator on the other side of the kitchen. “Erik has put something in the cooler for you.”

  Bedros’s smile was broad in appreciation. “You are good, my brother, always thinking of me.”

  “That’s because I need you to be focused.”

  Bedros looked down at the leftover porridge in Narek’s bowl. “When the time comes for action, I am always ready. Where is the harissa?”

  Narek jerked his head at a pot warming on the grill. “Make sure you leave some for the paying customers, you greedy fuck.”

  Five

  Angela Brown’s 1920s bungalow was obscured by an oak that loomed across the front yard like some old, enchanted tree. A bay laurel privacy hedge ran adjacent to the sidewalk, concealing a garden that presented like an ocean of living color. There was a red BMW parked in the driveway, and the property was positioned at the end of a cul-de-sac. A redevelopment program had transformed North Hollywood in recent times to satisfy the demands of its changing demographic. The revamped NoHo Arts District was drawing a fresh crowd of artists to the neighborhood, and the infusion of cafes, craft beer bars, and vintage clothing stores only added to the hipster feel.

  “Does this lady know we’re coming?” Jed inquired through glazed eyes.

  Evidently, his partner had smoked a blunt that morning.

  “I don’t think so,” Addison responded casually, making his way along a winding stone path to the front door, where he checked the time on his watch and stole a sideways look at his partner’s face. Almost every cop stepped outside stipulated protocol on occasion. They all experienced mental trauma on the job and dressed their scars accordingly. So long as no corruption was involved, then it was all fair play as far as Addison was concerned. At the end of it, Jed’s reasons for smoking weed wouldn’t be much different from the ones that sucked him down a whiskey bottle each night.

  Most cops were optimistic at the start of their career; however, their liveliness was usually supplanted by disillusionment in no time. When a uniform was required to respond to the same domestic settings each
week, it started to feel kind of pointless. And watching repeat offenders get released early eventually created strong impressions of loathing. But it’s not until something wanton suddenly got thrust upon them that a copper’s opinion became forever skewed. Like feeling bullets whiz past their face during a license check or the time Addison stepped on the decomposing body of an infant inside a Compton crack house.

  If an officer made it into homicide, they wouldn’t be tending to any aspirations of leading a typical life. It required grit to graft out a career as a murder cop, working from inside a labyrinth of despair while chasing monsters on behalf of ghosts.

  Addison had discovered that hell was often situated next door to heaven and how a couple of steps could provide the variance between a person living or dying. All the detectives in HSS toiled hard to provide resolution to the victims’ families, and they occasionally experienced the victory of taking crumbs of justice to those left behind. But their principal motivation was always about limiting the tally of the dead.

  Addison rapped on the doorframe and took a small backward step. He listened to the echo of padded footsteps approaching from within before a hesitant voice inquired, “Who is it?” from behind the frosted glass.

  “It’s the LAPD. We’d like to speak with Angela Brown, if she’s home.”

  Addison began to consider whether he might need to repeat himself when the door creaked open to reveal a diminutive woman in her early thirties. She looked up at him through hurting eyes and rumpled brown hair. A sprinkling of light freckles dusted her cheeks, and the expression on her face highlighted her strain.

  It felt invasive to impose themselves on someone who was in such an early stage of grief. There would always be many questions she’d never have answers to, certainly none which made a lasting difference. Angela was attempting to find her way through the most isolated condition a person might ever know. Addison stopped trying to alleviate people’s anguish after coming to the realization there was no respite to be had in a situation that found him standing at the door. The best she could hope for was to witness her girlfriend’s killer get apprehended, then find some way to move forward with her days.