The Detective & The Pipe Girl: A Mystery

by Michael Craven

  “You realize you just all but confessed to me.”

  He knew what he was doing. He wanted to make that mistake. He had a plan. I looked forward to seeing what it was.

  I said, “Did your wife know?”

  After a long pause Vonz said, “Nope. Just me and Paul. As for turning around the plane that day, I just got a fake emergency business call as soon as we took off from Santa Monica, then told Gina the only runway we could get was in Van Nuys. It’s pretty easy to fool people when they aren’t looking.”

  Okay, so now he had confessed. I didn’t feel the need to tell him that.

  Vonz looked at me dead in the eye and said, “I want to tell you a story, John.”

  “Sure. But it better be about why you did this. That’s the only story I want to hear.”

  He nodded and leaned back in his chair.

  “I grew up in Brooklyn. And when I was a teenager I discovered the movies. I’d go to the theater in Brooklyn, or I’d go into Manhattan, to Times Square, and watch two, three, sometimes five movies in a row. It was literally a transformative experience for me. The stories, the magic, it was so powerful for me. I couldn’t believe that an art form could take me away like that. I would leave the theater so moved, even by movies that, looking back, weren’t particularly special. But they were all special to me. I went back every single weekend for years. The sets, the stories, the lights, and the performances would take me to a place of near nirvana. And then, of course, I had to make movies myself. So I set about learning the art of moviemaking. And writing scripts. And understanding character, and story, and story arcs. And then, of course, I moved into shooting, making and editing films of my own. And I loved it—I loved being a part of this world. It was just thrilling to me. To read a great script, to write a great script, to conjure up ideas and twist and turns. And then to create shots and sequences that evoked images, memories, emotions. Once I got pretty good at it, I came to realize that I was doing it all in the name of two things. One, to give myself that feeling I had as a kid in Times Square. And two, to give someone else that feeling. That rush of story. Of an unpredictable yarn told with light and sound and pictures. Like magic.”

  Vonz paused. And I said, “Answer my question, Vonz. Why did you do this? Why did you kill a young girl?”

  He held up a finger and nodded. “How long have I been doing what I set out to do? Thirty years, give or take? Thirty-five? Three and a half decades. Something like that. Well, over the last few years, something happened. The magic died. The scripts I read, the scripts I wrote, even the movies I made . . . I wasn’t the kid in Times Square anymore. Everything was dead. If I read a script someone else wrote, I knew what was going to happen before I turned the page. If I wrote a script, the next scene would appear to me without even having to think about it. Not because it was the right scene to put next. Fresh, unexpected, inevitable. But because I had done it so many times that according to the system I and the whole industry had built, the predictable, obvious scene had to come next. Because that’s the pattern we have established. All movies are the same. One obvious story beat after the next. That’s how I felt. Nothing was fresh. Nothing engendered that feeling. That feeling that was so special to me. All the stories I was involved with were now just patterns in a predictable matrix. If a guy gets dumped, the next scene he’s at a bar drowning his sorrows. If a guy goes to war, a few scenes later he has a poignant moment with a civilian living in the country he’s shooting up. If a man starts living by night instead of by day, at some point he sees something about himself amid the darkness that’s as bright as the sun. On and on and on and on. I couldn’t find a story that broke me free. And I couldn’t invent one either. And as result, I began to die. I began to die inside. And I knew the only thing that could save me would be art. Would be my art. Would be finding a way to have that feeling again. Would be creating something new, something unpredictable. Something magical and thrilling.

