Graveyard

by William C. Dietz

  “This is Lieutenant Newsome,” a male voice answered. “I read you five-by-five. Can you give me a sitrep? Over.”

  “Yes. Lieutenant Iffy was killed, and one officer was wounded, but is in stable condition. We killed one perp and wounded another. There are an unknown number of armed suspects in the area around your position. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Newsome began, but never got to say more as someone opened up on the SWAT team with an automatic weapon. They fired back. “Come on!” Lee yelled. “Let’s give those guys a hand.”

  Yanty and Perkins had joined her by then, and the group began to advance. “There are four of us,” Lee said into the radio, “and we’re coming up on your position from the south. Don’t shoot us.”

  A full-fledged gun battle was under way at that point. The bang, bang, bang of small-arms fire could be heard over the intermittent chatter of automatic weapons and the occasional boom of a twelve-gauge shotgun. As they got closer Lee could see that the SWAT team was pinned down in and among some large pipes. People were firing on them from inside the structure, and there was a loud explosion as a grenade went off. “Alvarez, find a good position and put some fire on those windows. Perkins, your job is to provide Alvarez with security. Go.”

  They went. Lee turned to Yanty. “Come on . . . We’ll circle east and look for a way in.”

  “Oh goody,” Yanty said. “Bring Prospo next time. I only have six years to go until retirement.”

  Lee took off running. Yanty did the best he could to stay with her. There was plenty of cover, and it seemed as though the people in the building were so focused on the SWAT team that they were unaware of the flanking effort. So Lee and Yanty were about halfway to their goal when a group of people rounded the corner of the building.

  The man in the lead was armed with a submachine gun. He tried to bring the weapon to bear, but Yanty shot him before he could do so. “Los Angeles Police!” Lee yelled. “Stop right there! Drop your weapons and raise your hands!”

  Two men were carrying a large trunk. The kind that photographers and bands use. They put it down, raised their hands, and made no attempt to go for the rifles slung across their backs. The fourth man fired a pistol at Lee and took off.

  Lee ran after him, managed to jump onto his back, and rode him to the ground. Then she scrambled to her feet and kicked his pistol away. Having dropped the rifle earlier she pulled the Glock. “You’re under arrest, asshole . . . I’ll read your rights later. Now put your hands behind your back.”

  Lee was putting a pair of handcuffs on the suspect when a police officer dressed in tac gear appeared. He grinned. “Detective Lee I presume?”

  Lee noticed that the shooting had stopped. “Are you Newsome?”

  “Yup . . . Thanks for the assist. It looks like the people in the building were shooting at us so these yahoos could escape.”

  “That makes sense,” Lee agreed, as she stood. “I don’t know who this guy is . . . But he might be a leader of some sort.”

  “Look at this!” Yanty said, from a few feet away. “The chest is full of money!”

  Lee turned to see that the other prisoners had been disarmed by members of the SWAT team and were facedown on the ground. And when she went over to look, Lee saw that Yanty was correct. The trunk was packed with bundles of shrink-wrapped currency. Each “brick” was labeled, 50,000 NU. That seemed like a lot more money than an illegal medical facility was likely to generate . . . But there it was. “Come on,” Newsome said. “Let’s see what was going on inside that building.”

  Garcia and Perkins were told to guard the prisoners while Newsome, his men, and the LAPD detectives approached the building with weapons ready. After all the noise, the scene was eerily quiet. Newsome led the group around to the east side of the building, where he motioned for Lee and Yanty to stay back. Then an officer with a shotgun went up three steps to a closed door. Newsome and the rest of the team were right behind him.

  The shotgun was loaded with breaching rounds. The officer fired twice. One shot for each hinge. When the door sagged, Newsome threw a flash bang through the gap. As soon as the grenade went off, the man with the shotgun shouldered the door out of the way and the rest of the team poured in. Lee expected to hear gunfire but didn’t. So she followed the last LBPD officer into the building. Yanty brought up the rear, and to his credit, was watching to ensure that no one could sneak up on the team from behind.

