A Killer's Role: Erter & Dobbs Book 1

by Nick Keller

  “Impressive.”

  “Mmm,” Mark said. “Listen, we’ve considered all this already. Thank you for your interest, but you’re impeding an investigation.”

  “What about the dog owner, Samantha Barnes, what was her testimony?”

  Neiman put up a precautionary hand and said “William, I’m going to need you to step back.”

  William nodded. “Of course. I don’t mean to interrupt.” He faded back scanning the scene, then turned and strode toward a park bench set a hundred feet away.

  William sat down and tried to relax. Looking around, he could see the activity in his head from nearly twenty-four hours ago right here on this tiny corner of the world—right here in this park. He imagined it had been busy. Lots of people. Most of them were locals, dressed in nylon sweats and tee shirts, or shorts and jogging shoes. They passed him by and he could see how bright their eyes were. They were all lean, fit people. Long Beach people.

  There were kids chasing each other through the playground area over to the east. One boy was swinging in the swings, kicking his feet, and giggling. Across from them, in the wide-open area, a group of young men played soccer. No, flag football. That’s what they played. Or maybe Frisbee football. Didn’t matter.

  Something caught his eye. He looked at it. It was Samantha Barnes. She made her way down the trail following what would soon become blue chalk. She struck him as being self-aware, not stuck up, but comfortable in her positive space. Fit too. This was her routine, coming to the park with—what’s the dog’s name. He hadn’t heard it on the news, but someone had called it a Retriever-type dog. He imagined it was golden-brown, healthy, a good-looking dog with a clever name. Not a stupid name. Something unique, like Banda or Mandy. They approached the point where the detective now stood studying the area.

  Way in the distance there was that hotel. Not a seedy dump like you might find just outside of L.A. (this was a very nice area) but not one of the big, rich, touristy hotels either. It was a modest hotel for the budget tourists. But it had a clear view of Heirloom Park… and everyone in it. He studied it. Those kinds of hotels had windows you can’t open. They were sealed with silicon calk. The shooter wasn’t in one of the rooms. William looked up and gasped. Jesus! There he was on the roof, lying down, prostrate, barely visible, a hunter scoping his prey on the tundra.

  And here came Samantha and her dog, Lander or Landy. They were getting closer, getting nearer. He could feel his tongue swell in his mouth, sweat accumulate on his lip. His eyes widened as he watched, seconds ticking down and down. The heart beat in his chest thudded in his ears louder and louder and they got closer and closer —he hardly heard the shot, but there it was. Birds scattered. Red went everywhere matching the brown. Chunks flew. The dog was down. It was down. Everyone scattered. People screamed. Samantha started shrieking.

  William popped back to the here and now with a jolt. He caught his breath, looked around. Way to the right was that detective still looking mystified. William got to his feet. He knew his next destination.

  10

  Owner

  Samantha Barnes wasn’t hard to find. There were four of them in the city area, so he went to the closest one. She wasn’t eight blocks away in a quaint, high-dollar duplex with half a view of Baldwin Hills in its rustic glory, and the ocean in the far distance.

  William pulled up and got out. If offering information to the detective back at the park was an impediment to the case, approaching Samantha would be a crime. He looked around for cops or neighbors. No one was out to see him, unless they were looking through windows or driving by on the street. Acting nonchalant, he approached her door and knocked.

  Samantha answered looking very similar to how he had imagined her. Different hair color, but everything else was right. He cleared his throat and said, “Are you Samantha Barnes?”

  She nodded, “Yes. Are you… one of them?”

  He assumed she meant cops. He grinned and said, “I’m assisting. May I ask you a few questions?”

  “What’s your name?” she said.

  “Oh, yes. Erter. William.”

  She sank back inviting him in. He looked around one last time, entered, and closed the door.

  “Are you with the department? What was it, the investiga—”

  He cut her off. “Yes, ma’am, I’m with the department.” The forensic psychology department at Glendale Jr. College… not that anyone needs to know that specifically. “I’m a profiler.”

