The Rabbit Factory

by Marshall Karp

  I got that feeling you get when you finally remember something that’s been driving you crazy all day, and I felt a little smile creep across my face. It’s the same self-satisfied smile I get when I know the correct question to the Final Jeopardy answer.

  I started to thank the voice inside my head for remembering Diana’s name. But then I realized. It wasn’t the usual nagging, heckling, judgmental voice. It was too polite, too helpful. This was a different voice. Sweeter. Gentler. Loving.

  J-mail.

  CHAPTER 23

  The next morning I was sitting on the fender of my Acura waiting for Terry and Muller. I sipped coffee from the travel mug Big Jim had forced on me the night before. It had a Teamsters Union logo on one side and a big red Peterbilt decal stuck to the other, but in my gray Nordstrom’s suit and my black Florsheims, I’m sure nobody mistook me for a long-haul trucker.

  Even though he comes from the big city of Portland, Oregon, Muller looks like a farm boy. Clear blue eyes, straight-as-straw blond hair, and an all-American smile you’re more likely to see in a milk commercial than in the halls of the LAPD. He’s 6 feet tall, which is definitely man-sized, but his face is baby-butt hairless. He’s thirty, but he can pass for seventeen, so even though he’s assigned to Computer Crimes, he’s been grabbed for more than a few undercover jobs at local high schools.

  Muller is one part Bill Gates, one part Thelonius Monk, and one part Homer Simpson. The Gates part is obvious. He’s the smartest Comp Tech I’ve worked with, maybe the best in the entire LAPD. He’s also one of those rare individuals who uses both sides of his brain to the max. So on nights and weekends, he trades in his computer keyboard for the ebonies and ivories of a jazz piano. He’s a great player, but lucky for the Department, he’s not the same color as Thelonius. The geeky glasses, the white-as-rice face, and the Norman Rockwell aura work against him in the world of jazz. I may be wrong, but I’d bet that if Muller were African American instead of Velveeta American, he’d have been able to quit his day job long ago.

  As for the Homer Simpson part—that’s just pure Muller. He’s a black belt in Simpson Trivia. His e-mails always close with some random Homerism, my favorite being, “Alcohol is the cause of all the world’s problems. It’s also the cure.” Ask him why he relates to a loser like Homer Simpson, and he’ll say, “It could be worse. I could idolize his brother O.J.”

  I drained the last of my coffee just as they pulled up in Muller’s Dodge Caravan, a faded blue seven-seater, with the third row ripped out to make room for all kinds of bulky objects that fill up his life. I climbed into the center row.

  Terry was wearing the black-and-brown hound’s-tooth sport jacket that he’d worn at least fifty times since he bought it six months ago, plus the same burgundy tie with the Chinese lanterns on it that one of his daughters told him “looks great with that jacket, Dad.” Muller’s sartorial tastes are more eclectic. He rummages around the thrift shops looking for “previously owned clothing that gives off good vibes.” Today he was wearing a blue herringbone jacket with suede patches on the elbows that must have belonged to an English professor for the first half-century of its existence. His shirt was off-white with white embroidery down the front. The vibe it gave me was Mexican barber. Black jeans and a pair of New Balance shoes rounded out the outfit.

  “Hey, dude,” Muller said. Like a lot of guys his age, Muller has a vocabulary that’s rooted in the eighties. “Sorry, I’m late man, but Annetta really effed me up this morning. You’re a smart cop. How many dogs can she bring home before I’m legally allowed to shoot her?”

  Annetta is Muller’s wife. As young as they are, they’ve been married nearly half their lives. They met at Portland High when she was an exchange student from Denmark. Annetta is blonde and pretty, which is the Official Look of all Scandinavian women, with an engaging personality that makes her instantly likeable. She also has a penchant for stray animals, which appeared to be the crux of this morning’s marital stress.

  “Good question,” I said. “It was on the detective’s exam. She can bring home as many dogs as she wants. It’s different if she brings home another piano player. Him you could shoot. And how are you this morning, Mr. Biggs? Do you know when the coroner’s report will be ready?”