  There was a whole lot of chatter on Iffy’s radio by then. A coast guard interdiction team had arrived, a boatload of ICE agents were coming ashore, and a medevac helicopter was two minutes out. Newsome handled all of the various inquiries with aplomb even as his people checked each room on the first floor.

  The building had clearly been used for administrative purposes originally. Since then, some of the offices had been converted into bedrooms, a conference room was being used as a lounge, and the walls were covered with layers of graffiti—much of which was in Spanish. Appearances aside, the place smelled to high heaven. The air was thick with the combined odors of cooking, stale ganja smoke, and urine.

  But as Lee followed the SWAT team up a wide flight of stairs, things began to change. The graffiti disappeared, and the other smells were replaced by the harsh odors of disinfectants.

  Then Lee heard some shouting and arrived on the second floor to find that six people, all dressed in green scrubs, were lined up against a wall with their hands on their heads. An LBPD officer was patting them down. All of the suspects were wearing masks, which suggested that they were mutants or norms who were working with mutants.

  The SWAT team always wore masks when they went into action—but it was necessary for Lee and Yanty to pull theirs out and put them on. “Detective Lee,” Newsome said over the radio. “I’m in the west wing. Please join me.”

  Lee took a left and followed a corridor to a pair of swinging doors. A neatly printed sign read: ICU, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  She pushed her way through and entered another section of hallway. The lighting was good, the paint on the walls appeared to be fresh, and buff marks could be seen on the scrupulously clean floor. A couple of gurneys were parked next to the right-hand wall—and were covered with crisp white sheets.

  Then came an alcove and the nurses’ station. Beyond that, four hospital beds could be seen, two on each side of the central corridor. Only one was occupied. The patient was sitting up, wearing a hospital gown, and his or her head was swathed with bandages.

  And there, seated next to the bed, was a striking figure. He appeared to be well over six feet tall and had a mane of shoulder-length gray hair. A bulging forehead and a beaklike nose identified him as a mutant, and judging from the clerical collar around his neck, he was a priest. A surgical mask dangled from his neck, and a silver crucifix hung below that. Newsome was present but made no attempt to interfere as the man in black recited a prayer.

  “Lord, you are holy above all others, and all of the strength that I need is in your hands.

  I am not asking, Lord, that you take this trial away. Instead, I simply ask that your will be done in my life. Whatever that means, that is what I want. But I admit that it’s hard, Lord.

  “Sometimes I feel like I can’t go on. The pain and the fear are too much for me, and I know that I don’t have the strength on my own to get through this.

  “I know that I can come to you, Jesus, and that you will hear my prayer. I know that it is not your intent to bring me to this point just to leave me in the wilderness alone.

  “Please, Lord, give me the strength that I need to face today. I don’t have to worry about tomorrow. If you just give me the strength that I need today, that is all I need.

  “Keep me from sinning during this trial. Instead, help me to keep my eyes on you. You are the Holy Lord, and all of my hope rests in you.

  “Thank you for hearing my prayer.

  “In Jesus’ name
. Amen.”

  Once the prayer was complete, the priest made the sign of the cross and leaned in to speak with the patient. “The police are here, my dear . . . I suspect that the authorities will move you to a conventional hospital, and that will involve some discomfort, but nothing like the pain you’ve endured since birth. I will pray for you, my child—and God will watch over you.”

  And with that, he stood and offered his wrists to Newsome. “Thank you for allowing me to finish . . . That was kind of you.”

  Newsome placed the cuffs on the priest’s wrists and closed them. “And you are?”

  “Dr. Antonio Haviclar . . . Or Father Haviclar. Whichever you prefer.”

  Newsome stepped back. “Are you in charge of this operation?”

  “The second floor, yes. A drug runner named Mackey ran the lower floor. I made the mistake of hiring him to transport my patients to and from the Aztec Empire. Then he started to store drugs and money here. There was nothing I could do.”

