The Poe Consequence

by Keith Steinbaum

  Dean leaned back in his chair and looked up over his shoulder at Atkinson. “How’d you work the other two innocents into this?”

  “I had the same question you had about the discrepancy in the numbers,” he replied. “Why did four more gang members die of heart attacks when the back and forth pattern was so exact otherwise? That’s when I did some research on murders in the same neighborhood over that period of time. After I found the first match, the other one didn’t take long.”

  Atkinson retrieved the second paper from Dean’s desk. “On June twenty-fourth, a vagrant by the name of Gregorio Plata was shot and killed. The following day, June twenty-fifth, a Lobo named Francisco Martinez died of a heart attack. The other victim, Reynaldo Cisneros, was an ex-Lobo who had turned his life around. He’d become a community activist working with kids. He was knifed and killed in his home on July fourteenth. His face looked like a damn tic-tac-toe board from all the slashing. The next day, a Lobo named Eduardo Padilla died of a heart attack in his bedroom.”

  “I must be getting old,” Dean said, narrowing his eyes as he studied the second sheet. “I should have recognized this myself. Maybe I was too preoccupied with the uncanny consistency of the four a.m. time.”

  Atkinson looked away from the paper into the eyes of Dean. “I didn’t know that the time of death still centered on four o’clock for all these guys,” he said.

  Dean motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down.”

  Leaning on his elbows with his hands clasped under his chin, Dean stared at Atkinson. “Of the seventeen heart attacks, we’re pretty sure that the actual time of death in six of the cases was four a.m. The other eleven could very well have happened at the same time according to the coroner.”

  “Four a.m.?” Atkinson repeated. “I remember that was the suspected time frame in the first few cases but that was it. I didn’t know about the rest.”

  “Just another, ‘how does he do it?’ question for us to wrestle with, Carl.”

  “Why do you think those six you mentioned were all four a.m.?” Atkinson asked.

  Dean offered a slight smile. “Logical question,” he said. “A lot of these bangers are night owls, not home in bed like most of us. It wasn’t hard to find witnesses in five of the cases. When someone’s screaming outside on a quiet night, waking you up out of a sound sleep, what’s the first thing you do? You look at the clock. Each witness stated they were awakened a few minutes before four a.m. And after four o’clock?” Dean paused before answering his own question. “Silence. No more screaming.”

  Atkinson whistled in astonishment.

  “The one other case was that kid found in the old railroad yard. At that point we didn’t think much of it, but when he died, or was about to die, he apparently fell on the tracks and broke his watch. Do I need to tell you what time it showed when it stopped?”

  Atkinson shook his head. “I’ve never imagined this kind of calculated ability to kill was possible,” he said. “Unbelievable.”

  Dean settled back in his chair. “Fucking frightening is what it is, Carl. I can’t prove it, and I sure as hell can’t explain it, but if I was a betting man I’d lay odds the victims of these heart attacks lost their lives because of a murder they committed the day before. Based on the consistency of the twenty-four-hour periods between deaths, what else could it mean? Just don’t expect me to go tell the Mayor this shit.”

  “Has he been told anything about what’s going on?”

  “I’ve talked with him a couple of times,” Dean said, “but he didn’t seem too concerned. Now he’s getting pressured from some of the family members to conduct an investigation of our department. That’s what the phone call was about a few minutes ago. You know the way it is, Carl. Bad cops are always suspect, right?”

  “We can’t be blamed for this one,” Atkinson muttered.

  “I’ve tried to make him understand how difficult this case has been,” he said. “Maybe get him to allocate more money for extra men.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Dean said. “If these heart attacks were happening to his Westside or Valley constituents, we’d have every man on the force working this case. But all we’ve got is two murderous Latino gangs from a poor section of town. He suspects these heart attacks are drug related, so his sympathy gauge isn’t too high right now.”

  “Thirty deaths in four months?” Atkinson said, frustration coating his voice. “And seventeen of them heart attacks? How many more will it take for him to finally respond?”

  “One,” Dean answered.

  Atkinson’s head angled in confusion. “One?”

  “Yeah, one,” Dean repeated. “From another gang. Not a Lobo or a Diablo, but another gang. If and when that happens, we have a possible epidemic and that’s when the Mayor wants to be told.”

