12 Days (27 page)

“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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.

“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.”

“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.

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.

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 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.

Day 8: 9:50 a.m.

Terminal Island was an artificial creation within Long Beach Harbor. It had a long and storied history including having formerly been known as Rattlesnake Island, the home of first and second generation Japanese-Americans prior to World War II. With the outbreak of that war, Terminal Islanders were put in internment camps and their residences were burned to the ground. The island could be accessed from the west by the Vincent Thomas Bridge, which happened to be the third longest suspension bridge in California. Knowing the Luger was right behind his back ready to fire, Roy simply paid the toll and proceeded towards their still secret destination. When they were close to the halfway point of the bridge, Deus leaned forward and spoke to Roy.

Roy didn’t question the command; he just did as he was told, which did not please the truckers who had unfortunately paid their tolls after Roy. The police car swerved sideways and parked, drawing honking horns and shouts immediately.

“All right, gentlemen, let’s get this party started,” Deus said with a smile. “Roy, get out of the car slowly. Jim, stay right there.”

As killer and the gimp cop were walking around the rear of the police car, an angry trucker approached the pair with his arms extended, as if in prayer.

“Hey, officer, give me a break. It’s New Year’s Day. I want to go home. Just let me get through and make my delivery, huh?”

As Roy opened Jim’s door and the detective struggled to exit, Deus turned towards the man and looked him straight in the eyes. With the calmness of someone without a care in the world, he raised his Luger and pumped two rounds into the trucker’s chest. The man fell to the ground with a look of disbelief on his face. As Roy and Jim yelled out protests, they found the Luger pointed at their faces.

“Okay Jim, let Roy lean on you. Good. Now walk,” ordered the killer. “Stop when we get to the middle. Everyone will be here soon; I want to be ready.”

Day 8: 9:59 a.m.

Captain Jones was speeding down the 110 with his sirens blaring when his radio crackled into life.

“Attention all units, we have reports of shots fired on the Vincent Thomas Bridge. Civilian down. All units, repeat, shots fired on Vincent Thomas Bridge. Proceed with caution.”

Jones grabbed the mike and screamed over the multitude of ‘rogers’ that were bombarding his ears.

“This is Captain Jones. I need SWAT, eyes in the air, everyone in and around Long Beach at that bridge. This is our serial killer and I think that he has one of us.”

Jones threw down the mike and drove like the wind.

Day 8: 10:02 a.m.

“I think this is going to be a beautiful day.” Deus said as he looked out over the deep blue Pacific. “Why don’t you fellows grab a seat?”

“The Catalina ferry leaves from right over there,” he said to no one in particular. “I used to go there with my folks when I was a kid.”