“Now you just sit there and don’t move. We’ll be right back.”
In the kitchen with Bianchi, Angelo said: “How do you want to do this? Everything’s perfect so far. We want to do this right. No screw-ups.” He reached under the sink and brought out a roll of masking tape about three inches wide. “We should blindfold her. That way, if she tries to run, she won’t know where to go. Wait a minute. I got an idea. Go back in there and watch her. I got stuff in my shop.”
Bianchi stood over the girl. She stared at the fish tank, avoiding his eyes.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“That’s pretty young to be whoring, isn’t it?”
“I’m not. I didn’t do nothing wrong. What is this? This isn’t a police station. Aquarium in a police station?”
“Shut up,” Bianchi said. “Do what you’re told.” He wondered what Angelo would bring in from the shop. Angelo would know what to do next. “Sit there and shut up. You move, you’ll be sorry.”
When Angelo returned, he called Bianchi into the kitchen again. From his shop Angelo had retrieved an orange work rag and a brick-sized piece of white, foamy polyester material he used in stuffing car seats. He cut the foamy stuff in half with a pair of scissors and explained that they would put the material over each eye, secure it with tape, stuff the rag into her mouth, and secure that with the tape. It would be a good idea to make sure the masking tape went all the way around her head. “Do you want to do it or do you want me to do it?”
“You better do it,” Bianchi said.
“Okay. The best thing to do is, I’ll walk in front of her and you get behind her and put your hands on her shoulders just in case she starts to kick up a fuss, you know, you’ll be ready.”
They returned to the living room, Angelo holding the materials behind his back. They walked slowly up to her, and Bianchi moved behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders.
“What’s going on?” the girl said. She tried to rise. Bianchi pressed down. She started to scream.
“Shut up!” Buono said. “Don’t you say nothing!”
“Keep quiet,” Bianchi said. She was easy to hold down.
Angelo produced the orange rag, rolled it into a ball, stuffed it into her mouth, unreeled a length of tape, sealed it over her mouth, and wrapped the tape around her head three times, snipping it off with the scissors and rubbing it flat on the side of her face. Then he brought out the two pieces of foamy stuff and approached her eyes.
She lowered her head, trying to avoid him. Bianchi shoved her down as she squirmed and tried to rise again.
“Grab ahold of her forehead!” Angelo said. “Pull her head up!” Bianchi pulled back on her forehead with one hand and yanked back on her hair with the other. Buono pressed the foam onto her eyes and wrapped it with tape, around her head three times. The girl slumped.
Angelo took the tape back into the kitchen, replaced it under the sink, and put the scissors away in a drawer. He called to Bianchi.
“You just stay right there,” Bianchi said to the girl.
“How do you want to do this?” Angelo said. “How do you want to get her clothes off?”
“I don’t know. I really have no idea. The handcuffs.”
“Well, the best thing is, if I take the handcuffs off of her. You stand behind her, just in case she decides to fight or take off or whatever.”
They returned to the girl.
“Okay, now stand up,” Bianchi said. She tried to obey but lost her balance and fell back into the chair. They each took an elbow and helped her up and away from the chair.
On a wall opposite her, a plaque, the kind sold in souvenir stores, spelled out in Gay Nineties red lettering: “Please Remove Your Clothes.”
“All right,” Angelo said. “Now we’re gonna take the handcuffs off of you, and we don’t want you to start nothing. You do, you’re gonna get hurt.” He found the handcuffs key on his keyring and removed them. He pulled off her jacket, walked with it over to the dining area, and dropped it to the floor. A gold-smoked mirrored wall behind the dining-room table reflected the scene. Angelo stared into the mirrored wall and liked what he saw. Everything was working. It was going to be great. In the smoky mirror he watched Bianchi remove her blouse. “Bring that over here,” Angelo said. “Keep everything together.”
Angelo unhooked her bra as Bianchi placed her blouse on her jacket. “Not much tits,” Angelo said. He rolled up the bra and tossed it to Bianchi. Then he put the handcuffs back on her. “Hey. Tits look better now.”