  “It’s a rush,” Terry said. “So I’d say end of April, middle of May at the latest. But after I got your voicemail, I figured fuck the coroner. What we should do is deputize your father. The Big Jim Report was very encouraging. When we see Curry we’ll pump him for some dope on this guy Eeg. But first let’s get a little more dirt on our victim. Next stop, Pedophiles-R-Us.”

  Elkins’s apartment was in a Spanish-style complex. Wrought iron gates up front. Big swimming pool in the courtyard. “Nice digs,” Muller said. “Somehow I figured if the guy is a creep, he would live in a creepy place.”

  “I think they attract more kids if they live in a nice warm homey place. Remember Hansel and Gretel and the gingerbread house?” Terry said.

  The manager was Helen Shotwell, a fifty-year-old redhead with a thirty-year-old boob job. When I told her that the tenant in Apartment 16 was a murder victim, she asked how soon she could rent it.

  She claimed to know very little about Elkins and cared even less. “Been here eight months, paid on time, kept to himself,” was her contribution to the investigation. When Terry flashed her the appropriate paperwork, she let us in the apartment and told us to lock up when we left. Then she disappeared. It’s only in the movies that landladies and building managers are meddling busybodies who can fill the cops in on a tenant’s darkest secrets.

  Elkins’s apartment was not exactly gingerbread, but with its red-tiled floor and brightly colored throw rugs, it had the festive, kid-friendly feel of a Tex-Mex restaurant. Close to the front door was a wrought iron and glass table. Nestled under it was a Cocker Spaniel puppy, with its head cocked to the side and its sad, penetrating black eyes looking up. I knew without bending down that it was a plaster Sandicast. Normal people collect them. Perverts buy them as kid bait.

  “Welcome to Hacienda del Sicko,” Terry said.

  Dominating one living room wall was a sixty-inch plasma TV. Below that was a media center that contained a VCR, a DVD player, and enough video games and electronic gizmos to keep a kid fascinated for hours. Several rows of shelves were lined with game software plus hundreds of CDs and movies.

  “Cool,” Muller said. “How come I never get invited over by any pedophiles?”

  We spot-checked the living room, kitchen, and dining alcove. If I hadn’t read Elkins’s rap sheet, I might have figured the tenant was a regular guy with an unlimited line of credit at Circuit City. But the normal-as-blueberry-pie appearance only went so far. The bedroom turned out to be the Perverts’ Den from Hell. Three dresser drawers and one entire closet were filled with kiddy porn photos, magazines, and videos.

  Terry flipped open a magazine. “Sick fuck,” he said, dropping it like it was a biohazard.

  Muller made a beeline toward the computer. I watched as his piano-player fingers flew across the keyboard. It reminded me of my Dear Abby exchange with Jim the night before, and I wondered how my brother was doing.

  Terry and I sifted through the sordid souvenirs of Elkins’s existence on the planet. Every few minutes he would spit out another “sick fuck.”

  Finally Muller stood up and stretched his lanky frame. “There’s no doubt what the guy is. He’s bookmarked every ped and anti-ped site on the Web. I want to hack into his e-mail and go to the chat rooms where he hangs out. It’ll be easier if I take his PC back with us.”

  We spent another hour cataloguing the contents of the dresser and the closet. Then Muller packed up Elkins’s computer plus three of the games for the PlayStation 2. I had watched him carefully check out every piece of software, so I asked why he had singled out those particular games.

  “It’s complicated,” he said, “but all my years of training tell me that God of War, Soul Calibur III, and Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas w
ill give us the best insight into Elkins’s character.”

  “And let me guess,” I said. “Those are the only ones you don’t have at home.”

  “D’oh,” said Homer Simpson, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand.

  CHAPTER 24

  We were back in Muller’s van trying to decide whether to pull into Mel’s Diner or go a few miles out of our way to The Farmer’s Market. My cell phone beeped to let me know I had missed a call.

  There was no message, but Caller ID said it came from Valley General Hospital. I called the main number and asked for Jan Trachtenberg. I got her voicemail.

  “Mrs. Trachtenberg, this is Detective Lomax. Sorry I missed your call. If you’re looking for an update on your husband’s case, we’ve got some additional manpower working on it. I’ll get back to you in a few days. Thanks.”

