12 Days (13 page)

“I was just following a lead,” Jim said.

“What kind of lead?”

“I came by here yesterday to warn Mrs. Edwards that she may have endangered herself by doing that interview on KVTM the other night. But when I got here, she wouldn’t open the door because I didn’t have a badge. So, when I got my badge back, I thought I would talk to her before I went to work. I was obviously too late.”

“Either knew him or else he pretended to be someone she knew. There is no peephole in the door. and no windows in her house face the porch.”

“She said that the Santa was drunk; drugged was probably more like it. She said the other guy was shorter than the Santa and that he …oh what the fuck did she say?”

“I could get a sound clip from the station and we could review it, if it would help.”

Day 4: 10:58 a.m.

Jim could not believe it was almost eleven o’clock. He had just finished with the police sketch artist and been pleased with the details of his own recollection. Jim had yet to review the evidence accumulated by the department regarding the killer so, in his mind, this was the first big break in the case. Other than the limp, there was nothing remarkable about the guy; average height, average build, maybe 35-40 years old. He smiled as he recalled Lisa’s surprisingly accurate description of a man who faded into the background of whatever room he was in. The killer was that guy, Mr. Nobody. Jim had reviewed the Alice Edwards tape at the station; she said that he was shorter than Santa. Paul Artridge was 5’11”. They now had a height to go with a face. They were getting closer to knowing who he was, but still had no idea as to the motive behind the madness.

Day 4: 11:25 a.m.

Captain Jones was on the phone with the mayor when Mary buzzed in. Looking for any excuse to get off the phone, Jones quickly hung up and answered.

Captain Jones picked up a copy of the composite drawing Jovian had supplied. For the first time in this case, Captain Jones felt like he had the upper hand. Mary buzzed back.

“Yes, Mary?”

“He wants to know whether the police have a comment on a story they will be airing at noon that links all three recent murders to a single serial killer.”

Captain Jones groaned.

Day 4: 11:45 a.m.

The Captain had designated Conference Room 1 on the fourth floor of Parker Center as the central location for everyone involved in catching the piece of shit that was ruining the holiday season. Jim introduced himself to his fellow detectives and the representatives of the F.B.I. before trying to catch everyone up to speed. The room was filled with people busying themselves as best they could. Some were on the phones, others sifting through the ever-growing stacks of files, while others were working on the bulletin boards that had immediately caught Jim’s eye. Four six-foot by three-foot partitions stood majestically next to each other. Labeled with bright red numbers, one through four, each partition displayed names, pictures, and timelines for the murders that had been committed on the previous four days. The information filled the board for the Artridge case and grew gradually less until the fourth panel showed only a picture of Alice Edwards’s dead eyes peering through the birdcage. Jim knew that this panel would fill up soon. He saw in the corner that there were two more empty panels; he couldn’t decide whether that was wishful thinking or futile resignation. The Captain had called from his office and told everyone associated with the case to be in the “war room” at 11:55 and to turn the television on. Something was going to air on WNN and he wanted everyone to watch.

Day 4: 11:52 a.m.

Lisa had been scrambling all morning. She felt like she’d called every freelance cameraman and woman in Southern California and still could not get anyone to tape the unfolding events in West Covina. Her boss was not happy with the lack of progress and made it clear to Lisa in no uncertain terms, suggesting that maybe Lisa should grab the video equipment and get the footage herself.
Milt
, she thought,
fucking irresponsible piece of shit
. She was loading the video cable into her car when the cell phone rang.

“Lisa Klein.”

“Lisa, its Milt.’

“Milt, where the fuck are you? You were supposed to be here hours ago. You’re not answering your phone. I’ve got to go to West Covina right now!”

“You,” Milt replied. “Look, Lisa, I won’t be coming into work today and tomorrow’s not looking too good, either. As a matter of fact, I won’t be coming back at all.”

“You are a piece of shit.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Had he won the lottery?

“Maybe. I just wanted to call and say goodbye. Also, if you get a chance, take a look at a report we just did on World News Network. It airs at noon. Thanks, Lisa; I really enjoyed working with you.”

Milt hung up the phone. Lisa threw the video cable into the van and ran back into the station as fast as she could.

Day 4: 12:00 p.m.

“Breaking news from Los Angeles. WNN has obtained exclusive information that the seemingly random series of brutal murders taking place across the Southland are not random but are the work of a vicious serial killer. WNN’s Jason Kaleikis is in our Los Angeles studio. Jason…”

Jason Kaleikis stared straight into camera one and began.

“Thank you. The citizens of Los Angeles wakened today with the realization that a killer walks among us. The deaths of attorney Paul Artridge, philanthropist Janette McDermott, and chef Audrey La Pense can now be unequivocally attributed to the hand of one man. WNN has obtained exclusive footage to support this conclusion. The clip we are about to show is explicit and disturbing. We responsibly advise that these images might cause undue stress to our younger viewers and to those with certain cardiac conditions. If you fall into either category, please look away.”

