12 Days (10 page)

He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he knew how she operated, how dictatorial she could be.

God, this cranky old hag had it coming to her!

The poor kid politely bowed his head as Alice Edwards slammed the door in his face. The boy left the corner house and surreptitiously flipped Alice off before hopping on his bike and continuing his journey. He watched the boy hurl his wares at the four houses adjacent to the Edwards home; he landed one newspaper on the steps, two in the bushes, and one disappeared from view completely.

Now he got it. Alice Edwards did not want to pick up her newspaper if it was strewn recklessly on her lawn; Alice wanted her newspaper hand delivered. And because of that, Alice had opened the front door.

Day 3: 8:20 a.m.

Lisa pulled into the KVTM lot at top speed, braking just in time to stop three inches short of smashing into Jim’s legs. He looked at her in disbelief.

“Fuck!”

Lisa mouthed an “I’m sorry” as she pushed past and into her parking space.

“I’m sorry!” she repeated as she hurried out of the car and approached him.

He tried to look upset, but he loved the sound of her voice, on the phone, in person and in passion.

“Forget it, let’s get inside.”

The “Morning” show at KVTM was still on the air and would be showing the news footage from the most recent murder twice more, at 8:25 and again at 8:50, but that was the edited version; the raw stuff was back in the bay. Lisa and Jim opened the editing room door and saw Milt spinning wildly on his chair, music player in his ears, wailing away on a set of air drums. Milt did not see them until he had completed his second orbit, at which time he stopped, smiled, and waved to Lisa.

“That ‘kid’ is all over town; I don’t know if lazy really applies. And I wouldn’t underestimate him. I think he’s a lot sharper than he lets on.”

Lisa shrugged, and then pressed a few buttons while Jim grabbed a seat. They began to look at the tape from the Santa Monica crime scene. The first thing they noticed was how dark it was, despite the floodlights on the front lawn. The timer in the upper right hand corner read 3:46 - poor Milt had been up for a while. Milt had set his camera at the street edge of the property, looking directly at the front door. They watched some unsteady shots, as Milt was not using his tripod, opting to shoot freestyle. The camera was equipped with stabilization but that only went so far; the footage reminded Jim of a bad episode of “COPS.” He had to look away briefly as a wave of nausea generated by the motion blur overtook him. He coughed into his hand in an attempt to hide his distress.

The next few moments really sent Jim’s vestibular system for a loop; it appeared that Milt was climbing a tree. Sections of brown bark and green leaves were periodically whizzing past his eyes. Jim could not understand how Lisa could sit there so stoically; her inner ear had to be made of stone.

The camera eventually leveled off as Milt found a comfortable limb from which to continue his assault on Jim’s gag reflex. At this angle, Milt was looking down at the front door from approximately 50 feet away. He used his telephoto lens to stay focused on the entry, remaining in place for what seemed like an eternity, but on the timer it was really only four minutes. The resolution of the lens was remarkable; Jim could see the paint cracks lifted off the surface of the front door. And then the door opened; someone from forensics left to get something from the truck. The camera rushed forward. In scarcely more time than it took the forensics guy to close the door behind him, there in all her glory was Audrey La Pense.

They froze the tape and then found themselves in a similar state of suspended animation, stunned by the sight on the screen. A loaf of bread was protruding angrily from the woman’s mouth and she was covered in white powder. They saw the ‘three’ written in the powder, immediately below her right arm.

“I knew it. I just knew it when I heard the story. It had to be him.” Lisa was very excited. “He certainly isn’t being very subtle this time, is he?”

“Maybe he’s English. Didn’t they call girls ‘birds’ in England in the ‘60s? Maybe, three dead women?”

“The way he’s numbering the victims, it’s changing. In the Artridge case, if you didn’t stand at the right angle, you could almost miss the ‘one’ on the tree. The ‘two’ for McDermott was a little more obvious, but initially, just to us.”

“It is what it is. I got to figure he’ll call and then I’ll most likely be looking for a new career. How hard is it to use a camera?”

“I don’t know if ‘evolving’ is the right word to describe a homicidal maniac who kills people with bread products. But go on, you must have a thought.”

Jim got up and began to pace, gesticulating with his hands, like a teacher about to explain relativity to a physics class.