  “So, just like that, we’re supposed to sweep seventeen heart attacks under the rug?” Atkinson said, his voice rising. “As if that kind of thing is normal?”

  Dean gestured for Atkinson to calm down. “We’re not sweeping anything under the rug, Carl,” he replied. “I don’t give a damn what the Mayor’s take on this thing is, okay? In fact, I’m thrilled he’s leaving us alone ‘cause I got enough fucking pressure. We got ourselves a serial killer. One like nobody’s ever seen. But as long as these deaths stay confined to the Lobos and Diablos, I plan on handling it without any outside interference.”

  The perfect two-day symmetry of seventeen pairs of deaths had the obvious earmarks of purposeful planning. The thought scared the shit out of Atkinson.

  “If we’re forced to deal with a serial killer, why couldn’t it be a gun? Or a knife?” he said, as much to himself as to Dean. “I want something I can understand. Frozen hearts? Precise dates? I’m twisted up inside. Four months of this shit and we’re still at square one.”

  Dean bolted up in his chair, his eyes showing a sudden spark. “Hold it, Carl,” he blurted, slapping his fist on the desk. “You just said something. ‘Precise dates.’ Yeah, maybe…” Dean closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands.

  “You gonna let me in on it, Captain? Atkinson asked.

  Dean lowered his hands, revealing a surprising smile. “Maybe we can’t understand how the killings occur, but we do know when they occur, don’t we?”

  Atkinson observed the familiar signs of the Captain’s mind at work. He gum chewing doubled in speed and his eyes narrowed, tick-tocking back and forth. “Have I ever asked you to do the impossible, Carl?”

  “Often, sir, yes.”

  “Good, then I’ve broken you in,” Dean replied with a wink.

  “Broken me in or broken me down,” Atkinson told him. “Depends on which side of the desk we’re talking about.”

  Dean’s demeanor darkened. “You’ve worked in gang programs. You know some of those guys, right?”

  “I deal with members from different gangs,” he answered. “The North Rampart Lobos and Alvarado Street Diablos are just a couple of them.”

  “And you headed the peace talks between two big Valley gangs, right?”

  “The Pacoima 13 and the Blythe Street gang. Homicides dropped sixty percent that year.”

  “Let’s go back to what you said about ‘precise dates,’” Dean said. “Remember the old schoolyard riddle about the tree falling in the forest? If no one’s around when it happens, can you say it really fell? Maybe the eye for an eye pattern you discovered can be thought of like the tree question.” Dean stared at Atkinson, methodically stroking his Adam’s apple. “If there isn’t another murder between the Lobos and Diablos, can you still say there’s an active serial killer out there?”

  Captain Dean’s speculation considered the impossible. Unfortunately, Atkinson knew Mission Impossible involved him. “You want me to work a truce, is that what you’re saying? To arrange peace talks?” Rubbing his hand along the top of his shiny head, he looked warily at Dean. “That’s a tall order, sir. Who’s next, the Bloods and Crips?
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  Rising from his chair, Captain Dean walked over to the window. “We have to start somewhere, Carl,” he said, gazing outside. “Someone out there is tracking these guys like a freaking satellite.” Dean turned back to face him. “My wife’s whore-loving stepbrother manages a sports club on Figueroa. He owes me a favor from a sticky situation he found himself in.” Dean smiled and paused for a moment. “They’ve got a gym for basketball and volleyball games. I’ll get him to close early one night so we can hold the meeting in there.”

  “We’ll shuttle them over?” Atkinson asked.

  “Exactly,” Dean answered. “Two gangs, two pick-up spots. I’ll be with you, but you run the show. We need to talk to the leaders of these gangs, guys with influence. Keep it down to five or six from each side. I’ll have men patrolling the area. We don’t want too many of those dogs sniffing each other out.”

  Atkinson nibbled on his lip, thinking about the daunting task that lay ahead. “With all due respect, Captain, there’s a big difference between the Valley peace talks and this one. Pacoima 13 and Blythe Street were killing and dying the old-fashioned way. What am I supposed to tell these guys? That they’ll suffer a heart attack if they don’t make nice?”

