Finding 52 (15 page)

The Heart of Harley

1962

H
arley was back at it; his studies at school as well as his quest. His life’s journey was nothing more than a pursuit of the REAL people, the only ones that could harm him, the bastards. It was 1962 and there were still plenty more to get: forty-six of them were still out there. Harley had questions. What if one of those forty-six individuals died of a sickness or was killed by another? Would someone new take that person’s place? He also wondered if any of them would be able to find him first. Would there be a warning? Were they living in other countries or even born yet? He thought about stuff like that a lot. In the end he never lost sleep over his conundrum, because he knew he was brilliant as well as rich. He thought things would move fast once he was able to travel alone. He was only five years or so away from a driver’s license. True mobility would be his license to kill.

Richard Nixon failed in his bid for reelection as the Governor of California. Democrat Pat Brown garnered nearly three hundred thousand votes more than Tricky Dicky in the gubernatorial race. That amounted to nearly fifty-two percent of the vote and Nixon moved on. He appeared to be kaput as a national candidate and became a Wall Street lawyer. Nixon kept his old party connections and developed new ones as he was also on the circuit, speaking for Republicans. After losing to Pat Brown he told reporters they wouldn’t have “Nixon” to kick around anymore.

Harley didn’t believe that for a minute. A guy like Nixon was just like the old John Cameron Swayze Timex watch torture test with the famous line, “It takes a licking and keeps on ticking.” He figured Nixon would one day take an even bigger licking than that Timex watch ever imagined.

Marilyn Monroe died of a drug overdose that August, at the very young age of thirty-six. The coroner ruled acute barbiturate poisoning, which resulted from a likely suicide. Born in 1926, Norma Jeane Mortensen (soon after changed to Baker) prevailed over a problematic childhood to become one of the world’s largest and most enduring sex symbols. Harley had his own reservations as to whether or not the overdose was a suicide, much less accidental. Because it was rumored that President Kennedy was the last person Marilyn Monroe called, Harley inferred there was certainly Central Intelligence Agency or Mafia collusion.

Harley kept the Eight of Clubs with him the entire year, but never got a chance to use it. By now he was already a serial killer. He’d disposed of six individuals and all six of them were people that would have eventually hurt him. It would’ve been contrary to Harley’s tenacity and resolve to let any of them live. His puppy didn’t count. Brewster was merely a warm up for better things to come, and besides, that mutt really did need a bit of tweaking.

Harley avoided introspection and accepted what he was on the face of it. He understood he was brilliant and able to mimic emotions, despite his failure to actually feel them. He also knew that one day he’d have a fortune at his disposal to take care of the business at hand…his very survival. Big stakes indeed! He was always able to maintain a casual and dispassionate appearance, combined with a keen understanding of his surroundings and pleasant personality that would make him a very efficient predator.

A serial killer may well be defined as someone who commits multiple acts of murder in a seemingly random technique. Perhaps three or more victims over a period of time and the murders are unrelated to each other. There’s usually an interlude in time between murders, and Harley surely met that criteria. Was he a sociopath or was he a psychopath? Some qualities are often shared by both. Harley certainly shared them as well; things like a disdain for laws and the privileges of others, as well as a failure to show regret or responsibility.

Sociopaths tend to be anxious and easily disturbed. Harley didn’t fall into that group whatsoever. They’re prone to emotional outbursts, including fits of rage—something Harley experienced with Brewster, but to his credit he was only two years old when the puppy received correction. In the eyes of others, sociopaths will appear visibly troubled. Harley didn’t appear to be anything other than typical, until, of course, one of the fifty-two REAL people hit his radar.

He was probably more of a psychopath if anything could possibly define him. Psychopaths are very scheming and can easily achieve people’s trust, and Harley clearly had that ability. They appear normal to other unwary people and so did he. Psychopathic villains are cool and unruffled, making few mistakes. They’re self-confident, eloquent, and highly methodical serial killers; all traits Harley already possessed.

Did it matter? At the end of the day, defining him would be tantamount to asking, “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” Harley was unique and badass to the bone. He defied explanation.

Things would soon change decidedly in his favor. Spring turned to summer and before he knew it there was snow on the academy lawn. Christmas and New Year’s arrived and soon left and it was 1963.

The New Year would prove favorable for Harley. By the end of 1963 a couple more cards would be dealt in ways only Harley could dispense them, and a nation’s president would be taken away from a grief-stricken America.