  “I just checked my voicemail,” Terry said. “There’s a message from Kilcullen.”

  “You say that calmly, but there’s ‘uh-oh’ in your eyes. Is he homicidal or just psychotic?”

  “Worse. All he said was, Let’s get together at your earliest convenience.”

  “I guess Farmer’s Market is out of the question,” Muller said.

  “Unless you want to see our balls hanging from the precinct flagpole, I think all forms of nourishment are out of the question,” Terry said.

  We made it back to the office by 10:45. Terry grabbed Elkins’s folder, and we double-timed it to Kilcullen’s door.

  “Top o’ the morning to ya, lads.” Kilcullen was laying on the Irish brogue, which was a signal that he was going to be playful before he got down to business. ‘Playful’ is Police Academy code for Bust Our Balls.

  “I was at the firing range this morning, don’t ya know,” he said, tapping his fingers on a Nike shoebox on his desk. He lifted the lid. It was filled with pieces of crushed black granite. Some of the chunks were lethal, big as a fist. Some were pebble-sized. The rest was powdery granules. He handed me the box. It weighed about fifteen pounds. I passed it to Terry.

  “What is it, Loo?” Terry asked.

  “That,” he said, looking at the rock pile with contempt, “was my former bowling ball. It committed an egregious crime last night. A trial was held this morning in the shower, and the execution was completed at 8 a.m. You know that nice Sergeant Paris who runs the gun range? He’s a bowler too, and I know you’re supposed to shoot at paper targets, but he was very cooperative.”

  The fucker had shot his bowling ball.

  He put his palms flat down on his desk and leaned forward. “So,” he said, staring at us with the same crazy Jack Nicholson eyes I could see in the picture on the wall behind him. “I’ve successfully brought my criminal to justice this morning. What have you boys accomplished today?”

  “We saw an old lady jaywalking,” Terry said. “Gave her a warning. Not worth shooting her. Didn’t seem as serious as a bowling ball gone bad.”

  “Shut the fucking door,” Kilcullen said, dropping the brogue, “and tell me where in Christ’s name you are on the Lamaar case.”

  I filled him in on everything that happened since last night, including Big Jim’s observation about the flipbook clue. But I didn’t credit Jim.

  When I finished, he said, “I agree. You gotta follow both tracks. First, let’s nail down this whole pedophile revenge angle. Sutula and Langer can help you track down friends and relatives of vics who might be pissed off enough to kill him. You boys go back to Familyland and talk to the Head of Security. If we do have a serial killer looking to snuff cartoon characters, Lamaar could be headed for a real shit storm. LAPD needs to go on record with a warning. Plus it couldn’t hurt for you to look around again.”

  “Good idea, boss,” Terry said.

  “Don’t patronize me,” Kilcullen said. “You guys already had that idea.”

  “It did cross our mind, sir,” Terry said.

  “You haven’t said word one about the mob connection. Did that cross your mind? Because it crossed the Governor’s mind and he’s not even being paid to do police work.”

  He had us. We had missed something big and he was going to beat us over the head with it. “You don’t know shit about a mob connection, do you?”

  “No,” Terry said. “I guess the Governor’s more in touch with the mob than we are.”

  “I guess he reads the papers more than you do. Lamaar is building a big entertainment complex with the Camelot Hotel in Vegas. You know the Camelot. It was opened by Enrico Leone back in the day when the mob moved to Nevada. It’s still run by the family. The granddaughter is in charge now.”

  “Arabella Leone,” I said.

  “Oh, so you did hear of them. Well, there’s hope.”

  “Look, Loo,” Terry said, “we’ve been on this case all of one day. The DOA is a convicted pedophile, so we’re chasing that angle. There may be a vendetta against the company, so we’re chasing that angle. Nobody we talked to even gave a hint of a mob connection, and there’s nothing about this that makes it looks like a mob hit. But if you think Sacramento can solve this faster than we can, here.” He threw Elkins’s file on the desk. “They can shove it up their…”

  “Hey, hey, Bronx boy. Don’t be so fucking sensitive. The politicians bust my ass; I bust yours. It’s called the Hierarchy of Pain.” He pushed the file back at Terry. “How long have you boys been under my command?”