Bianchi stood behind her again, holding her upper arms to steady her while Angelo unzipped her pants.
“Okay now,” Angelo said. “We’ve got you. We’re balancing you. Just back up and sit down and have a seat.” They eased her back into the chair. Angelo removed her shoes and socks, told her to stand up again, and slid off her pants, telling her to lift one leg at a time. The girl complied. He let her stand there for a moment, nude except for her underpants. Then he pulled off her underpants, smiled up at Bianchi, and gave the okay sign. He put her pants and underpants with the rest of her clothes, returned, and grabbed an arm.
“Just come with me,” he said. “Don’t worry, honey. I won’t let you run into nothing. I got you so you won’t fall. Don’t worry about nothing.” He led her into the spare bedroom.
The spare bedroom, on the east side of the house between Angelo’s bedroom and the bathroom, had nothing in it except a single bed. No other furniture, nothing on the walls. The spare bedroom had a simple function. He sat the girl on the bed and told her to lie down on her back, helping her get her legs up. She lay there nude, gagged, blindfolded, handcuffed. “You wait there. Don’t move.”
Angelo passed through the beading that hung down in place of a door between the spare bedroom and his bedroom. He turned on a light in his room and checked to see if it shone enough into the spare bedroom. Satisfied, he returned to Bianchi.
“How do we decide who goes first?” Angelo said.
“I don’t care,” Bianchi said.
“Okay, we’ll flip a coin.” Angelo dug into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Call it.”
“Tails.”
Angelo flipped. “It’s heads,” he said. “You got sloppy seconds. You get all her shit together while I’m in there. Put it all on the table. I’ll take care of it when I get done. Take her purse and empty it and leave the stuff on the table. See if there’s any money in there. Go through her pockets.”
“She’s fifteen. She told me.”
“Good age.” Angelo grinned. “Real good age.” He disappeared into the spare bedroom.
Bianchi followed Angelo’s instructions. In her purse he found two dollars and some change in a wallet with nothing else in it except a snapshot of two little boys, one about eight, the other maybe four. He went through her jacket pockets but found nothing. He heard noises: Angelo’s voice, indistinct but harsh, commanding, and female squeals. He must have taken the gag off. What was Angelo doing to her? Bianchi felt he knew. The squeals turned him on. He wanted to see what Angelo was doing, imagined Angelo’s heavy dick up there now. Bianchi waited until it was quiet. I don’t want to miss this, he thought. Angelo wouldn’t mind.
Bianchi entered the spare bedroom through Angelo’s room, parting the hanging beads. Angelo had left his socks on. He was lying atop the girl, who was on her back now, unmoving, knees up. The tape across her mouth had been partly ripped off, and the orange rag lay on the bed next to the wall. Bianchi figured Angelo had gotten one or both of the things he liked best.
“She good? I put everything on the table, just like you said.”
“Go and get my camera. I got to have a picture of this.”
Bianchi fetched Buono’s Polaroid camera from his bedroom closet. It had film in it and a flash attached.
“Where do you want me to take it from?”
“Just stand there by the bed. Hurry up. I can’t stay in here all night.”
Bianchi took
the picture and tore off the film. Buono got off the girl and told her to put her legs down. “Just relax, honey,” he said. He took the camera and film from Bianchi. “Your turn.”
“I want to see how it came out,” Bianchi said.
They waited a minute in the dim light. Buono peeled back the photograph. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Okay, your turn. I’ll get her things together.”
Bianchi took off his clothes and climbed onto the girl. After a few strokes he breathed at her, “Did he fuck you in the ass? Did he? Did he? Well, turn over, bitch. Turn over. Get ready for it.”
When Bianchi emerged from the spare bedroom, Angelo had arranged her clothes in a neat pile on the dining-room table. The two dollars and change was gone, and the purse sat atop the pile.
“We better gag her again,” Angelo said, handing Bianchi the roll of tape. “You know where the rag is.” Bianchi found the rag on the bed, told the girl to open her mouth, stuffed the rag back in, and sealed her mouth with a few strips of tape. He returned to Angelo and watched him put the clothes and purse into a large green garbage bag. Angelo ripped up the photograph and the negative and dropped them into the bag.