  “And so I thought: What if I could set a story in motion that was real. And not just any story. Not a story about a teacher who takes a job at a school and changes some lives. No, a story with drama and mystery. A story with the greatest stakes there can be—life and death. And best of all, a story that wasn’t cooked up by a tired filmmaking professional. Me or somebody else. But rather, one that I set in motion, but that would play out from there for real. It would run on its own inertia. And it would take twists that I couldn’t predict because I would no longer be the author. Life would be. I thought: It would be a new form of art that I could watch, not on a stage or a screen, but in the actual world around me. I thought: I’d be blindsided by the developments. I’d have no idea what the characters would do next. Imagine that! Imagine the excitement I had, John! See, when you would report to me, or when Paul would tell me what you were doing, it was the only time I’ve felt alive in years. My ability as a storyteller had died, but now because I had come up with a new way of experiencing a story, I was able to see and feel the magic I had as a young boy. Sure, I had to set it in motion, and as things progressed and I learned about Neese and his operation, and the other people in Suzanne’s life, I had to plant a few things to put the murder on someone else. But that didn’t ruin the experience. It made it better. I was involved. I was helping. But in a totally new way. I had the feeling again. I was experiencing, I had indeed created, a new art form. I was a kid again. And it saved my life.”

  “But it took someone else’s, Vonz. You killed a girl for your own amusement. I should have known you were a wee bit bent when you told me you went down to the Amazon to research that movie. Another way to look at that trip is that you got your jollies by watching a bunch of tribesman kill themselves. Let me ask you this. Did you pull the trigger or did Mountcastle?”

  “Paul helped me, as you know. And I trust him—totally. But I wouldn’t ask him to do that.”

  Vonz sat there. He had admitted to me fully now that he was a cold-blooded killer. I could see both his hands but I got the sudden signal from within to stand up and get ready. I got up out of the chair, and moved behind it, still facing Vonz.

  I put my gun on him again. “Let’s go down to the police station, Vonz.”

  He held up both his hands. “Please, let me finish.”

  I took the gun off of him.

  Vonz continued, “I didn’t want one part of this story to happen. When I hired you, I didn’t want to like you. But I did.”

  “Shut up, Vonz. Don’t patronize me.”

  He continued. “It’s trite, I know. But just hear me out. See, my feelings became bifurcated. I didn’t want you to figure out what was really happening. Of course I didn’t—I was behind it. But at the same time, I liked you, you were my story’s hero, so I was pulling for you. To my own detriment. And that was yet another level of excitement for me. I was almost pulling for my own demise because the art took over. That is the power of story, of art.”

  “Who cares about art, Vonz? You killed a girl. That’s what you don’t see.”

  “Who cares about art? If I may, I think this is where you are the one who isn’t seeing. Art is what gets us all through life. Art has helped the human race survive since we began. Pictures, sparks to the imagination, stories. Neanderthals were drawing and writing on cave walls. To move, inform, or entertain others, but also to understand their own condition. Art is the reason that we don’t all kill ourselves. It’s the outlet that allows us to be human. John, you’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”

  “I haven’t liked almost everything you’ve said so far.”

  “John, artists, like me, are among the most important figures, maybe the most important figures, in all of human existence. On the level of the greatest scientists, the most profound thinkers, the most spiritual holy men.”

  “I’ve told you this already, Vonz. You’re a killer and a sociopath. But you’re also a megalomaniac. You don’t even realize what you’re saying. You don’t realize how ridiculous you sound.”

  “John, t
he human existence is a struggle. Art is what gets us through. From the first time a person is affected by circumstance. Any conflict. Any tension. Big or small. Art is what gets us through. The first time you fall in love. The first time you get your heart broken. The first time you suffer a real loss. It’s art that helps you understand, heal, get inspired to keep going. Isn’t there a song out there or a book or a movie where every time you hear it or read it or see it you are transported? I bet there’s a song out there that for twenty, thirty years, every time you hear it, you’re taken to a better place. A place of power and emotion. A place that helps you understand the world. A higher place. Think about that. Is there anything else that’s created out of thin air that can even come close to that magic? John. Yes, I killed someone, but look at what I gave life to. A new art form. How often does that happen?”

  “Are you finished? Or are you ready to go to jail?”

  “I want you to understand where I’m coming from. Do you? I know you have it in you to understand.”

