What Waits for You

by Joseph Schneider

  Gavin cleared his throat, and Jarsdel reluctantly turned his attention to the present moment.

  “I’m putting you and Morales back together.”

  Jarsdel’s surprise was total. He wanted to make sure he’d heard correctly. “Oscar and me?”

  “Detective Haarmann’s being reassigned.”

  “Why? To where?”

  Gavin regarded Jarsdel with uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. “Anonymous complaint against him through IAG. Unsavory conduct while on duty. It’s that easy in today’s world, I guess. Anonymous complaint’s all it takes, and your life changes.”

  Jarsdel didn’t comment.

  “That seem fair to you, Detective?”

  “Was it true?”

  Gavin hesitated, cleared his throat again. “Looks that way. Man likes his badge bunnies. Not the only one in the department who does, just the one unlucky enough to get caught.”

  “Then I’m not sure fairness enters into it.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “Okay. Remember you said that. About fairness not entering into it. Those are the kind of words that have a funny way of coming back around. So remember them. I know I will.”

  Jarsdel hardly heard him. There was something different about Gavin’s office, and it took him a moment to place it. Once he did, he thought of what Barnhardt had said to him about her last meeting in here.

  The Max Planck picture was gone, nothing in its place but a bare patch of wall. Jarsdel glanced discreetly around the room. No artfully planted science textbooks, no Newton’s cradle, no copies of A Short History of Nearly Everything on the bookshelf.

  “Anyway, that’s it. That’s all I wanted to tell you.” Gavin leaned back, his attention now on the ceiling.

  Jarsdel was apparently dismissed. He stood and reached for the door, then stopped. “Oh, sir?”

  “What?”

  Jarsdel pointed at the wall behind Gavin’s desk. “Where’s the picture?”

  “Huh?”

  “Didn’t you have a photo there of Max Planck?”

  Gavin sucked on his teeth. It didn’t look like he was going to answer, then he said, “Got tired of having to keep explaining who he was.”

  27

  By late October, the summer heat had finally begun to recede, and Angelenos were getting their evenings back. There in Pasadena, it was actually cool.

  Jarsdel rang the doorbell. While he waited, he gazed up at the second floor, at a window toward the left-hand corner of the house. His room for eighteen years. He wondered how long it had been since he stood inside and looked out.

  There was a rattling sound on the other side of the door. It opened and Baba stood there, clearly surprised to see him. Glad, Jarsdel wasn’t sure. But definitely surprised.

  “Tully. I didn’t know you were coming. Did you call?”

  “No.”

  “You drove all the way over here without calling? What if we hadn’t been home?”

  “I’d’ve gone down to Fair Oaks Pharmacy, had an orange cream soda. Then come back later.”

  Baba regarded him suspiciously. “What’s happening?”

  “Is Dad home?”

  “He’s resting.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Baba hesitated, then stood aside. Once Jarsdel had gone past him, Baba locked the door, set the security chain, and threw a new, shiny dead bolt.

  “Creeper’s dead, you know,” said Jarsdel.

  “So they say. Want something to drink?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sparkling water? Tea?”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  They went to the living room. A cloud of motes rose in the graying light as Jarsdel sank into the oversoft couch. Baba sat across in his favorite chair—a Louis XIV he insisted was authentic, but Jarsdel had his doubts. No one else ever sat in it. The thing was as rigid and unyielding as its owner.

  Baba flicked on a table lamp. “What’s going on? Everything all right?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about what happened at the Farmers Market.”

  Baba wagged his finger. “Unnecessary. We got it. It’s part of your job. Just made us uncomfortable. But there’s no bad feelings.”

  “I guess I thought—I don’t know—like we were close to making some progress, the three of us. And then that guy showed up, and it was just very bad timing.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Could be it was very good timing. Certainly gave us a bit of a wake-up call. Your job wasn’t so abstract to us after that.”

  “So now you’re even less on board with it?”