Millions of people around the world sat and watched in horror as World News Network aired Milt Adams’ video of Paul Artridge, garbed in a urine stained Santa Claus suit, hanging lifelessly from a tree on Pear Street on Christmas morning. This was followed quickly by the clip of Janette McDermott’s blond hair floating wistfully beneath the shell of a 200 year-old tortoise in the reptile cage of the Los Angeles Zoo. And if that was not enough to turn the stomach of the viewing public, the final frames of Audrey La Pense, naked, covered in sugar with a baguette protruding grotesquely from her mouth, did the trick. As a climactic moment, freeze frames of the one, two, and three were displayed adjacent to each other. When the tape ended, the camera focused on Kaleikis’ face. He stared into the lens for several seconds in silence before he continued with his report.

“WNN contacted Captain Robert Jones, Jr. of the Los Angeles Police Department before we aired this footage. Captain Jones would neither confirm nor deny reports of a single serial killer as this is still an ongoing investigation, but he was able to say that the Los Angeles Police were devoting an enormous amount of their vast resources to track down a ‘person of interest’. In the best interests of the community, Captain Jones has supplied this network with a drawing of said person.”

The image that Jim had detailed to the police sketch artist then appeared on the screen.

“The Los Angeles Police Department has set up a telephone hotline. If anyone has information about this man or about any of the murders, they are encouraged to call the hotline at area code 213-555-1689.” The number displayed on the screen and held. “WNN would like to acknowledge the photographer who obtained these images, Milt Adams of Culver City, California. Mr. Adams declined to be interviewed at this time. The people of Los Angeles owe Mr. Adams a well-deserved, thank you. This is Jason Kaleikis for WNN news.”

Day 4: 12:10 p.m.

One of the advantages of the ongoing writer’s strike was that Bobby Santoro got a chance to sleep late into the morning hours; one of the disadvantages was that Bobby’s reserve cash fund was running low and soon he would not be able to afford to buy pot. Bobby was one of the peripheral Hollywood industry players that had been struck hard by the strike. He had come to Los Angeles from the Bronx five years before at the tender age of twenty-four with a tape recorder and a good ear for sounds. He got a job at Fox, filling in sound effects for a popular animated series that featured a clown and a skateboarding imp, but now production had stopped and Bobby was out of a job. He liked to get out of bed a little after eleven, grab a bowl of Frosted Flakes, and vegetate in front of the television for a couple of hours before reworking his script idea on the computer. At some point, the strike would be over and Bobby was going to be ready to pounce with fresh material.

He had filled his lungs with two large bong hits before he saw the news at noon on WNN. He followed the story intently, his brain slightly fogged but, after months of this routine, still functional. When the story ended, Bobby sat back on his mother’s old couch, somewhat confused. The news report with its gruesome details did not bother Bobby. After all, he was from New York. No, it was something else, almost a déjà vu sensation. Bobby Santoro was almost convinced that he had seen this story before.

Day 4: 12:12 p.m.

He stared at the artist’s rendition of his visage on the television and looked for a mirror.
I guess that’s what I look like
, he thought, and briefly touched his face. The dark-haired man’s recollection was good; they could not have locked eyes for more than three seconds and this is what the police came up with. Impressive, most impressive. He was also very fascinated with Mr. Milt Adams, who seemed to be quick with his camera and clear in his conclusions. He thought that he might like to meet Mr. Adams, to see how smart the man really was.

Day 4: 1:15 p.m.

Jim sat at his station in Conference Room 1 and worked his way through the files. There was no denying that the guy was good; four crime scenes in four days, no prints. Forensics found some footprints in the alley behind the La Pense place of varying depths from right foot to left, which confirmed that the guy had a limp. Short of that, no physical evidence was available to help identify the killer. The detective who sat next to Jim was searching an Internet directory for stores that stocked the bamboo cage. Jim had a feeling that Alice Edwards, after her appearance on the nightly news had been an “add-on” killing and that the cage would have been purchased within the last 48 hours. Jim peered at the guy’s notepad; it looked like his work would be an all-day event. Jim busied himself with the background details of the victims and could see no apparent pattern. He felt like he was watching that science-fiction classic
The Andromeda Strain
again; no matter how many times he saw that movie, he could not for the life of himself figure out how the two people who had absolutely nothing in common survived the virus that had wiped out the New Mexico town.
Maybe that was it
, Jim thought.
Maybe it wasn’t what the victims had in common, maybe it was something else.
Jim looked at the partitions and stared.
I’m missing something
, he thought,
it’s right there and I just can’t see it.

Day 4: 3:33 p.m.

Lisa had been sitting outside Milt’s apartment for what seemed like an eternity. She did not know exactly what she would say to him when he arrived, but she was ready to give him a substantial piece of her mind. Despite all the heartaches that a woman approaching the end of her third decade of life would have experienced by now, the feelings that Lisa had festering inside her at this moment were new. Her anger was mixed with desperation, combined with betrayal that had been sprinkled with futility, then melded together to become a monster that occupied every inch of her being. She forced herself to pick up the phone when Jim called and told him she had been fired. Jim had seen the WNN report as well and concluded that something like her dismissal was nearly inevitable. He told her everything would work out, and they planned to meet in his apartment after his shift to sort things out. Lisa hung up the phone and pulled out of her parking spot approximately thirty seconds before Milt turned his car onto the same street, just missing each other.