  “A profiler?”

  “Uh—criminal profiler. I assist law enforcement by studying crimes to help recognize the personality traits and characteristics of unknowns.”

  “What’s an unknown?”

  “Unknown perpetrator. Someone they haven’t—someone we haven’t caught yet.”

  “Oh. You want to sit?”

  “Uh—sure, thank you.” She invited him into a dining nook, and he took a seat. “So, you were there. You are the victim of this crime. Terrible crime. What happened?”

  She swallowed. He could see her throat move. Her shoulders receded to her jaw line and her eyes went red. It was a story she’d told a dozen times in the last day. “Well, I was—me and Bandy—we were just walking, and… We walk there every day.” Her eyes went down. “We used to. But, well, we were just walking. I was warming up for a jog. We jog every morning. Me and…” she trailed off.

  “Bandy?”

  “Yes, Bandy.”

  “Now, was that the canine?”

  She looked at him hurt at his choice of words.

  “I’m sorry. Your dog.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “We were warming up. And there were other joggers. I recognized some of them. We usually wave. So, I waved at them. They waved back. It was such a perfect morning for a jog. Wasn’t too hot. I could tell Bandy was ready. He usually lets me know by tugging me a little. Just a little. He was such a great dog. So, Bandy was about ready…” She paused collecting her thoughts.

  Emotions were starting to grow. Her story was starting to trail on. Victims of crimes often engaged in huge soliloquies. On and on they could stutter and moan. William shot a glance through the front window. No cops. Not yet. He would be screwed if they showed up. He looked back impatient. “And is that when the canine got shot?”

  Samantha burst into tears covering her face and sobbing profusely.

  William cringed. “Sorry, I meant your dog.”

  She cried even harder.

  He looked at the ceiling. Even students were easier to handle than victims. “Samantha, what happened? What’d you see? Did you hear the shot?”

  “Uh-huh…” She cried some more. “I—I—I heard it. It—it was a—a pop. And Bandy—poor Bandy—his head—he just…” she blathered seemingly at the top of her lungs.

  William clenched his teeth not knowing what to say. “Yes, I’m sure Bandy is in a better place, Mrs. Barnes.”

  She looked at him, eyes as red as pepperonis. “Yeah? Oh, my poor Bandy!”

  He looked down needing to know the velocity of the bullet. “Now, about Bandy—this is a tough question—did the round penetrate completely, or was there, you know, full decapitation?”

  “What?”

  “The dog’s head. Your dog’s head. Did it remain whole for the most part indicating a high velocity ballistic, or were there…” he cleared his throat, “scatterings?”

  She went from full-on remorse to utterly-pissed-off in a blink. “You fucking asshole! You—fucking—asshole!”

  He got up and back-pedaled around the table. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Barnes. I’m just trying to assess the nature of the weapon.”

  “Get out! Get out! Getoutgetoutgetout!”

  He hit the front door and stepped out, but before he shut it he turned back and yelled “Samantha!”

  Her hysterics paused and they met eyes.

  “Do you think this shooter was aiming for you and hit Bandy instead?”

  She went horrified momentarily,
then slammed the door with a powerful bang.

  William sat in his car, mind racing. There was so much to consider, yet very little known.

  There’s a killer in L.A.

  He hasn’t killed yet, not a person. But he will.

  The shooter could be a woman. Doubtful. Assume it’s a man.

  Could be a hunter. But he’d have to be an exceptional one. Hunters normally don’t hit small prey from that distance. Normally. But—go by your gut—he wasn’t aiming for the dog. He was aiming for a person, probably Samantha Barnes. He missed, but got lucky with a headshot. He’s used to shooting at large animals at half that distance.

  He used high ground. Had a good view. Had to have access to the hotel roof.

  Maybe he’s a hotel employee? No, that would be too big a mistake.

  Besides, getting to a hotel roof is easy. Anyone can do it.

  The shooter is smart enough to be anonymous. He probably didn’t rent a room. That would leave a trail.