  “Three and a half wonderful years,” Terry answered, taking the file.

  “And have I ever leaned on you to solve a case?”

  Terry gave him the raspberry.

  “Hey, I may nudge you, but only because you’re my Go-To Guys. Now, with this dead pervert in a rabbit suit, now I’m leaning on you. You understand what I’m saying? I’ve been easy on you in the past, but this time, I really have to push hard. The Governor is calling back at five for a progress report. A progress report!” His ruddy Irish face was a now deeper shade of rudd. “Do you know what he means when he says progress report?”

  Rhetorical question. Don’t answer it, Terry, I said, using mental telepathy. He didn’t.

  “He wants a fucking arrest,” Kilcullen said. “Those shit-for-brains in Sacramento think you can solve a homicide like on the TV shows. Murder at ten. Case closed at five to eleven. Stay tuned for scenes from next week’s episode.”

  He reached into the shoebox and picked up a fistful of the late Mr. Brunswick. “This is a high-profile case, boys. Elkins is just another scumbag, but he got himself killed in a high-profile rabbit suit in a high-profile theme park in a fucking election year. Don’t fail me, boys. I don’t do well with failure.”

  He slowly let the remains of the bowling ball sift through his fingers and back into its cardboard coffin. “Call me with anything I can use to keep the Governor from crawling any further up my rectum. Get to work.”

  We headed for the door. “One question,” Terry said, before we made it out of the room. “This Hierarchy of Pain thing. The politicians take it out on you; you take it out on me. Who do I get to take it out on?”

  “You got a dog?” Kilcullen said.

  “No.”

  “Buy a bowling ball.”

  CHAPTER 25

  I called Brian Curry to tell him we wanted to talk to him and Amy.

  “Amy’s office is in Burbank,” he said. “I can meet you there in an hour.”

  “Sorry, but Amy’s going to have to meet us in Costa Luna,” I said. “We want to take another look around the park. If she’s too busy to…”

  “Detective, Amy could be having a heart transplant and she’d hop off the operating table and drive down here. Ten bucks says she gets here before you.”

  “I’ve got lights and sirens.”

  “Twenty bucks.”

  “You realize that LAPD frowns on cops wagering on their arrival time.”

  “I’m just trying to make a point,” Brian said. “She’s a terrier. Nothing gets in her way.”

  “Well then it’s too bad she’s not the lead dete
ctive. I’ll see you soon.”

  Then Terry and I briefed Detectives Sutula and Langer. They’re known around the squad room as Penn and Teller. Sutula does all the talking. Langer is a man of few words. “Lots of people would have loved to murder this fuck,” Terry said. “See if you can narrow it down for us.”

  Sutula asked questions, made comments, then let us know they were on the case. Langer just nodded.

  Next we asked Muller to do some research on the Lamaar-Las Vegas possible mob connection.

  “Why would the Camelot Casino want to get in bed with Lamaar?” Muller said. “The bottom fell out of that whole bring-the-family-to-Vegas crap. I was there a few months ago. They’re ripping down the roller coasters and putting in more stripper poles. The real money is in nightclubs, high-end restaurants, and Texas Hold’em. Why would they do a deal with cartoon characters?”

  “Hey, geek boy,” Terry said. “You’re not being paid to figure out if it’s a smart business deal. Your job is to find out if the mob is in any way connected to this murder investigation. You got that?”

  Muller laughed. “I guess you just got your ass chewed out by the boss, and now it’s my turn in the barrel.”

  “Exactly,” Terry said. “It’s called the Hierarchy of Pain. If you want to pass it along, go home and kick your dogs.”

  “No problem. By the time I get there, I’m sure Annetta will have two or three new ones for me to kick.”

  Terry and I were twenty miles from Familyland when my cell rang. It was Big Jim. “This is a real bad connection,” he said, clear as a bell. “Call me from a land line.”

  “Either you’re super paranoid,” I said, “or our boy did something so stupid that you can’t even tell me on a cell phone.”

  “All of the above. You gonna call me back or what?”

  “Can it wait? I’m on my way to a homicide investigation.”

  “What would you rather do,” he said, “solve a murder or prevent one?”