  Chewing his gum in a slow, rhythmic motion, Dean turned back to stare out the window in momentary silence. “I’m looking at a couple of trees out there I like a lot,” he said. “They’re called Sweet Gum and in another couple of months those green leaves are going to change colors, just like I used to see every year back in Chicago. Maybe that’s why I like ‘em so much. “But when the orange, and red, and yellow leaves fall, they hide thorny little balls that hurt like hell if you step on them. Maybe one day you and I won’t be stepping on so many goddamn thorns, Carl. Maybe one day we’ll just have those beautiful leaves.” Dean looked back at Atkinson, a surprising expression of calm on his face. “Tell them the truth, Lieutenant. State the facts. Get them to understand that for once in their lives, they’re on the same side of a deadly war.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “WHAT THE FUCK YOU TALKIN’ BOUT, DROPPIN’ THE FLAG?” King shouted. “You ain’t leavin’ the gang, Luis, so don’t gimme that shit!”

  “Sorry, Miguel,” Luis said, “but I can’t get that night with Juice outta my head. I hear a lot of Lobos died the same way. I’m scared.”

  “Ooooh, I’m scared,” King repeated in a mocking tone. “You embarrass me, little boy. Fuck you!”

  “Leave him alone, Miguel,” his mother said. “He’s decided he doesn’t want to be part of that shit. You should just respect that, alright?”

  Miguel pounded his fist on the dinner table, causing the dishes to rattle. “Part of that shit? Is that what you call it, Mama? Where the fuck do you think this meal came from, huh? And this beer? You think it came from you, Mama? You were fired, remember?” I’m supporting this goddamn family now. You should be warnin’ Luis he better pull his fuckin’ weight around here by listenin’ to me and doin’ what’s right!”

  “The unemployment checks help, okay?” she replied. “And I’ll be findin’ me another job as soon as somethin’ comes along.”

  “Those checks don’t buy near the shit I get for us,” King snapped. “One good night and I bring home food and beer for a week. When Luis starts in, we’ll be sittin’ real pretty, you know what I’m sayin?” He turned his attention back to Luis. “You drop the flag, you ain’t just pissin’ me off, you’re tellin’ every Lobo to fuck off.” He leaned in closer, making sure he had Luis’ full attention. “I don’t think that’s gonna go down too good.”

  Luis looked at King, then his mother. She’d grown quiet, looking back and forth at her two sons as if she’d decided to let them make the final decision. Luis lowered his head, eating his chicken in silence. King knew he had won his mother over; Luis wasn’t going anywhere because he couldn’t.

  King left after dinner for an important gathering at Cypress Park. He’d been contacted by Horse, an ex-Lobo who dropped the flag and now acted as one of those pussy community activists for peace. He couldn’t believe what he’d been told. That fucking cop Atkinson had arranged for ex-Lobo and ex-Diablo members to hit the streets and contact key players from both sides, insisting they attend a meeting. Atkinson didn’t want anyone but specific members from each gang. Horse told him they’d talk about the whole heart attack situation and that six Lobos had been asked to attend: King, Snapper, Fame, Ram, Tower, and Big Crazy

  Within the expanding shadows of the giant Ash trees, King grabbed his crotch and spit a beer-induced gob of saliva on the grass. “No me anden vacilando!” he yelled, telling the other five that he didn’t like being messed with. “A fuckin’ meeting? With the Diablos and the cops? Do I look goddamn stupid or something’? Fuck that shit, man.”

  “What are you thinkin’, homeboy?” King asked Ram. “Some fuckin’ joke?”

  Guzzling the rest of his beer, Ram crushed the aluminum can and flung it toward the bushes. “I don’t know, man,” he said. “Sounds crazy, but we ain’t got no fuckin’ answers for all the shit, you know? Brothers are dyin’. Maybe Atkinson got something’ to say.”

  “That pinchi mayate ain’t gonna tell us shit,” King growled, using a derogatory term for a black person. “You trust that motherfuckin’ cop? He’s the enemy, man.”

  “He ain’t as fucked up as some of the others,” Ram replied. “Never gone and beat my ass for no reason.”

  “They’ll be pattin’ us down,” Colt said. “Don’t like havin’ no protection.”

  Tower lit another cigarette, the bright glowing light from the match resembling a lighthouse from his six-foot, four inch skinny frame. “My mother ain’t been the same since Leopoldo dropped dead,” he said. “If the cops got somethin’ to say, I wanna hear it.”

  “Never thought I’d look at a Diablo without a fuckin’ gun in my hand,” Colt remarked.

