12 Days (6 page)

Death could be such a beautiful thing.

But now he had to sleep; he had to step back and watch his drama play out on the television and in the newspaper. They wouldn’t connect her to Artridge, in spite of his hints, at least not yet. He guessed that they would start to put it all together after the next one. And he had that one all scoped out. He eased his truck into drive and left the parking lot.

Chapter Three: The Cackle of Crazy

Day 2: 12:26 a.m.

Shell shocked, like he just survived a bombing raid while hiding in a tin roof house, Jim sat at his desk and put the last of his affairs in order. He had to take another deep breath to settle his nerves before he finished typing. He had realized that his original report did not contain the information about the carving found on the murder tree, so he knew he had to add that to the supplemental report. He was anything if not thorough. Like most officers, he could either type a report on the computers or record it digitally for support staff to type. The typed reports, however produced, were then sent to supervisors electronically, who approved them and sent them on to support for inclusion in the case file. Jim still typed his own reports, so he wouldn’t miss anything, and he was doing the same with the supplemental.

He thought about the situation as he did a spell check. He understood the Captain’s position; shit flowed downhill and Jim was stuck in a hole wearing a bib, staring straight into the biggest shit shoot he had ever seen.

Still, the Captain was a man of his word and Jim truly believed him when he said that he would see Jim through the situation. Jim reassured himself of that as he printed his report and placed it in the “In” box on the Stan Kramer’s desk. He donned his coat and left the precinct, wondering when he would be welcome there again.

Day 2: 6:30 a.m.

It was an early start for Hector Ruiz, just like every other day. After cleaning up the dog shit his wife’s four dogs deposited on the back porch that morning, it was off to the Zoo for more of the same. Hector had worked in the maintenance department at the L.A. Zoo for a little over two and a half years; since he really only needed to talk to the animals, his failure to speak English was no detriment. Hector loved all the animals, and the monkeys most of all. He loved to get them so agitated that they would throw shit bombs at him. He stayed just out of reach, laughing as they exploded like fireworks at his feet. It was Hector’s job to clean the shit bombs off the floor. As long as the chimps failed to score a direct hit on his uniform, he could care less about cleaning it up; theoretically, monkey shit provided him with job security. Crap on the floor meant there would always be the need for Hector.

The zoo would open at 10:00 a.m., plenty of time to give the cages a quick cleaning. If he got done early, he could play with the chimps. He wore his scarf that morning. He loved to put his scarf into the monkey cage and entice the monkeys to grab it. If one did, Hector would yank it as hard as possible, sending the monkey crashing into the cage. Luckily, none of them ever got noticeably hurt by the maneuver, but it agitated them to the point where the first paying guests might as well have worn targets on their backs when they entered the room.

He was approaching the Reptile House, mop in one hand, master key in the other, when he noticed that the door was ajar and that there were fragments of the wooden jamb on the floor. Hector slowly opened the door with the business end of his mop and looked around. Everything appeared to be in order. Odd. But as he made his rounds, there seemed to be something amiss in the turtle pond. The old tortoise, which the staff lovingly called Nancy Reagan, was sitting very high above the water, as if on a podium, ready to make a speech. As Hector approached the pond, what at first seemed strange became very frightening. The tortoise was perched on top of a woman, who was lying face down in six inches of water!

“Ay mi madre!” Hector exclaimed, then turned, dropped his mop, and ran for help. He did not notice that the driver’s license of one Janette McDermott was affixed proudly on display on the railing that surrounded the turtle pond. He also failed to notice that the rocks in the pond near the dead woman’s head had been neatly arranged into the shape of the number ‘two’. All Hector Ruiz had noticed was that somehow, Nancy Reagan had drowned that poor woman.

Day 2: 10:06 a.m.

Club 44 was a Pasadena landmark. It had opened in the early 1940’s and kept going strong ever since. It was one of the few places in this affluent suburb north of L.A. where well-heeled society mixed amiably with those less fortunate. The food was so good that, despite the reasonable prices that might have kept many in “old money” Pasadena away, the rich overcame their elitist sensibilities and were often seen dining there for breakfast with truckers and maintenance workers. Jim sat across from Lisa at a table for four in the dead center of the room. They could have chosen a booth, but Jim wanted some elbowroom and he wasn’t convinced that they had reached the ‘booth’ stage of their relationship just yet; if this was indeed burgeoning on a relationship. They ordered omelets; Jim had salmon, scallions and tofu, while Lisa went with a less adventurous ham and cheese. Lisa knew the menu; while Jim studied it, she found herself thinking that Jim was easy on the eyes.