“Well,” Angelo said, “how’re we gonna do this?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. How’re we gonna strangle her? We got to strangle her. It’s the only way to do this, unless you got some other ideas.”
“Me? No, sounds fine to me.”
They had already agreed on strangulation. Angelo had been eloquent on the subject. He always liked talking about the best way to do someone in. Shooting was too dangerous, he said; gunshot wounds told too much of a story, they were messy, and bullets could be traced. Other methods—bludgeoning her to death, chopping her up, poisoning—introduced too many complications. They had never worked out the details, but strangulation was definitely the way to go. Besides, the thought of watching a girl gasping for breath was appealing in itself, they agreed.
“I got some stuff out in my shop would be good to use. It’s strong. We’ll decide how we’ll do it. Be right back. Watch her. Just stand by and watch her.”
Bianchi kept an eye on the girl through the doorway. She did not move. She was breathing heavily. Angelo appeared lugging a large wooden spool wound with white nylon cord. Ordinarily he used it for edging seat covers. “Probably the best way to do this,” he said, “is take off lengths of it.” He unreeled some of the cord and measured it efficiently around his elbow and fist, two, three, four arm lengths. He got the scissors from the kitchen drawer, cut the cord, and tied a large knot into each end.
“When I put this around her neck—I’ll do it,” Angelo volunteered. “You watch how I do it. When I put this around her neck, she’s going to kick and she’s going to fuss and she’s really going to squirm. So probably the best way is, you kneel on her legs. Or you can sit on her legs. Just sit on her legs, you know, facing her. Like you was going to kiss her. No, wait.” He snipped off another length of cord. “First, tie up her ankles with this. That will cut down on her moving around and she won’t kick you in the nuts.”
“Got it.”
“Okay. Let’s go. I’ll give you the sign when to sit on her.”
“Jesus,” Bianchi said. “My hands are sweating.”
“Wipe ’em on your ass, motherfucker.”
In the spare bedroom, the girl lay still, but she had begun to shake.
“Wait a minute,” Angelo said. He handed Bianchi the cord. “Hold this a minute. Be right back.”
He brought in her slacks and underpants. “We’ll put these on her,” he whispered into Bianchi’s ear, “ ’cause when she kicks off, she’s going to pee or crap and I don’t want her to mess my rug.”
Angelo approached the bed. “Here now, honey. Sit up now, honey.” He pulled her up and pushed her legs over the side of the bed. “We’re going to put your clothes on now. That’s right.” He eased on her underpants and slacks. He zipped up the slacks. “Now, just stand up. Come on, stand up, that’s it. Now, just sit down.” He motioned to Bianchi that he was going to put her on the floor. Bianchi prepared to catch her. “Just sit down, don’t worry, you’re not going to fall. I got you.” Angelo lowered her to the floor. “Now, just lay there a minute. I’ll be right back.” And he whispered to Bianchi: “I thought of something else. This’ll be perfect, and it’ll save time.”
Bianchi bound her ankles as tightly as he could. Her shaking had become violent. Angelo came back holding a plastic vegetable bag, the kind dispensed free at supermarkets. “We’ll put this on her head,” he whispered. He seemed delighted with his ingenuity. “That way, she can’t get any air, it’s cutting off her air, she can’t get any new air. When I put the bag on her head, that’s when you sit on her legs.” He took the long cord from Bianchi and slung it around his neck. Angelo was ready. He Hexed his fingers and stood there looking as efficient as a professional hangman.