  But, he’s gutsy enough to use a boomstick in broad daylight. He probably had an egress route planned. He’s smart. Tactical.

  Hmm—could be military.

  Something moved around in his mind. A thought.

  Why shoot a dog, when you could shoot a person?

  Why shoot a dog, when you could shoot a…. Hmmm.

  This was not random. Someone was performing a role.

  11

  On The Stand

  Bernie Dobbs hooked two fingers into his collar and tugged. His tie was suffocating him. Goddamn neckties. He despised anything that wasn’t practical. Neckties were at the top of his list. Why the hell would a man wear a noose around his throat as a fashion statement? Could get you killed. Years ago, before he’d gained enough experience to be a bitter asshole sumbitch, his necktie had almost done just that—gotten him killed. He’d approached the home of a witness in a murder investigation, and the investigation had brought him to a dumpy little house in east L.A., not far from where he grew up. Upon knocking on the door Bernie discovered very quickly that this dude was no witness. He was the fucking perp. How’d he know? Because the guy wrenched Bernie inside by the necktie and started strangling him with it screaming I ain’t going back, pig-ass mu’fucker!

  Fortunately, Bernie was barely three years out of college at the time, and he’d been a star defensive end for Southern Cal, the next Brian Bosworth, bigger than God and meaner than hell. Yeah, Bernie blew out a shoulder half way through his senior year, but a few months of rehabilitation later, he was in prime shape again. Maybe not for the NFL draft, but certainly for defending his life in a fist fight.

  So, he head-butted the suspect into oblivion out of self-defense, then picked him up and body slammed him into the kitchen table out of fury. Once he regained his breath, he swore he’d never wear another fucking necktie again. Not ever. And he hadn’t worn one in twenty-four years.

  Then…

  He got called to be a witness in the Richard Rothwell child porn trial. District Attorney Eyvers, the Prosecutor, had highly suggested Bernie wear a necktie. Make it silk. Make it yellow. It will appeal to the jury. Bernie wasn’t happy about it, but he put one on. It took him seventeen and a half minutes to figure out how. In fact, the beautiful Iva had to tie it for him. He thanked her with a pat on the butt, then left shutting the door behind him.

  So, there he sat in the witness chair with his fedora in his lap, sweating down his back, tugging at his necktie, frowning at the courtroom. Eyvers approached the witness to open questioning. Bernie settled into the chair looking as interested in the proceedings as he could.

  “Can you quickly give us the milestones that led up to the events of November third, last year?” Eyvers asked.

  Bernie cleared his throat. “Yeah. We had evidence that there was an online trafficking ring. We had already procured a handful of videos that showed the apartment interior. The website profile was a likely match. Everything pointed to the suspect. We wanted to bring him in for questioning. So, we went to the location and…”

  “That’s fine,” Eyvers said, cutting him off. “Once you were at the location, what’d you find?”

  Bernie squinted at him. He’d have to be careful with his words. This was the part of the story where he kicked the door open. A disastrous technicality. Better skip that part. He adjusted in his seat and said, “Once there, we found pretty much all the evidence from exhibit—what is it—exhibits 2D through the rest. All the children we had…”

  Council for the Defense Amanda Treadwell shouted, “Objection! Children, your Honor?”

  The judge puckered his lips and said, “Sustained.” To Bernie he said, “The witness will address the persons in question as minors.”

  “Children. Minors.”

  “Detective Dobbs…”

  “Alright, your Honor.” Bernie cleared his throat adjusting his tie and continued where he left off. “The, uh, minors in question were all there.”

  “Meaning what exactly?” Eyvers asked.

  “Their information was there. Whole files. Each one had video production notes attached to their files—skin tone, eye color, body shape, that kind of thing.” He sighed, feeling sick to his guts. He looked over at the Accused, Richard Rothwell. Manicured nails. Shimmering, combed back hair. L.A. tan. He was a sixty-year-old man who thought he was still in his thirties. Richer than Switzerland, too. Yet the man was a statue of calm, leaning on a lifetime of high-powered business dealings to maintain his composure. It made Bernie quiver. He took a breath and said, “There was additional video, like an interview process. You saw the evidence. They were kids.”

