A Killer's Role: Erter & Dobbs Book 1

by Nick Keller

  He fished out his phone and thumbed a number. It rang twice. A voice said, “Hey, sugar.”

  “Iva, I want to see you.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight? Baby, that’s pretty short notice, I…”

  Bernie spun around and said, “Iva, don’t tell me no. I mean, I can’t be told no. Not right now. I want to meet.”

  “Where?”

  “The usual.”

  He heard her give an exasperated sigh, then she said, “Okay. Make it ten o’clock.”

  “Great. Ten. See you then.” He hung up taking one last look at Murphy’s Shift House. Thumping a cigarette out of a soft pack and lighting up he groaned, “Fuck it.” He stormed out of the parking lot in the Crown Vic leaving a vague line of black rubber behind him.

  14

  Victim

  Getting up in the morning wasn’t as easy as it used to be. And it was getting harder all the time. Old Hector Delgado’s knees had never popped and banged just for waking up, and his body had never been so heavy. But now, he was feeling old. Looking in the mirror he realized why. Age had turned him from that fresh-faced Army brat so many years ago to an old man decaying under his bathroom light. He smacked his jowls up and down making a flup flup sound. The skin sagged. His eyes sagged. Everything sagged. He would’ve shaved the gray stubble, but why? It’s not like he was in the army anymore.

  The Army.

  He figured that’s where all his ails had begun. Shot through the hip. Had part of his shoulder removed, rather indelicately. He had plastic parts and metal plates put in all over him. It was the price of a few purple hearts. But he lived. And now those ails had fifty good years to weigh on him. But along with that old body of his, he figured the Army was what had been responsible for giving him an atrophied old soul. He’d seen too many boys die back in sixty-nine and seventy. Not all of them died quickly either. Most died slow. It was enough death to last a lifetime, he figured. That is until 1988. That’s when Veronica died. His Vera. Cancer. She was a ripe old forty-years. She died slow, too. But she’d been strong. Even through the pain. Life had never gotten Vera down, and it seemed death wasn’t about to, either. Hector had taken her strength and kept it. Yeah, he was old and broken down, and his soul was used, but he had love in his heart for everyone. He refused for it to be otherwise, even concerning his two sons.

  After Vera got called away, it was just him and his boys. They were teenagers at the time. Hector Jr. was fourteen. Alonso was only twelve. Those kids had lost their mother at too young an age, and Hector knew it would stay with them forever. A kid losing a parent, what could be worse?

  Try a father losing his sons.

  Hector Jr. got caught by friendly fire back in the first days of the first Desert Storm. Hector had always heard stories about the confusion of troops amassing for combat, then deploying across the earth by the hundred thousand, big columns of men and tanks storm-rolling slowly across the earth. The enemy was always near, but from all accounts, his boy never saw one. Not up close. It was artillery from the rear that blew his platoon to smithereens. Hector always found it disgruntling. He had survived enemy fire through two years in Vietnam, but two days into the skirmish over in some goddamn place called Kuwait, and his firstborn gets pounded into a grave by friendlies. Sad day.

  It was a full decade and a half later that his other boy, now a Sergeant for the stars and stripes, got blown to pulp by an IED in another goddamn place called Mosul.

  The fuck is a Mosul? And what the fuck was an IED? None of it mattered. It took his last son, and left him all alone.

  Yeah, he’d seen enough death in his life. He figured the next death he’d see would be his own. It seemed logical. Hell, there wasn’t anyone left, except him—him and old Bum. He figured Bum would probably outlive him. Sure, Bum was getting on in years, but he stayed active enough. He flopped more than ran, but at least he still flopped. He had an old yellow ball that kept him shimmying along. And he was a happy old mutt, always being social with his fellow pets out at the park. He loved all the kids, too. He even tried to hump one or two of their legs now and again. It kept him young. But Old Hector, with his ticker always in doubt and the diabetes giving him fits, figured he could go any day. It’d be Bum licking his face one morning wondering why the hell his master wasn’t waking up, but somehow knowing.

  Yep, master’s dead. Gone to that place in the sky for people. Left me all alone down here. Wake up, asshole!

  Each day, Hector figured that was reason enough to give old Bum one more good walk around the park. Besides, the exercise was good for him too. Getting up with Bum every morning and going outside and smelling the beautiful Los Angeles air with all its smells and scents just kind of kept the blood flowing. The good thing about Bum was that he couldn’t move very fast. His legs were too stubby. It was the Bloodhound in him. Kind of like Hector himself. But, being part bloodhound made him want to stop and sniff every tree and post and bush in the park. Hector was patient, though. Why live at all if you can’t let your dog pee on a tree? It’s like telling an old man he can’t live at his house anymore. Stupid doctors. Diabetes and heart problems aside, who said seventy-one was all that damn old, anyway?