The Baseball Bandit

1984

R
on Rivers lived in an apartment with his mother and two younger brothers. His father was in prison serving time for armed robbery and his sister was incarcerated for various petty transgressions, including soliciting, shoplifting, and shooting the neighbor’s Dachshund. Desirae told the judge she was guilty of the soliciting and shoplifting, but the Dachshund had it coming.

“That fucking mutt deserved it.”

The judge looked at her sternly and said, “Language!”

“That dog was always barking and chasing people. I was doing everybody a favor. When he tried dancing on my leg I figured enough was enough so I shot the mangy mutt. He was guilty of a sex crime or something on my leg! I would’ve charged my regular customers extra money if they pulled a stunt like that,” Desirae said. “Barking and yelping costs more.” She looked at the judge and smiled, “He sure did die hard for a Dachshund.”

She was sentenced to a year in the local jail, and she still had six months to do when Ron started robbing people with his Louisville Slugger.

Eliza Rivers was flat-out mean. She routinely slapped the bejesus out of her three sons, telling them they’d end up like their father. Her youngest son Orlando made the mistake of bringing up his mother’s criminal record.

“You were in jail when I was born. Ron told me why you got out early,” Orlando said.

Eliza shot her eldest boy a dirty look and Ron cringed. She looked at Orlando and said, “That was a misunderstanding.”

Ron snickered and muttered, “A carload of stolen clothes, jewelry, and whatnot when the cops pulled you over after leaving the store, and you were the only one in the car. I would’ve voted to convict as well.”

Eliza heard most of what her wise-ass son had said, and she picked up a skillet from the stove and swung for the fences. It hit the back of Ron’s head and knocked him out cold. When he came to, his mother was still standing over him with the skillet in her hand. “I’m your mother, you cretin, show some respect.”

Ron replied, “For fucks sake, Ma! We both know you stole that stuff and that business about you being in jail when Orlando was born is true.”

Eliza looked at him with utter pity and said, “Ron…you a dumbass!” She swung the skillet at him again and struck pay dirt, this time she broke his hand as he tried to deflect the blow that was on a collision course with his nose. “I don’t guess you’ll ever amount to a hill of beans. Get that bat of yours and go to work. Make me proud!”

Within a couple of weeks Ron had robbed several young men in one of Riverside’s local parks. Armstrong Park was frequented by many. It had tennis courts, picnic tables, and even a small pond with ducks. Ron had successfully gotten away with several strong-armed robberies and the police chief was catching hell from City Commissioners after Ron had managed to shatter the kneecap of a Commissioner’s nephew his last time out.

Ron was already an imposing figure and could’ve probably gotten by with threatening to beat his targets’ asses, but Ron opted for the baseball bat. He reckoned it made him a super hero of sorts and it sped up the transaction in the bargain. The second his prey saw the bat, they had their wallets out and were going for the cash; one of the victims even offered to write him a check. There were occasions when he was feeling frisky and he’d hit them with the bat regardless. Ron understood that for him the money was a necessity and wreaking pain and havoc was sport. When he broke the law it was nothing more than mixing business with pleasure. The chief was getting plenty of fallout after the commissioner’s nephew got poleaxed by the baseball bandit. When Ron struck, the police were never able to catch him. He was as big as he was dumb, but he was lucky as well.

The chief decided to place undercover detectives in the park, which was costly because the baseball bandit struck at various times of the day and early evening. It soon became apparent that the baseball bandit really was lucky. The third day officers were in Armstrong Park a bank-robbery-in-progress call went out and the location was within a mile of the park. The undercover officers left their assignment and went to the robbery. Ron had no idea there were undercover officers assigned to the park, much less that a nearby robbery was taking place. When he drove into the park the cops passed him as they headed toward the bank. Ron parked his car and got out near the tennis courts. Two teenagers were playing tennis and Ron walked up to them with his bat in hand.

“Give me your wallets and any money you got in your pockets,” he growled. “I ain’t fucking around!”

One of the kids went for his wallet and the other one began crying. Ron said, “You pussy, here’s something to cry about.” He struck the teenager with the baseball bat and broke his collarbone.

The other one gave him his wallet and some change in his pocket. Ron reached in the wallet and took out eighteen dollars before throwing the wallet on the ground. He picked up the tennis racket and walked toward the pond and threw it at a duck. He walked back and told the kids, “If you tell the cops anything, I’ll find you both and kill you!”