The girl lay on her back on the floor. Angelo knelt behind her head. He looked up at Bianchi, nodded vigorously at him, and Bianchi lowered himself quickly onto the girl’s legs, facing her, sitting on her knees. She groaned behind her gag, tried to roll to the side, tried to rise up at the waist. Angelo pressed his knees down onto her shoulders. He opened the plastic bag with both hands, jammed it over her head, pulled the cord from around his neck, and wrapped it quickly once around her neck, sealing the bag. She wriggled. Bianchi raised his legs, letting his full weight press down through his butt on her knees. Buono started to pull on the two ends of the cord, then shifted around and put one of the ends under his right foot, catching the knot against the side of the sole of his shoe, putting all his weight on that foot. Then he pulled on the other end of the cord with both hands and rose up, pulling, yanking. She was trying to buck and flex now. Her bagged, roped head hit Buono’s foot, and he lost his balance, falling over backward, shouting, “Fuck it! Hold her!” He regained his position, one foot on one end of the cord, both hands on the other end. He yanked with all his strength, pulling upward and backward, letting out grunts of effort which mingled with the gargling of the girl, who arched her back, jerking for her life. The vegetable bag puffed frantically in and out with her breathing, then less frantically, then barely, and then it stopped puffing, she stopped Hexing, she stopped breathing, it was over.
“Hard work,” Buono said, letting the cord fall loose, rubbing his face on his shirtsleeve. He stood and caught his breath and lit up a Kool.
“Can I bum one?” Bianchi asked. “I’m out of smokes.”
Angelo knelt down and put his ear to her left breast. “She’s croaked,” he said. “Can’t be too sure, though. Sometimes when things like this happen, people start breathing again. Really hard to tell. Let’s put everything away. Then if she’s still not breathing, she’s definitely croaked. When you take off her pants, make sure you don’t get nothing on the carpet.”
In the stillness after death, Buono busied himself. He brought in the green garbage bag with her purse, shoes, socks, bra, and blouse in it. He unhandcuffed her and replaced the cuffs in the cigar box. Bianchi removed the vegetable bag from her head and the tape and foam from her eyes, the tape and rag from her mouth. A little blood trickled from her lips.
“Only women bleed,” Angelo said. It was a favorite phrase of his. He had picked it up from a current Alice Cooper song. With greater originality he added, “Girls like that deserve to die.” He said that one often, too.
The cord, the tape, everything went into the green garbage bag, which Angelo took outside to the dumpster in his drive-way. He tossed the bag into the dumpster and moved other trash on top of it. It would be picked up tomorrow and taken to a vast dump of a landfill with millions of tons of what no one wanted. Gradually it would become methane gas.
“What do we do with the body?” Bianchi asked.
“We’ll find a place. I got something in mind. First off, we got to get it into the car. Here’s what we do. We take it as far as the washing machine there. Put it down by the b
ack door. I go out, see if the coast is clear, I get your trunk open. We put it in the trunk and we get the hell out of here.”
Bianchi took her under the knees, Buono under the arms. They carried her through the kitchen. Her dangling arms flopped about, hit the floor hard. One hand clonked against the washing machine.
“Put her down here,” Buono said. “Give me your keys.” He went out the side door, opened the trunk of the Cadillac, came back in. “Coast is clear. Now, fast. Fast as we can.”
Hefting her again, they shuffled hurriedly through the door, over to the car, her skin glowing dully in the night. The trunk was plenty big enough for her.
“Come on back inside,” Buono said. “Make sure we didn’t leave nothing.”
They checked all the rooms.
“Let’s go,” Buono said. “I’ll drive.”
He headed the Cadillac northward through the night. Glendale Avenue to Verdugo Road, La Cañada Boulevard, and up La Crescenta Avenue, straight up into the hills.
“Where are we?” Bianchi asked.
“You’ll see. I know where I’m headed.”
Far up into the hills, Buono turned left onto Alta Terrace Drive. He cut the headlights and rolled slowly along the street.
“How did you know this place?”
In the darkness Buono pointed to a two-story white house halfway down the street. “That’s where that cunt Melinda Hooper lives. I picked her up there a couple times. Had dinner there. Wait till she wakes up tomorrow. She’ll get some surprise.” He slowed to a stop on the left side of the street in front of 2844. “Real quiet now. And quick. Get that trunk open.” Bianchi reached into the glove compartment and pushed a button that released the trunk lid. “Open your door real quiet. And don’t close it, get me? All right. We’ll get her and dump her over there.”
Hillside Stranglers Page 4