  “Tully”—Baba sighed—“what do you want from us? We’re not your audience for this.”

  “My audience?”

  “Think of it as a literary piece. What’s a book you loved that I didn’t?”

  “Lot to choose from. All the original James Bonds, I guess. Started those when I was nine, and each time you saw me reading one, I thought someone you were close to had died. You honestly looked that stricken.”

  “I did not. Ridiculous.”

  Jarsdel nodded. “You absolutely did. Like this.” He imitated the sorrowful, agonized expression he remembered so well.

  Baba smiled despite himself. “Okay. They’re not my favorite. So heteronormative.”

  Jarsdel rolled his eyes.

  “Anyway,” Baba went on. “Think of it like that. Like your job is a work of literature that doesn’t connect to us, and probably never will. I don’t think I’m all of a sudden going to pick up Thunderfinger or whatever and say it’s great.”

  “Tully?”

  Both men turned to see Dad standing in the doorway. He was even thinner than the last time Jarsdel had seen him, ghostlike in the low light.

  “Robert,” said Baba, standing. “Did we wake you?”

  “I heard my boy,” he said. “Scoot over, son.”

  Jarsdel did, and his father sat next to him, taking his hand. He wore sweatpants and a USC Trojans shirt, which had most certainly been a gift. Jarsdel doubted that in all his father’s decades as a tenured professor he’d been to a single game.

  Baba returned to his chair, the concern on his face apparent. “Sure you’re okay to be up?”

  “I feel much better, really.” He patted Jarsdel’s hand and smiled at him. “Missed you.”

  “Missed you too, Dad.” He noticed deposits of mucus in the corners of his father’s mouth, and his breath was terrible. But he didn’t move away. Instead he reached for him and they embraced. Jarsdel could feel the man’s heart, once so strong, fluttering through the thin cage of his chest.

  Dad patted his back and released him. “I didn’t know you were coming over. Did you, Dary?”

  Baba shook his head.

  “Is everything okay? Do you need something?”

  “I just wanted to see you. Both of you. I’m having a tough time with something, and I was wondering if I could talk about it with you. I know it’s not a subject you enjoy, but I could really use some help right now.”

  “Of course,” Dad said. “Anything.”

  Jarsdel looked at Baba, who nodded. “Okay. You both saw, probably, about my lieutenant at RHD.”

  Neither Dad nor Baba replied.

  “You heard what I did?”

  Baba looked down at his lap, but Dad held Jarsdel’s gaze. “We heard. We didn’t know what to say to you, or if we should say anything at all.”

  “Before it happened, he said…he said he killed that family, the one after he killed his wife…he said he killed them because of me. Because I’d forced him into it. Explained that if I hadn’t asked him so many questions to try to shoot down his story, he wouldn’t’ve had to do it.”

  “Oh, Tully.” Dad gripped his hand tighter. Baba left the Louis XIV and sat on Jarsdel’s right. He had to squeeze in tight between his so
n and the arm of the sofa, and there was hardly any room. But Jarsdel didn’t mind at all. He loved feeling his parents on either side of him, pressing close. Baba kissed the side of his head.

  “I don’t know why I’m bringing this to you,” Jarsdel said. “I know I don’t have any right to. It’s not your problem to fix. And you warned me. You definitely warned me. How much this job would hurt.”

  No one spoke for a while, then Baba said, “No. None of that matters. You’re our son. You can always come to us. God forgive us if we made you think otherwise.”

  “Always,” Dad agreed. “Always, always, Tully. Our sweet boy.”

  Jarsdel nodded. “Thank you.” He closed his eyes a moment, trying to build enough courage to ask what needed to be asked. It didn’t come, so he asked anyway. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Dad said. “I am.”

  “What do we do?”

  Baba reached out his arm, drawing in both of them. The three men together, bound tightly.

  Epilogue: January

  Morales was at already at work, though the sun hadn’t yet crested the San Gabriel Mountains.

