What Waits for You

by Joseph Schneider

  Rall frowned. “Army.”

  “Army. Apologies. This is the guy,” he told the group, “like in those action movies where they say, ‘Oh, he’s the best of the best, Green Beret, two tours in wherever but after that his file goes dark and we don’t pick him up for fifteen years and it’s all very classified.’ Well. Detective Rall is that guy. He’s the John Rambo of Homicide Special.”

  Rall didn’t answer, but wore enough of a smile to let Sponholz know he didn’t mind the attention.

  Sponholz pointed at Jarsdel. “You’re Marcus Jarsdel, right?”

  Jarsdel nodded. “Uh, Tully, please. Yes, sir.”

  “Tully—you got it. Okay, so this is interesting, because I don’t know if anyone else at this table knows about HH2 or what you’ve achieved, but I think it’s really something.” He touched Rall on the shoulder. “You know HH2, right?”

  “I know Gavin,” Rall said. “All I need to know.”

  “Ah. Now then, now then. It’s my fault for bringing it up. I forgot about the two of you, But let’s, uh…”

  “We’re good, sir. No further comment.”

  “Appreciate it,” said Sponholz. “So we’ve got Detective Jarsdel from Hollywood Homicide 2. We’ve also got Ibrahim Al-Amuli—I’m good with my pronunciation there?”

  “Yeah. Yes, sir,” said the youngish cop at the end of the table.

  “Detective Al-Amuli is from Topanga Area, where the Creeper struck last. The Galkas. Now, Topanga Area—and please correct me if I’m wrong—that was at one point one of the great pot-growing strongholds in the state. Now that it’s legal, what do you guys do all day? I mean, when you’re not dealing with serials.”

  “Got plenty of problems up there,” said Al-Amuli. “Plenty. Gangs, tagging, assaults. Lots of assaults. Biker bars. Got a case last week with a guy who killed another guy by throwing his drink at him. It was a shot of Everclear, and the guy he threw it at was lighting a cigar with this hand-torch thing, and whoosh. Everclear ignites and sets the guy’s head on fire. His head, man. Whoosh.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah I think he had hair spray or something that acted as like an accelerant or something, because when we got him—and his head was still smoking by the way, even though they’d already put out the fire—when we got to him it was like this giant raisiny thing. This black charred thing on top of a body. Wild.”

  “I see,” said Sponholz. “And on that note, I’ll introduce Detective Darla Mailander. Detective Mailander was one of the responders to the Creeper’s second known scene. The, uh, the Rustads. And I know everyone at this table’s seen some—well, seen some shit, right? From what I gather, the Rustad scene was pretty much as bad as they come.”

  Mailander, the woman who’d already been waiting in the room when Jarsdel arrived, didn’t comment, didn’t even offer a nod of courtesy. Sponholz gave no sign he took offense.

  “So this is it,” he said. “Our team. Three detectives with personal experience in Creeper homicides, and my senior guy in the unit, Detective Rall. It’s a very simple structure. Detective Rall will work with you directly on day-to-day aspects of the investigation. Larger command decisions’ll be kicked up to me, and if they’re above my paygrade, they’ll go to Captain Coryell. But again, like I said, the everyday stuff, the nuts and bolts of it all, go through Detective Rall. He’s managed serial task forces in the past, including the Bell Gardens Butcher. Also, despite his rather, uh, stern demeanor, he’s actually a pretty nice guy once you get to know him.” He turned to Rall. “I leave anything out?”

  “No, sir, not that I can think of.”

  Sponholz stood. “In that case, I’m gonna be off. I hate to run like this, but I’ve got an Ecuadorian diplomat, of all things, breathing down my neck, along with some extremely upset parents flying in from Quito or some such place and—miracle of miracles—all our Spanish translators are busy. So it’s that kind of day.”

  Sponholz paused on his way out the door. “Just so you know, I’m tremendously grateful you’re all here. Believe me, I sympathize with how not-fun it is to be yanked off whatever cases you’re on and kicked over to RHD. But if it’s any consolation, no one in this task force, least of all me, is going to take you folks for granted. You’re here to do noble, necessary work. So thank you.”