  “Vonz, you killed a young woman. You took her life. It doesn’t matter if I understand.”

  He took a contemplative breath and said, “John, how many people are killed every year, every day, every second on this planet? And why are they killed? Why? Well, murders happen over money, over betrayal, over ego. But let’s go bigger than that for a moment. How about religion? How many people die over religion? And the killers? When it comes to religion? They just say, ‘I believe one thing, you believe another, so I have a right to take your life.’ Or they say, ‘My god is this, your god is that, so all the people in your village, town, city, all have to die.’ Since the beginning of time, millions of people have been killed this way. And here’s the thing: Millions of people accept it. People just say, ‘Yep, I think the same thing as those killers, so it’s okay what they did.’ And how about war? How many people have been killed in wars? Sure, lots of wars are about religion, but plenty aren’t. Plenty are about money, or oil, or land, or freedom. Some of those things are noble, some of them aren’t. But, either way, people are killing other people in the name of something they believe in. They are making the judgment that it’s okay based on nothing. Based on: Our group of people thinks one thing, your group of people thinks another. And entire countries, entire sections of the planet, modern cultures, get behind these wars. They support the killing. They legalize it though political documents that set the rules of civilized culture. But the other way to look at it is, millions of people all over the world have no problem with murder. They just go about their lives while people are dying all around them. Right? And you know why? Because everyone has done one simple thing. They have shifted their minds to a belief that in certain situations it’s okay to kill. It’s as simple as that. A subjective opinion.

  “Now, I decided to take one life. Not in the name of religion. Or money. Or power. But in the name of art. Something I think that most people with a soul would agree is bigger, is more important, than all those other things combined. So you may not think that what I did was right. But why are you right? All these other people all over the world since the dawn of time are killing people constantly, in all of the ways I just mentioned. All the time! Right now! And you, John Darvelle, don’t do anything about it. But me? I made something beautiful. Something new. And, while you don’t do anything about all those other murders, you want to condemn me for this one.”

  Vonz looked at me. He wanted me to respond. So I did.

  “Vonz, that’s a long way to go to try and get away from the one thing you’ll never escape. The thing you don’t get. You think you are better than other people. You think you are better than Suzanne Neal. And you know what? You aren’t. You’re a smart guy. And a great artist. But right above that is the truth. You’re a low-rent killer. And an entitled piece of Hollywood shit. And you are going down.”

  Vonz gave me a judgmental look. Then he stood up, took a deep, defeated breath, turned around, and looked out the window.

  I held my gun at my side. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen.

  And then: The door to his office opened. It was Mountcastle. Dressed in his schoolboy attire, now with a man-purse satchel over his right shoulder. He’d returned to enter into the story once again.

  I said, “Enjoy the view, Vonz. I don’t think the one you’ll have in prison will be quite so lovely.”

  Mountcastle frowned at me, suggesting he was ignorant as to why I’d make a remark like this. Mountcastle, still playing the game.

  Then he said, “Mr. Darvelle. Mr. Vonz has a meeting. Are you wrapping up?”

  I didn’t answer. I was still looking at Vonz’s back.

  “Mr. Darvelle?” Mountcastle said.

  Mountcastle was in my periphery, but I was keeping my eyes on Vonz.

  I saw Vonz’s left eye in the reflection of the window. He wasn’t looking out onto his beautiful patio, he was watching me. Watching me in the reflection. Watching me like he had from the beginning.

  I looked at Mountcastle. He was pulling something out of his bag with his left hand. Yes, a gun. Then back at Vonz, who was pulling something out of his right blazer pocket. Another gun.

  Vonz whipped around, pistol in his right hand, trained on my chest. I grabbed Mountcastle’s left wrist, twisted it, and yanked him toward me. His hand dropped the gun, and as I pulled him, his body responded instinctively. He moved toward me quickly, his feet dancing, responding deftly, like always.

  I positioned Mountcastle in front of me.