  “Nice of you to join me.” His pen flicked down the margins of what looked like an interview transcript.

  Jarsdel sat. Their desks faced each other, pressed together to save space in the cramped squad room. He yawned. Morales glanced at him, irritated. “Sorry,” said Jarsdel. “Tired.”

  “Yeah, not having a wife and kids’ll do that to you. Maybe you should take some time off.”

  “What’re you working on?”

  “The barbershop thing.”

  The week before, there’d been a shooting outside a barbershop on the corner of Hollywood and Edgemont. The suspect was still at large, but Jarsdel and Morales had a solid description and a partial plate.

  “Anything good?” Jarsdel asked.

  “Good, not great.” Morales circled something on the page and scrawled out a note. He pressed hard into the paper, almost as if he were carving instead of writing. Jarsdel had seen Morales’s field notebook, and page after page was pocked with little tears in the paper where the nub of his pen had broken through. “This is from the guy at the car wash down the street. Says he saw someone matching our suspect’s description. Arguing, yelling and stuff, right in the doorway with the victim.”

  “Good,” said Jarsdel. “Anything I can help with?”

  “How’s your Spanish?”

  Jarsdel didn’t answer.

  “All those brains and never thought to learn español? In California?”

  Jarsdel swung his briefcase into its usual spot underneath his desk, but it struck something heavy and unmoving. He looked to see what the problem was and discovered the box he’d brought back from PAB. This happened every day, sometimes more than once. He’d jam his leg on the box or try to put something under there just to have it bounce off. And each time he’d chastise himself, resolve that would be the day he’d finally deal with those murder books. And each time he’d become distracted and forget—willfully, he supposed—and go through it all over again.

  “Oscar.”

  “What?”

  “Need me for anything?”

  Morales stopped making notes, the top of his pen hovering above the page. “I said unless—”

  “Right, I know. I’m just bringing it up because otherwise I should probably deal with this box I got here.”

  Morales looked at him, eyes narrowed. “Huh?”

  “Mentioning it as a courtesy. It’ll take me out of commission for a little bit since I’ll have to take these over to archives.”

  “Who cares? Whatever, go. I’m fine.” He went back to the transcript.

  Jarsdel glanced at the wall clock. Not quite six thirty. The station was still quiet. Around nine, the first arrests would start trickling in, building steadily throughout the day and eventually hitting their peak at midnight. Then the noise would drop off dramatically, stopping altogether by 5:00 a.m., and for a blissful few hours the station would be quiet again. The five-to-nine ceasefire was so dependable that it seemed like official criminal policy, as if they’d had a union meeting on it.

  He was doing it again, he knew. Stalling. “Fugit inreparabile tempus,” Jarsdel muttered. He reached under the desk, hooked a finger over the side of the box, and dragged it into the light. Of course, the one he least wanted to see was right on top.

  MURDER: DR 21–0825790

  The Lauterbachs. Bill and Joanne. A worker’s comp attorney and an English teacher, both retired. Bill Lauterbach had been alive when the Creeper cut off his eyelids, though it was doubtful he’d been conscious. He’d already lost so much blood from the bite wound to the groin. Joanne had lived at least another day. The Creeper had used his teeth on her as well, taking her nose, her lips, and the nipples of both breasts. One of which had never been recovered.

  Who were you?

  He studied the cover of the murder book, running his fingers over the textured letters of the DYMO type.

  VICTIMS: LAUTERBACH, JOANNE ROSE

  LAUTERBACH, WILLIAM ALAN

  1320 HOLLYRIDGE LOOP

  DATE/TIME: 1-5-21

  DETECTIVES: JARSDEL/MORALES

  Who were you?

  No one would ever know. Sponholz had been right about that. He’d been right as well about Los Angeles tearing itself to pieces. Crime stats had plateaued at a steady high—numbers that hadn’t been seen since ’81. And since Varma’s fall from grace, the city was fighting lawsuits over her anti-affordances. Fourteenth Amendment complaints mostly, though a few were claiming physical damages. Sonic Fence, ReliaBench, PuraLux—their days were numbered. George E. Waring Park was a hairbreadth away from being handed back over to the Future Felons of America.