  Offering a final smile, Sponholz disappeared into the hallway. Rall was about to speak up, but Sponholz leaned back into the doorway. “Oh. Sorry. It just occurred to me that I was planning on doing a kind of one-on-one thing with each of you new folks. Just get my sense of you a little bit better. When you all get a chance, do me a favor and drop by my office, cool? Thanks.” He was gone again.

  This time Rall waited a good ten seconds before speaking. “Yeah, so the LT’s a good man. He’s nice, too, which doesn’t always work for me. And I ain’t talkin’ behind his back or nothin’. He knows I’d be fine sayin’ this to him if he were right here. So what I’m tellin’ you is don’t take advantage of the vibe ’round this office. You’re gonna work hard, and the minute you might be thinkin’, ‘Oh, I can slack off ’cause maybe the LT’s soft,’ just remember me. Because I get a say on your next set of fitness reports, and if you treat this detail like a vacation, it will be noted. And I will make sure this is the last time you set foot in RHD. Any questions about that?”

  No one had any.

  “Okay. First set of assignments. Al-Amuli, you’re on victim selection, how he’s pickin’ ’em. I want you to cross-reference the hell out of these targets. They live far apart, so anything you find in common oughta throw up a red flag. COMPSTAT’s got nothin’ so far, so you’re gonna have to get creative. High school yearbooks, relatives who’ve done time. Long shots are encouraged.”

  With his index finger, Al-Amuli chicken-pecked Rall’s suggestions onto his phone’s memo pad. “Got it,” he said.

  He turned his attention to Jarsdel. “You’re Morales’s partner, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We worked Bell Gardens together. He couldn’t make it here or what?”

  “The lieutenant wanted him to stay in Hollywood.”

  “Who? Gavin?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rall blew out an annoyed gust and shook his head. “Whatever. You’re gonna be lookin’ at any unusual activity in the vicinity of the Creeper attacks. Start with arrests and field interview cards. He could’ve been stopped for anything. Loitering, squatting, indecent exposure, Peepin’ Tom shit, pissing on the sidewalk. Check it out. Then I want ticketed or towed vehicles on our victims’ streets or within a reasonable radius. Finally, I want you to look at anything unsolved. Thefts, break-ins, trespassers, vandals, carjackings. Could be we get this guy pawning someone’s jewelry or driving a hot car. Questions?”

  “No, sir. Sounds like a good start.”

  Rall gestured at Mailander. “You’re out of Eagle Rock, right?”

  Mailander sighed. “Yup.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  Mailander gave a perfunctory shrug.

  “Okay, since you’re a real people person, I’m puttin’ you on canvassing. And this ain’t gonna be some namby-pamby deal. You gonna run the granddaddy of all canvasses. I don’t care if we talked to these citizens a dozen times, you talk to ’em again. You nail down every moment of their lives while the Creeper was doin’ his thing with their neighbors. I do not accept ‘no witnesses,’ so don’t bother bringin’ me back ‘no witnesses’—just expand your perimeter.”

  Mailander glowered, but said nothing.

  Rall addressed the whole group. “Meanwhile I got a mountain of physical evidence to process and compare: tool marks, sneaker treads, blood spatter, hair, clothing fiber, fingerprints, DNA, and every fuckin’ substance come out of a body. Only thing that guy didn’t bother leavin’ at the scene was himself. And let’s be clear—this ain’t just a full-time job. It’s more than that, bigger
. LT needs you, I need you, you come in. And you can forget overtime. We put the safety of the citizens of this city before our comforts and conveniences.”

  When no one complained or raised a question, Rall continued. “Okay, so we’re gonna meet here right back in this room tomorrow after lunch. We’ll say 1:00 p.m. At that meeting each of you is gonna bring me somethin’ good. You never know where your investigations are gonna intersect, so those meetings are crucial. We all good? Okay.”

  Rall stood and left the room. He did it so suddenly and without ceremony that it took a moment for the remaining detectives to realize the meeting had ended. They began gathering their things, but before anyone could leave, Al-Amuli spoke up.