  That could be a lie, of course . . . Which was to say one criminal’s effort to blame another. But Lee had heard a lot of lies during her career, and she believed Haviclar. It was the kind of mistake that someone with his background might make. “How many face transplants did you do here?”

  Haviclar turned to look at her. Lee could see the surprise on his face. “Transplants? How did you know?”

  “Your people dumped a body behind St. Patrick’s Church in LA. We followed the trail here.”

  Haviclar produced a lopsided smile. “Mackey was against it. He wanted to bury the body at sea. But I insisted that Senor Pascal receive a proper burial.”

  “Then why did Mackey go along with your request?” Newsome wanted to know.

  “Mackey was raised as a Catholic,” Haviclar replied. “And even though he claims to be an atheist, he’s a careful man. It always makes sense to hedge your bets.”

  Lee thought about the trunk of money and the man with the pistol. Mackey? Probably. “Put your mask on, Doctor,” she said. “There’s been enough suffering.” A case had been solved.

  EIGHT

  THE ROOM WAS messy. Paper, ink, scissors, glue, photos, clippings, and other paraphernalia lay everywhere. All of which were part of the Bonebreaker’s plan to create an irresistible piece of bait. Something that would claim Cassandra Lee’s attention and suck her in.

  That’s why Dr. Penn’s kitchen had been transformed into a laboratory of sorts. A place where the Bonebreaker could experiment with paper, ink, and other materials to create a journal. Or what appeared to be a journal that, if the ruse worked, Lee would attribute to him. A younger him, who had decided to document his first three murders and explain them.

  The irony was that the contents of the fake journal would be real. And why not? The Bonebreaker knew that there was nothing more powerful than God’s own truth. And after battling Lee for so long, the Bonebreaker wanted her to understand why she deserved to die.

  The first step was to write a draft of what he wanted to say. No, had to say. That took two days. The process of writing it down, scratching things out, and rewriting was cathartic. But it was painful as well. And there were moments when tears trickled down the Bonebreaker’s cheeks.

  Once the narrative was complete, the second stage of production kicked in. And that was to make the journal look like the real thing. In order to accomplish that, the Bonebreaker had to comb yard sales and dusty bookstores looking for a faded three-ring binder, a ream of slightly yellowed paper, and newspapers old enough to include articles about the plague.

  He’d been a child back then and lived life the way children do, without understanding what’s happening around them.

  Once he got the materials home, if Penn’s house could properly be referred to as such, he sat down to read some of the articles for the first time. That, too, was an emotional experience and one that caused more pain. So much pain that he was forced to take a day off to recover.

  Then the Bonebreaker went to work. As a servant of God, he knew that the devil was everywhere, especially in the details. That made it necessary to create a mock-up prior to starting work on the real thing. A dozen different pens were used to make it seem that the journal had been written using whatever instrument was at hand. Clippings had to be fitted to each page while loose photos were inserted here and there. And the Bonebreaker made sure that there were gaps as well. Days, weeks, even months that elapsed without comment so as to suggest periods of quiescence and frantic activity.

  But that wasn’t all. Once the journal was complete, there was more work to do. The Bonebreaker went through the binder page by page, adding coffee stains, creases, and marginal comments. Then he chose a page at random and ripped it out. And it was painful because all of the things written on it were true . . . But the sacrifice was necessary in order to make the overall document feel authentic. So he burned the sacrifice in a frying pan and cried while he did it. The final result was bait. But more than that, it was a confession and a work of art. Would his plan be successful? Time would tell.

  • • •

  Two days had passed since the raid on White Island. And, consistent with Yanty’s prediction, the Long Beach Police Department got most of the credit. Of course, they took most of the flak, too, since it was apparent to all concerned that the initial landing had been bungled. A fact that put their police chief in an awkward position. What should she do? Place the blame where it belonged, which was on a dead officer, or shoulder it herself? Not a pleasant choice.