“Our guy, most likely, had never taken a life before Artridge. He probably didn’t even know if he could. He pushes the guy along the street and sets off a car alarm. Lucky for him, I was on call. He has some grand plan about numbering his victims, but after he hangs Santa, the best he could muster was the carving on the tree, that can only be seen if the sun hits it right. Like, he wanted us to know, but he wasn’t sure if he could get away with it. He probably sits at home afterward, preparing for the McDermott woman while waiting for the cops to knock on his door. When they don’t, he makes his next move. He is feeling better about his plan, about the incompetence of his pursuers. He wants to tie the first victim to the second, so he makes the ‘two’ larger, but still somewhat obtuse, as if he’s not yet ready to shout, ‘I did it. Catch me.’ And then we have number ‘three’. He writes it in powder directly next to the body. He positions her as he sees himself, standing with his legs apart and his hands above his head, screaming to the world that he has arrived, that he is smarter than us and he will continue to kill at will until someone stops him. Hence, I use the word ‘evolving’.”

He finished his rant and looked at Lisa for a reaction. She didn’t take long to acknowledge Jim’s conclusions. She leapt from her seat and kissed him passionately; a position she held for a good ten seconds. When she finished, she saw that she had drawn blood from his lower lip. She grabbed him by the hair and whispered into his ear.

“Is it sick that this really turns me on,” she asked, knowing the answer already.

“A little, but what the fuck?”

Now it was his turn. He spun her against the door and kissed her deeply. She reached behind her back and locked the door so that no one would enter. Luckily for them, no one saw him rip open her shirt or bend her over a chair and tear off her g-string. No cameras saw him take her from behind while she stared at the picture of Audrey La Pense, covered in sugar, spread like a dead eagle on the high definition screen.

Day 3: 9:25 a.m.

Milt Adams sat at his computer and spliced together some of the images he had procured over the last few days of shooting; it was like a ‘Best of Snuff Shots’ and all his. The stuff was going to sell like hot cakes on the Internet. The hanging Santa Claus was a testament to Lisa’s quick thinking but the French chick was all Milt. And thanks to the fact that the beaner janitor at the zoo called his cousin at Telemundo before he called the cops, Milt also nabbed some footage of the lady with the turtle on her head.
This is really good stuff
, he thought. He was staring at the second victim when he saw the rocks.
Weird.
He printed off a picture and rolled the tape forward to the Santa Monica murder.
That was definitely a three
. He printed that frame as well.
Wait, that thing Lisa spotted, on the tree in West Covina.
He rewound to the dead Santa and studied the film. He almost missed it but there it was. As print number three came out of the machine, Milt grabbed it and placed it next to the others on his bed. One, two and three; they were connected.
Holy fuck! They were connected.
Milt tapped out a quick drum roll on the nightstand and then jumped high in the air, yelling in delight at his good fortune. At the apex of his leap, he crashed his head on the bedroom light and opened a gash that would need seven stitches on the parietal portion of his skull. It wouldn’t be the last time he’d question his luck.

Day 3: 11:08 a.m.

Captain Robert Jones was having a terrible start to the new day. His breakfast meeting with the mayor went horribly wrong. The little midget was up in his grill all morning and no amount of verbal massaging on Jones’ part could placate the bastard. Santa Monica wasn’t even under his command, why the fuck was this his fault? Jones’ secretary, Mary, had put the case files for all three murders on his desk and he was going to go through each one personally and get his head around this mess if it was the last thing he did. He started with La Pense; that murder was fresh and particularly violent. So the guy jammed a loaf of French bread down her throat and covered her with confectionary sugar. He apparently did not like French food. But what was up with the birds and the ‘three’ on the floor? The ‘three’ on the floor, the ‘three’. He grabbed the Artridge file and found Jim’s supplemental report.
Son of a bitch.
McDermott, McDermott.
Don’t tell me that there is a ‘two’ in the turtle cage, please, please.
Nothing in the report, where are the photos?
They were within easy reach; when he found them, he dropped them, stunned.
No, no, no. Son of a bitch. Son of a fucking bitch!

“Jesus Christ woman, Jim Fucking Jovian, the officer who was here yesterday!” he screamed as he stood from behind his desk. “Get him on the phone. NOW!”

The secretary pushed the glasses higher on her nose and slowly shut the door.

Day 3: 11:13 a.m.