He drove home just in time for lunch and told his mother how he earned nearly twenty dollars playing baseball in the park. She was pleased and smiled as she asked if he’d like an egg salad sandwich.

The undercover cops never caught the bank robber, because it turned out to be a false alarm. A teller accidently bumped the silent alarm button with her knee. When the cops returned to the park they realized the baseball bandit had beaten them again. The teenagers were unable to describe the culprit or the car he drove. One described Ron as a white guy who left in a red truck and the other said he was a black man who drove a blue coupe with loud exhaust. They were positive they wouldn’t be able to identify him or his vehicle. When the tennis player mentioned his racket had been tossed in the pond at a duck, the undercover cop said, “I’ll get right on that…maybe call out the dive team as soon as you two chickenshits decide to tell us what really happened!”

The baseball bandit had struck seven times and the police weren’t close to catching him. They had a few suspects in mind and the detectives had their money on Ron. It was time to try something new. A uniformed officer was assigned an unmarked car and would park near Ron’s apartment. If the baseball bandit struck again and happened to get away, they’d catch him going home.

Reg was assigned stakeout duty a week later and given the oldest unmarked car in the fleet. He wore his uniform and a tan jacket over his shirt. It was early in the evening and just starting to get dark; Reg figured if Ron was their guy and tonight was the night, there was only a half hour of daylight left. Reg was backed into an alley facing Ron’s residence, which was an upstairs apartment above an insurance office less than three miles from the park. Ron’s car was not in its usual parking place, so Reg figured he was out and about.

Ron parked his Plymouth Fury a block away from Armstrong Park and grabbed his Louisville Slugger. He walked past the duck pond and the ducks were swimming around. Just thinking about the tennis racket at the bottom of the pond made him smile. The baseball bandit surely loved his new career. He thought to himself how everybody was good at something and he was gosh darn good at his new vocation.

Lyle Bowden was sitting on a picnic bench and getting ready to leave the park. He walked over to the bike rack and reached down to unlock his bike when he saw Ron walk toward him. As soon as Lyle saw the bat in Ron’s hand he took his wallet out and dropped it on the ground.

“There you go mister. I didn’t see a thing!” Lyle was all asshole and elbows as he fled the park. Ron picked up the wallet and stuck it in his back pocket about the time a neighbor called the police station and reported another robbery.

The dispatcher put the call out, and a minute or so later Reg saw Ron pull into his usual parking place behind the insurance company. Reg keyed up his radio and told everyone he’d be out with the baseball bandit, and then Reg pulled about thirty feet behind the Plymouth Fury and got out. It was getting dark and Ron couldn’t make out the blue stripe on the police trousers, but he didn’t like what he saw, so he reached into his car and grabbed the Slugger and started walking toward the man standing outside the old Chevy.

Reg was smiling as he reached inside the unmarked car and pulled out the shotgun that was lying on the backseat. He raised the shotgun and racked a fresh shell into the chamber. When Ron saw the shotgun he was surprised, and even more shocked to hear the sound of it. Reg and Ron were only about ten feet apart and Reg had the shotgun pointed right at Ron’s midsection.

“Batter up, motherfucker! Let’s play us some baseball.” The bandit dropped his baseball bat and knelt down as he placed his hands behind his head. “You see that on television? I was just gonna tell you to assume the position. You’re taking some of the fun out of this.”

Calvin and Quentin pulled up in a marked car and got out. Calvin handcuffed Ron, and Quentin looked up at the back of the Rivers’s apartment in time to see Eliza looking out a window.

Quentin started laughing and gave her the finger. He shouted, “Hey Eliza, I think your oldest boy is going to spend some time with his daddy. He won’t be coming home for a long time. We’ll probably impound the car as well, even if it is in your name, evidence and such. I’m sure you understand.”

Reg searched the car and found Lyle’s wallet under the front seat, thirty dollars had been removed and was in Ron’s pocket. He later admitted to detectives that he only kept the wallet because it was in great shape. He meant to get rid of the wallet’s contents later on.

All of that was before Reg spoiled the fun.

Some of the baseball bandit’s targets eventually came forward and identified him. The only reason Ron refused the Prosecutor Attorney’s plea deal was because he’d heard the state penitentiary had lousy food. He decided to roll the dice and take a chance on the jury that eventually let him down.

The jury deliberated but had their minds made up in fifteen minutes, they dragged their discussions out for a couple of hours to make it look good and get another free lunch. That was something Ron would’ve certainly understood.