  “Your Honor!” Amanda Treadwell shouted.

  “Sorry,” Bernie said. “They weren’t kids. They were minors.” He tugged on his necktie.

  Eyvers said, “And in your two-and-a-half decades as a police investigator, what conclusions did you draw?”

  “That this was our guy. Everything matched up. We had the videos. We had files on the chil—the minors. And now we had the residence owned by the suspect’s real estate firm, a subsidiary of his own corporation. It might as well have been his own personal residence. It was an open and shut case.”

  The Council for the Defense stood. “Objection, your Honor. If the witness were capable of such a determination, none of us would be here.” Amanda Treadwell was a tall, powerful woman, dressed in a business skirt that flaunted gym-chiseled hips with hair pulled back in a professional bun. She had the kind of body the ancient Greeks made into statues, the perfect collection of parts, put together immaculately, trimmed to perfection. And she had learned long ago how to destroy a man in multiple arenas. It made Bernie scowl.

  “Sustained.” The judge looked at Bernie over wire-rim glasses. “Proceed with caution, Mr. Dobbs.”

  Bernie shrank back. “I—what else is there to say?”

  Prosecutor Eyvers grinned at him and said, “I don’t suppose there’s anything left to say, Detective Dobbs. Thank you. No further questions.” That made Bernie smile. Eyvers took a seat and reached for a bottle of Evian.

  The judge said, “Defense, do you have any questions for the witness?”

  Treadwell offered a quick, self-assured grin and replied in her smoky, big city voice, “Oh, yes I do.” Straightening her blouse with a shimmy, she moved toward the stand. “So, Detective Dobbs, your testimony is, well, devastating to my client, wouldn’t you say?”

  He nodded once, said, “If you’re asking, then yes.”

  She gave him a wily grin, almost capitulatory. “I mean goodness, how could it not be? It makes my client look pretty bad.”

  He smiled back. “I would say he does that himself, Mrs. Treadwell.”

  “Mmm—good answer, Detective. Of course you would. But, it’s a little too perfect, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her voice sounded sweet. She was being coy. “You’ve got all the details, don’t you? Everything you need to put him away for a long, long time.” />
  Bernie blinked. “Uh—yeah.”

  She put a finger in the air. “Except, I’m curious about one thing. Did you have a warrant to search my client’s apartment?”

  He grinned, hiding the truth. “Yeah.”

  “Oh right. Exhibit 1R. A warrant. Right. Yet you say you approached his apartment to question him.”

  “Yeah.”

  She shrugged. “Why would you procure a warrant to question him? Couldn’t you just knock?”

  “Standard procedure. I was covering my bases.”

  “Yet the warrant was requested at exactly eleven-seventeen that evening.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Her lips tightened in thought. “No, it doesn’t. According to the police report, which was taken at almost midnight, you’d been there for almost an hour.”

  “So.”

  “So,” she said with a sideways grin, “that puts you at my client’s apartment at exactly the same time the warrant was being processed back at the station.”

  Bernie flashed a skeptical look. “Not uncommon.”

  Feigning like she was impressed, she pushed. “So, you processed the warrant, made it across town, and collected the necessary evidence to put my client away in, what, a couple of minutes?”

  “I’m expedient.” He winced, sounding defensive and fidgeting with the knot on the necktie.

  “No, you’re not,” she said, her voice hardening and making him jerk a curious look at her. The game changed, suddenly. “Because my client was never presented a warrant. In fact, he wasn’t even there when you arrived, was he?”

  Bernie grinned with clenched teeth. He couldn’t mention the decoy. Rothwell’s team had covered all their bases. There was no connection, at least not legally. It would only make the Prosecution look desperate. Bernie punched a fist into his palm frustrated, said, “No, he wasn’t. But it’s a lucky day when they are.”

  “Then how’d you get in the apartment?” Treadwell asked.