  The sun had crested the horizon out east casting a morning glow over everything. Hector loved this time of day. Everyone who was up were the early-risers, the go-getters. They were the good-looking people, and at seven on a Tuesday, they were friendly enough to wave, even if they were all wearing those damnable ear buds.

  Of course, Bum was at it again. He was always at it—sniffing for the last animal that might have marked its spot on this tree or that. Fine, fine. That was the nature of a dog. Sniffing asses and eating shit.

  Hector needed to sit. His ticker was having a hard time keeping up this morning. He could feel it. It was robbing his breath. Bending over to unclip Bum’s leash might be all it would take to kill him, but he did it anyway. Big pot belly aside, he groaned as he bent over saying, “Okay, nino, go on and piss on a tree…”

  Bum made it across the walkway checking every inch of his route with sniffs that would cause the average human to hyperventilate. He crushed through emerald green grass that smelled like sweet mornings. The tree was next. No pungent whiff of dog piss. A canine’s version of excitement flittered through him as he knew… this tree was his. Leg up. Time to pee pee.

  Meanwhile, Hector sat down at the nearest bench getting his wind back. He looked around at the park. Yeah, pretty day. He waved at a person in the distance. They didn’t wave back.

  Heh…

  His eyes fell on Bum. The dog was across the walkway over on a nearby tree with his leg hiked up squirting it with dog juice. Hector heard the oddest thing. A sizzle. Then a whiff struck him that he hadn’t smelled in years. It reminded him of being young again, very young, before Vera and before the boys. It reminded him of Vietnam, in fact. It was the scent of cordite and electricity right before…

  Hector gasped just as an explosion blew his dog into the air in a whirly-bird fashion. He watched old Bum flump down and go rolling through the grass yipping and yapping, and for a second Hector wondered what had happened. Then he saw the strangest thing. It was perfectly gory. It was like nothing he’d ever seen. Not since Vietnam. Bum had been blown wide open. What was left of him convulsed to death in seconds leaving Old Hector to stare in slack-jawed awe, all alone.

  15

  Grace, Donna’tella

  The Dead Bin. The place where unsolved cases went to die. Bernie had that feeling in his gut that the Dead Bin was where his career would go to die, too. It felt like a knot that made him grab for his belly. He pulled his cruiser into the lot. He was about to report to the Dead Bin for the first time—his first day on the job. No more Investigative Crimes Division. He was done with that, or more correctly, it was done with him.

  He jammed the column shifter into park and got out staring up at the officers’ entrance to the police station. Through those doors and down
the hall was the Investigations Division, his old haunt. At the far end was the elevator that would carry him to Cold Case, way down in the basement. They’d all see him move through looking like a dog with his tail tucked between his knees. Mark Neiman would see him—probably give him one of his patented, Hollywood Hills, holier-than-thou, smug little grins. Fucker.

  Bernie took one more good puff and flipped the cigarette away making it bounce off one of the parked cars. He said, “Fuck it…” and moved forward.

  As he discovered when he reached the entrance to the police station, he had a friend. Donna’tella Grace met him, giving him a sympathetic grin through huge dark features. She was black as night and big as day. Bernie liked Donna’tella. She was one of the honest people. If she liked you she flowered you with Eubonix love. If she hated you she cursed your name, your home, your family, eventually your grave. Hard around the edges, soft in the midsection, she was a vat of all things human. She was all soul. Plus, she was the sole detective in Unsolved Mysteries—the Dead Bin. Until now.

  She eyeballed him as he approached. “Good morning, big sexy.”

  Bernie froze and cracked a grin. “Donna,” he said. “Are you the greeting party?”

  “That’s right, sugar. Unofficially.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Listen, baby, we all been sent down to somewhere at some point by somebody. It’s best to be doing it with friends.”

  Bernie said, “I’ll take that.”

  “Lez go den.”

  Bernie nodded and together they entered the station. He didn’t say anything but he was glad she came to meet him. It was a warm notion. Besides, he knew she’d do the talking.

  “I heard the story,” she said as if in commiseration. “So, the ass hoe skates and they make you do the walk. Pitiful. Oh well, look at the bright side, sugar. I could use the company.” She laughed big at her own joke.

  They entered Investigations. The place was already filling up, detectives taking their desks drinking coffee, phones starting to buzz. Across the large area, Captain Heller’s office door was shut, the blinds closed. That meant he was avoiding his minions. Bernie caught a glimpse of Mark Neiman shuffling through his files, just getting started. Protocol boy.

  This place had too many rules, a bunch of red-tape bullshit. It was so palpable he could smell it. In here, they didn’t fight criminals, they protected them. They couldn’t take down rich mogul child porn assholes, unless it was fair, unless everything was sanctioned. It made Bernie grunt. In the end, Bernie never fought crime. It was the legal system he had to fight. Why else would he do what needed to be done at every turn, and yet—it was Cold Case for him? Too much legality.