  Vonz didn’t have time to call off his shot.

  He pulled the trigger and a bullet went right into Mountcastle’s chest.

  Right in his heart—where it stayed.

  Before Vonz could pull the trigger again, I raised my gun and put a hollow-point bullet through his forehead. And now, the window that he’d just been pretending to look out was no more. The bullet had come out the back of his head and exploded through it, sending slivers flying out, catching the sun now shining through the rain clouds and stabbing the bright grass beneath. Only the window’s edges remained and they were no longer transparent, no longer any kind of portal to the colorful flowers and foliage outside. No, the edges were bright red and opaque with the liquid insides of Arthur Vonz’s skull.

  The blood began to move down the sharp shards still hanging on to the frame.

  And then:

  Mountcastle dropped.

  Vonz dropped.

  I stood, and watched them die.

  40

  Nine days later I was back at my office. Here’s what had transpired since I stood over those two dead bodies on the floor of Academy Award–winning director Arthur Vonz’s office.

  I called Ott and told him to come to Arthur Vonz’s house—right away. I told him that two people were dead, and he didn’t need to hear much more. He put Neese and White Streak in a holding cell, then came to Vonz’s house with an entire investigation team.

  Ott looked at the scene, taped it off, and told everybody not to fucking move. He then pulled me aside and said, “Talk.”

  I told him my version of the story. Slowly. Clearly. Calmly. He listened. He didn’t rush me, he didn’t interrupt. When I finished he nodded, then ordered his people to sweep the scene.

  And then I went down to the LAPD, to give Ott and his superiors the full story again. I told them exactly what had happened step by step. I got some crazy looks. But as my story progressed, and after a couple days of investigation, the LAPD began to realize that I wasn’t the crazy one—Vonz was.

  Because the plane story checked out. Mountcastle hiring the second detective checked out. And the gun that killed Suzanne Neal checked out. Turns out it was bought in a pawnshop in Indio, California. The proprietor of the pawnshop, a man named Glen with a tattoo of a target in the center of his forehead, described the person who had purchased the gun as “A pale big blobby guy. Kind of looked like a little kid in the face.”

  Arrogance. That’s what Vonz and Mountcastle had had. They never assu
med anyone could track the killing back to them. They never thought anyone would ever be talking to Target on His Forehead Guy. So when it came to the purchase of the smoking gun, they were sloppy. Two sloppy moves. The cabs and the gun. And as a result, they were both dead.

  The problem then became Neese. Because while he didn’t kill Suzanne, I believed, and Ott eventually believed, that he did kill Allison Tarber.

  Or at the very least ordered her to be killed.

  So, based on my information, Ott reopened the Allison Tarber case. And guess what? Her mom knew where she got a certain tattoo. And the tattoo artist confirmed that it was the PG pyramid. And then Ott took another look at the evidence gathered at Allison’s accident scene. Sure enough, in the residue found under her fingernails there was more than just the dirt and the dust of the Santa Monica mountains. There was some of White Streak’s DNA. Turns out, at some point during White Streak’s despicable act Allison had clawed at his skin just enough to get a tiny bit of it under her nail. When confronted with this, White Streak ratted out Richard Neese for a shorter sentence.

  They always do.

  White Streak was arrested for murder. Neese was arrested for murder, for organized crime, and for running a prostitution ring called the Pipe Girls.

  Eventually, White Streak would get twenty years. Neese would get life.

  For the record: Prostitution was never the issue. I never hated Neese for that. What I hated him for was enforcing his system through threats and murder. For that he needed to go down. And he did.

  Now. I want to tell you a few other things before we end the story. Specifically, two quick stories about women.

  First, about a week after Neese and White Streak got arrested I was at home one night chilling out back by my pool drinking a Budweiser and listening to some relaxing, melancholy Leonard Cohen. “So Long, Marianne.” My doorbell rang. I opened the door to see Linda Robbie, real estate badass, cougar to the core.