  “So hey, I think we should probably exchange numbers and stuff. ’Case we come across anything and wanna compare notes, you know, or just get to know each other over a couple beers. Could be workin’ together a while.”

  But Mailander was out the door before he’d finished.

  Al-Amuli looked startled. “Yikes. This team’s kinda cringy. Awkward moment centrale. No offense if you’re friends with any of them.”

  “No,” said Jarsdel.

  “In Topanga they’d kick you out if you were wound up this tight. You gotta get along with people. Shit’s different over here. I don’t know—don’t think I like the vibe. Anyway, you gonna go over and talk to the LT? What’s his name again?”

  “Sponholz.” Without thinking, Jarsdel grabbed the phone on his belt to check the time. His stitches yanked on the suddenly extended flesh, and it felt as if he’d grabbed a high-voltage wire. He hissed and dropped the phone.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.” Jarsdel picked up the phone with his right hand and hooked it back onto his belt.

  “My assignment’s big, don’t you think? I mean, all those things Rall wants me to check? I’m just thinking it’s gonna take some time, and I don’t know if he’s like expecting miracles or anything, but I hope he’s realistic.”

  Jarsdel didn’t know what to say to that, and Al-Amuli went on. “You, what he gave you, that seems more doable, ’cause you’re workin’ with facts. I gotta get creative, linkin’ things together. Maybe he doesn’t like me or something. You think you could give me some help on my end?”

  Jarsdel couldn’t hide his surprise. “Help?”

  “You know, whenever you finish up your own stuff.”

  So this is the Creeper Task force, thought Jarsdel. Not exactly Elliot Ness and his Untouchables. “I better get going,” he said. “Good meeting you.”

  “For sure.” Jarsdel left Al-Amuli in the conference room and wended his way through the corridors back to Homicide Special. Sponholz’s door was open, and he waved Jarsdel into his office.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  Jarsdel shook his hand and took a seat.

  The lieutenant smiled without showing his teeth, an expression that might’ve been mistaken for a grimace if it wasn’t for the way his eyes lit up with warmth and overall joie de vivre. “So this is just an informal ‘Hi, how are ya.’ You’ll of course be reporting mostly to Detective Rall, so we won’t be spending too much time with each other, but I wanted to thank you for coming on board.”

  “Great to be here, sir.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Oh, you don’t… It’s not necessary, with the ‘sirs’ and so forth. I still feel a bit like an impostor as it is, and when people call me ‘sir,’ it just drives it home even more. You know, I understand you and I have quite a bit in common. Well, I mean, everyone in command knows about HH2 and all the great work you folks are doing down there, but I confess I’ve followed your situation with particular interest.”

  “My situation?” said Jarsdel.

  “You being a detective. I was all for it from the beginning, not that I had any say one way or the other, but I thought HH2 was a terrific idea. And then I found out more about you and your background, and I suppose you could say I’ve been rooting for you.”

  “Oh. I appreciate that.”

  Sponholz made a gesture of dismissal. “No need to appreciate it. Not like I actually did anything for you. All I mean to say is I suppose I felt like we were cut from the same cloth, and that if you succeeded, it would impart some magical, retroactive affirmation on my own status. I’m not even sure I’m phrasing that cogently. You know what I did before I joined the force?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Really? I’m surprised Lieutenant Gavin didn’t mention it.” Something about the way he said Gavin’s name made Jarsdel suspect he wasn’t a fan.

  “Well, I was a lot like you,” he went on. “Not history per se, but not too far removed either. Theater.”

  The surprise must have shown on Jarsdel’s face, because Sponholz laughed. “I know,” he said. “Probably the worst thing I could have on my résumé to become a policeman.”

  “Director? Playwright?” asked Jarsdel.

  “Actor,” Sponholz mouthed the word, then held a finger to his lips. “But back in those days we did everything. It’s your world, and you take care of it. Set building, costumes, makeup, lighting. Show’s always gotta go on, right? Someone was sick or evicted or stoned, you’d have to fill in for them. No one gets to be irreplaceable. You learn that quick in theater. Helps prepare you for the real world. But with all that insurance stuff these days, actors are spoiled rotten. God forbid they sprain a wrist hammering together some scenery.” He grimaced. “But let’s keep all this between you and me. Goodwin knows, but I’ll get endless hell from the rest of these guys. And if anyone around here digs up my publicity photo from The Bacchae, I might as well retire on the spot.”