“I wish you could have seen the show last night. We did a big piece on Artridge; having that info early in the day really helped, and for that I thank you.”

Lisa raised her coffee cup in the air, Jim politely followed suit and they tapped their cups together as though it were New Year’s Eve. Jim had not told her yet of his suspension but he was certain the meal would not end before that fact reared its ugly head. He put down his cup and smiled.

“You’re very welcome.”

“I don’t know how much you know about Artridge, but he was a big deal. He had been on the defense side of every huge case in L.A. for the past 20 years. His firm has represented the governor’s office, the mayor, and even the Catholic Church. There was a rumor that he was the brains behind O.J.’s defense. Supposedly, he was the one who told Johnnie Cochran to say that if the gloves don’t fit, you must acquit. Plus, Artridge never hid his homosexuality. He didn’t just leave the closet, he broke down the door. He helped give the gay community in L.A. a powerful voice in politics; he not only raised awareness of gay issues, he got a significant amount of public money directed to AIDS research. His death is a big blow to the gay cause in town; they’re going to have a hard time replacing a man like Paul Artridge.”

Lisa had impressed Jim with her recitation of the facts and the depths of her research. She was obviously good at what she did. But Jim shrugged.

“The case, the tree, Paul Artridge, the situation in the Middle East, all of it. Do you think this was a hate crime? What do you think about the number one in the tree?”

Lisa seemed very excited.

Jim sat back and thought out loud.

“Well, if it was a hate crime, according to you, our killer could not have chosen a more public figure in the gay community on whom to direct his attention. But hate crimes are not usually this well organized. They always seem to be more urgent and rash, fueled by either liquor or drugs, more often than not the end result of an insult or a dare. This was carefully planned, premeditated, and deliberate. And the killer is absolutely trying to not only get our attention, but to make a point. I just don’t know what that point is. About the number on the tree, I don’t know what to make of it. We don’t even know if the killer put it there. The one will only be proven to be meaningful if…”

Further conversation was halted as their waitress neatly placed the omelets before them. As Jim poured some Killer Habanera sauce generously over his eggs, Lisa got back on track.

“I know you’re going to think that this is strange, but every time I think of this case, I think about Hannibal Lecter.”

Jim chuckled.

“Hannibal Lecter. The fictional killer from
Silence of the Lambs
.”

“Do you remember when Lecter told Clarisse that Buffalo Bill weighed his first victim under the water so that she would appear to be the third victim? Do you remember the question he asked her?”

Lisa accentuated the
see
on her second recitation.

“The first kill is the most important. That has to be true in this case as well. If our guy is ready to start a series and Paul Artridge is first, there has to be a reason. He was a public figure, openly gay. Maybe he was the attorney in a case that hit our killer close to home. The killer may have seen Artridge on the news, in the paper and he starts to covet, until…”

“I just don’t understand why the killer would pick West Covina? Artridge lived 30 miles away. Why drive him to West Covina to kill him?”

“I have no idea. If our killer wants to show that he has a flair for the dramatic, the Santa suit accomplishes that. Hanging him from a tree has to mean something. What, I don’t know. West Covina. Maybe he lives in the area, maybe something happened to our killer in that neighborhood. Who knows how this guy thinks?”

Jim looked down at his plate.
Here we go
, he thought. “I didn’t go to work last night.”

Jim stared at Lisa, thought about his options and decided to tell the truth. He told her of the car alarm, of the handprints on the Civic and the conversation with Captain Jones.

Lisa’s eyes widened. She sat silent, looking overwhelmed. Jim sat quietly, as though all the air had been sucked from the restaurant. Was she changing her mind about him?

“On the phone that night. Roy interviewed her yesterday afternoon. I did drive by the house. It was no more than a hundred yards from the scene. The one goddamn time she should have been taken seriously… she’s what we call a ‘constant caller’ or a pain in the ass, take your pick.”

Lisa could see that Jim was upset, but she knew she had to interview Alice Edwards and get her story. The follow up was crucial for momentum. She resolved to finish her meal and politely excuse herself so that she could get Milt on the phone. She was so excited she could not sit there comfortably. She was about to ask another question when her cell phone rang. The caller ID showed Milt.
Wow, the fucking guy can read my mind.
She held up the phone and gave Jim an apologetic look.