  Fortunately for Lee, she was well clear of the disaster zone and free to focus her energies on other things. And that included the Getty investigation, the Bonebreaker case, and Lawrence Kane. Lee couldn’t visit Kane without running the risk of a TV news ambush. But she could speak with him on the phone and was scheduled to do so at seven that evening, something she was looking forward to. But first, it was necessary to get through the day.

  Immediately after roll call, she and a two-man team consisting of Yanty and Prospo entered a well-secured conference room. In order to keep what they were working on under wraps, the investigation was code-named: “Operation Grab Bag.”

  Thanks to Prospo’s efforts, photos and short bios for each player were taped to one of the walls. The principals included Sydney Silverman, the real-estate developer/visionary who had been able to secure Getty’s support for the Oceana project through a political deal; business tycoon Carolina Moss, who had donated a large sum of money to Getty’s favorite charity immediately before receiving a zoning change her company needed; and Jack Stryker, who, as president of the Sanitation Workers Union, voiced his support for the higher transit rates that Getty was after in exchange for her willingness to tolerate a brief strike.

  Then there was the Church of Human Purity’s Bishop Herman Jones, who agreed to lead an enthusiastic “Vote Getty” campaign in exchange for the mayor’s commitment to leave LA’s stringent antimutant ordinances in place. And last, but not least, there was Western Waves Casino owner George Ma, who agreed to buy five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of pro-Getty advertising so that she wouldn’t get in the way of his proposal to place slot machines in convenience stores. A sweet deal indeed.

  “Okay,” Lee said, once all three of them were seated. “Who should we tackle first?”

  “What sticks out to me is the fact that some of these deals are more egregious than others,” Yanty said.

  “‘Egregious’?” Prospo demanded. “Did he say ‘egregious’?”

  “I believe he did,” Lee replied. “Could we stay on topic, please? Dick makes a good point. We should tackle the most prosecutable cases first. Those having a clear quid pro quo.”

  “The zoning thing is weak,” Prospo observed. “Especially since Carolina Moss has been making donations to that charity for years. Getty’s attorneys would call her gift a coincidence—and it might be very difficult to prove otherwise.”

&n
bsp; “Good point,” Lee said. “In fact, looking at all of them, I’d put Moss in the five slot.”

  “Agreed,” Yanty said. “I think Mr. Ma looks good for number one. After he put half a mil into Getty’s campaign, she put up little more than token resistance to the slot-machine proposal. And that was after she gave speeches condemning the measure six months earlier.”

  “He’s a strong candidate,” Lee admitted. “But how ’bout Silverman? He’s a huge donor to the Constitutional party—and they put forward a candidate so weak that Getty won 67 percent of the vote. And that was when she came out in favor of Silverman’s Oceana project.”

  There was a moment of silence while the detectives considered their options. Prospo was the first to speak. “I vote for Silverman first and Ma second.”

  “What a suck-up,” Yanty said disgustedly.

  Lee laughed. “Now that we have a starting point, let’s set some ground rules. Not only can we see the light at the other end of the tunnel, we know we’re looking at a train! Once we start to turn rocks over, someone will tell Getty, the media will get wind of it, and all hell will break loose. When that occurs, the spotlight will swivel onto us as Getty and her supporters try to discredit the investigation. With that in mind, please tape everything that can be taped and be very careful regarding what you put into e-mails related to the case.”

  Yanty looked at Prospo. “Am I dreaming? Or did loose-cannon Lee tell us to behave?”

  “Nope,” Prospo said solemnly. “You weren’t dreaming. This shit is for real.”

  “Damn,” Yanty said. “Wonders will never cease.”

  “Okay,” Lee said, “I’m out of here. I can get abuse anywhere.”

  Both men laughed as she left the room.

  The rest of the day was spent filling out reports and making phone calls, the most important of which was to Silverman’s office. Lee had to battle her way through two layers of secretaries in order to speak with Silverman’s personal assistant. “This is Veronica Facey . . . How can I help you?”