  The Creeper. It was always back to the Creeper. LA’s boogeyman, the true Master of Midnight. Without a name, he wasn’t human. Without a face, he’d be immortal.

  And yet, Sponholz had found him.

  Jarsdel set the Lauterbach book on his desk. Next in the box was the Galka book. He thumbed through the page numbers, careful not to crack it open any more than he had to. The Creeper had given him enough nightmares for a lifetime, and he never wanted to see Margot Galka’s mauled genitals or Zephyr’s peeled face again. When he found what he was looking for, he laid the book flat.

  Six photographs in the spread. Three interior shots—pinecones with feces, blood-smeared family photo, piece of dark-red plastic. Three exterior shots—mailbox, garage, and of course the one Sponholz had claimed to be so crazy about. The Galka’s address placard next to a bloody handprint. 10306, five numbers spun into an elaborate, labored misdirection.

  Jarsdel had agonized over those photographs. Everyone in RHD had after Sponholz was killed. After they failed to find anything, the FBI had given it a try. Nothing.

  What did you see? What did you see on these two pages that led you to him?

  Jarsdel set the book on top of the Lauterbachs’.

  The Lauterbachs.

  Sponholz had asked to see that one, too, hadn’t he? Jarsdel tried to remember.

  Yes. That day at PAB, the day before he’d shown up with his black eye and bullshit story about falling into a tree, Edwin Darrel Sponholz had asked to borrow the Lauterbach book. It was an impressive performance—overt caginess with just the right amount of Sponholz-brand humility thrown in. How his interest was based on nothing more than a little hunch, something he didn’t want to talk about in case he was wrong. “Which I probably am,” he’d said. Jarsdel remembered that. Sponholz, a man who’d throttle the life out of you and apologize the whole time.

  First he’d noticed something in the Galka scene; then he’d wanted to see the Lauterbachs’. Why?

  Jarsdel took the Lauterbach book from beneath the Galka one and checked the table of contents. Section 17: Crime Scene Photos. He ran
his index finger down the tabs until he reached the correct number, then opened to a spread of gore. Jarsdel forced himself to look, and to look carefully.

  Joanne’s mashed body. Bill’s horror-stricken, staring eyes. He turned the pages slowly.

  Close-up shots of the claw hammer, of fingerprints, of teeth marks in flesh. More pages. More blood—blood everywhere. Blood on the bed, on the floor, on the walls. Blood on the windows. Blood seeping from a crack in the second-story stucco.

  The image called up Porter’s haunted voice—

  The house is bleeding.

  The ground-floor exterior now. The metal watering can Officer Banning had used as a step stool. The Creeper’s entry hole, cut right through the wall.

  More close-up shots. Strands of hair clinging to plaster, a piece of yellow plastic, footprints preserved in mud.

  Jarsdel turned the page, squinted as the merest shadow of an idea passed through his mind, and turned back.

  A sliver of yellow plastic. A corner on one side, a nice concave arc on the other. Something cut from a larger piece.

  He left the book open at that spot, then turned to the infamous six-picture spread in the Galka book. He put the two side by side.

  A sliver of red plastic. Cut the same way—a corner opposite a concave arc.

  “Shit.”

  Jarsdel nearly jumped out of his seat. He looked up to see Morales standing behind him, staring down at the images.

  “What are they?”

  “Don’t know,” said Jarsdel, staring at the pieces, willing them to reveal their importance to him.

  “They mean anything?”

  “I said I don’t know.”

  “Must’ve meant something to Sponholz though, huh?”

  Jarsdel didn’t answer. He was thinking about Sponholz, about how the lieutenant had reacted when he’d first been mesmerized by the picture. What had he said? An insult, Jarsdel thought it had been. Asshole? Son of a bitch? No.