  “Piss on the Diablos,” King said, guzzling another beer. “Ain’t nobody gonna get me in a room with those assholes.” He spit on the ground again. “I’m a Lobo, man, until my dyin’ fuckin’ day. I ain’t gonna go livin’ in shame like the rest of you motherfuckers at that meeting.” King looked at Snapper. “Cabrón, qué hubole?” he asked. “You goin’ for this shit, too?”

  Snapper took several large swigs from his beer and squeezed the can, crushing it with his beefy right fist. In silence, he shook his head and stared at King with an angry expression. “Don’t gimme that crap, King,” he muttered. “You ain’t the only one here with pride, man. We’re all Lobos, right? Verdad? But you gonna tell me the fun times ain’t gone? Bullshit! You ain’t noticed what’s been happenin’? Things have fuckin’ changed, man. They ain’t what they used to be. We ain’t recruitin’ like before. Lobos are leavin. Droppin’ the flag. You know why? ‘Cause the word’s out, man. Stay away.”

  “Any motherfuckin’ Lobo who drops the flag ain’t worth the fuckin’ water I shit in,” King said, his voice rising with emotion. “All I care about’s the familia that stays and fights until the end. Everyone else can go fuck themselves!”

  “And we’ve lost too much goddamn familia, King!” Snapper shouted. “What the fuck you doin’ about it?” Turning toward the others, he spit a glob of saliva near his feet before continuing. “We don’t know what the fuck’s goin’ on, man. We all knew the rules checkin’ into the gang. You get killed by a pinchi Diablo, that’s the chance you take. It’s war. If you die you die with respect. But this…this shit? We owe it to Leopoldo, and Slice, and Juice, and Nasty. Fuckin’ everybody, man. We gotta know. We gotta understand.” Snapper looked back at King. “There ain’t no shame in findin’ out somethin’. I’m goin’ to that meeting, man. You wanna give me shit? Fuck you!”

  Everyone stared at King as his eyes zeroed in on Snapper’s. A part of him wanted to fight to the death over a dissin’ like that in front of his camaradas. Torrents of heat pulsated in an escalating sequence through his body yet he stood there, holding his position. In tense silence, he acknowl
edged his own confusion over this unexplainable string of deaths, especially the morning Luis returned after witnessing what happened to Juice. He conceded he had no answers, and the survival of the North Rampart Lobos mattered more than anything.

  “I’ll fuckin’ go, man, but any shit goes down at that meeting, it ain’t gonna be on my head.” King stalked off toward the other end of the park. If Snapper ever talked to him like that again, he’d kill him.

  King suckled his beer as he stood under the cover of the trees, acting as giant black umbrellas protecting him from the bullshit. The thought of sitting in the same room as the Diablos, forced to breathe their stink and look at their ugly faces, made him sick. But the rumors about Diablos also having heart attacks turned out to be true, and without them to blame, his one-way compass of hatred had veered off into an unknown direction. Despising and destroying any Diablo had always defined his entire being, the sum of his identity, but did his beloved North Rampart Lobos now face a common enemy? He wondered if the Diablo he swore vengeance on for ordering Viper’s death still lived and if he’d be forced to coexist with him in this new battle. The possibility made him want to puke.

  King thought back to the deaths of Hazard and Steel. They were two of the toughest motherfuckers, chingones, in the North Rampart Lobos, yet they died within a week of each other. Both bodies had been found slumped on the ground without any sign of blood or a weapon. The police claimed no poison had been found, but he knew Hazard and Steel as too damn tough to be caught and murdered without any sign of a battle. Don’t gimme that shit about heart attacks, he thought to himself. King liked the feeling of control, dictating the rules of combat, but the puzzling murders of his homeboys rattled him to his bones. He and the rest of the Lobos had never faced such a crisis before.

  He attempted to clear his troubling thoughts by reflecting on something that went right. His mind returned to that Halloween night with Viper and the hot puta bitch inside the van. A perfect plan. A perfect night. Almost two years had passed since it happened and he still remembered everything. If he ever got the chance at her ass again, he’d…well, she was broken in good now. She’d want him even more next time, knowing what a real man can do. For a few moments, King felt better. He grabbed his crotch and held on to his aroused dick, rubbing it like a magic lamp and wishing for another chance at her. Finishing his Bud, he hurled the can away and lit a cigarette. Taking a long, pleasing drag, King turned back to rejoin the others.