  “You were in The Bacchae?”

  “Royce Hall, 1983. You know it? Right, ’course you do. Former classics professor, I’m told.”

  Jarsdel felt a twinge, as he always did when the subject arose. “Not a full professor. I was in a PhD program.”

  “Ah.”

  “Are you still active in theater at all?”

  “You kidding? No. No, sir. Beyond making sure I grab whatever show’s in town, absolutely no. And I don’t even think that’s gonna happen this year with the earthquake. You been by the Pantages since January?”

  The Pantages Theater was Old Hollywood royalty, right on the Boulevard just east of Vine.

  “No,” said Jarsdel. “Not doing well?”

  “Heartbreaking.” Sponholz grabbed something from under a paperweight and held it out. A small, glossy rectangle. Jarsdel immediately recognized the iconic white half-mask, though he’d never seen the show himself.

  “Phantom of the Opera,” said Sponholz. “Third row, center. I was gonna get a refund, but then they keep telling me they’ll reopen soon. And they might’ve, but now I’m extremely skeptical, especially after that last quake a week ago. LA Times says big foundation problems, et cetera.”

  “But The Bacchae,” said Jarsdel, still impressed. “That’s—well, I don’t want to go off on a tangent, but that’s easily my favorite by Euripides—maybe my favorite play of all time.”

  “Well, there you go,” said Sponholz. “Knew we’d get along.”

  “You were Dionysus?”

  “Pentheus. When I wasn’t swinging around like Quasimodo, hanging lights off the grid.”

  Jarsdel felt an old and powerful enthusiasm well within him. “‘Your name points to calamity. It fits you well.’”

  “Ha! Haven’t heard that line in nearly forty years.” Sponholz seemed to enjoy the memory a moment longer, then his expression wilted. It fell so quickly and completely into a tragedian mask that Jarsdel was caught off guard, thinking Sponholz was about to recite some more dialogue from the play. But the lieutenant didn’t speak, not at first. His eyes, wide and earnest, moistened a little, and he leaned forward on his elbows.

  “Detective
, we’re in a hell of a fix. I was still just a teenager in ’81, but I remember the headlines, and I remember the sirens. Seemed constant, just like now. Peak year in violent crime. And I remember the Night Stalker in ’84. I don’t know if you were even born yet, but if you want to know what it was like, just look around. You understand what I mean, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The people are scared. And when people are scared, they do stupid things—reckless, impulsive, dangerous things. So it’s not just that we have to catch this monster to protect whoever’s next on his list; we gotta protect the next Ben Bauman, the next poor kid who’s gonna get beaten to death because somebody thinks he’s our guy. And I tell you, it’s…” Sponholz made a flowing, almost encouraging gesture with his right hand, as if urging his own thoughts along. “I… God…it’s hard. You know? The ugliness, the sheer ugliness.”

  He held out his hand, flat, a few inches above the desk. “I have been empowered”—he struck the desk for emphasis—“by the state of California”—whack—“by the Los Angeles Police Department”—whack—“and by the goddamned chief of police and the captain of RHD”—whack, whack—“to drag this foul, putrescent, slithering thing into the full light of justice. That is my task. That is our task.”

  Now Jarsdel was certain Sponholz had become misty-eyed. He’d never seen a commander get emotional before, and it made him a little uneasy. But at the same time he couldn’t help admire the lieutenant’s uncensored compassion for the victims and his righteous anger at their killer.

  Sponholz exhaled loudly, giving his head a sad little shake. “I get worked up. Ask anyone. Guess I just have a hard time believing we still do things like this to each other. As those in my parents’ generation used to say, ‘We can put a man on the moon, but…’ And fill in whatever after that. Can’t cure cancer, can’t put an end to poverty, et cetera. But for me, it was always murder. We can put a man on the moon, but we can’t stop fucking killing each other. Astonishing.”