  They stopped at the elevator and he took one last look back at Investigations. His desk was still empty and clear. In just a matter of days they’d fill it back up with some snot-nosed college punk with a forensics degree fresh from the academy ready to kick ass and take names. Bernie wished he could be the one to tell him—sorry, son, you can’t kick ass with your feet tied at the ankles. Get used to it.

  He switched a look with Donna. She eyed him with humor spreading across her wide face, reading his thoughts. As the elevator dinged open she broke into huge laughter, wrapped an arm around his and escorted him into the elevator. Bernie figured it was perfect irony. The whole department got to see him leave, never to come back, with Donna laughing aloud, both of them showing their asses to the department, then disappearing.

  When the elevator door shut, she said, “You miss it already, don’t you?”

  “Screw ‘em.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she murmured skeptically. “If you want to keep playing with them, you got to learn the End-Around.”

  “End-Around?”

  “That’s right. Cross reference a Cold Case with a current file.”

  Bernie’s lips puckered, eyes pulled together in thought. The End-Around. She was using an old football term on him. It was a trick play. Hand the ball off to a wide receiver, then let the receiver do what he wants with it—run, pass, whatever. It was a trick play. The defense would never know what to prepare for, until it was too late.

  Or…

  Reference an old, unsolved crime to a new case and proceed with your investigation under the guise that you were pursuing a Cold Case. They’d never know—at least not until the case was solved. Then… too late.

  That’s why he loved his brown sugar momma. She knew the game. She bent the rules. And she was good.

  Cold Case wasn’t much more than a large closet stuffed with shelves and case files, not unlike the antechamber of some ancient police department library. It was dusty and smelled of fifty-year-old manila folders.

  Bernie started referencing the database to current cases immediately. Maybe something would match up. Stuffing a bagel into his mouth he entered the first case to be cross-referenced. Its profile window opened.

  Generation Date: May 30, 2017.

  Just a few days ago.

  Detective assigned: Mark Neiman.

  Bernie growled. The last thing he wanted was to work on another case with Neiman. Then he thought about that some more. That might be perfect, actually—investigating a crime under Neiman’s nose. He proceeded with the cross-reference.

  Bernie glanced across the notes entry on the file. It read something about a dog shot in a park. Assailant unknown. Case status: pending.

  “Dog…” he muttered

  He entered the new case number with all its attached meta tags. The data he was comparing it to was old. File naming protocols had changed. Outdated meta tags would never be recognized by the software. It would take time. He crunched on the bagel knowing he could sit here all day and never find a match.

  The computer beeped. He looked at the screen squinting.

  Well goddamn. A match.

  He checked the old case number.

  Generation Date: October 10, 1981.

  Detective assigned: Harmon O’Toole.

  Nature: Home invasion, sexual assault.

  Status: Unsolved

  Bernie scrolled down to the Investigation Notes page and read. “Assailant entered through rear of home. The tool used on knob was simple Leatherman tool. Jimmied open the door, entered, found the victim, Cassandra Montonegra asleep in her bed. She was awakened and forced prone, then bound and assaulted.”

  Bernie gave a perplexed look. How did that case match up to a dog-killing thirty-six years later? Stupid computer software.

  He scrolled down. There were four additional entries in the case file. He read them. They were all the same—home invasions, late at night, sexual assaults.

  Bernie looked further, and Bingo!

  Case Note: “In each case, perpetrator gained access through rear of home by killing homeowner’s dog. Arsenic poison. The perp targeted homes with pets.”

  Bernie cleared the screen and brought up L.A.P.D. detectives’ files. He punched in Harmon O’Toole. A picture came up. Harmon was a seasoned guy, looked to be sixty. Bernie continued reading.

  Harmon O’Toole: Retired, 1987. Deceased, 2000.

  Nowhere.

  He typed in the sexual assault victims’ names. Their last entry notes were back in the ‘80s, probably when the case went unsolved.

  Dead ends, all of them.

  Bernie rubbed his chin. This case was his ticket out of the Dead Bin, an opportunity to investigate a current case, at least for a while, even if it was just a few dog killings in a park. He finished the bagel, threw on his tweed jacket and left the Dead Bin.

  16

  Rivals

  “I referenced your case against unsolved mysteries. Found something.”

  Mark Neiman looked up at Bernie like he was a lunatic. “Someone taking out dogs in a park is related to an unsolved mystery? Bernie, come on.”

  “It’s what the computer tagged.” He handed him the printout.

  Mark glanced over it just long enough to collect the date. “Nineteen-eighty-one? Fuck you.”

 
“There were five investigated instances all together. They went through March of nineteen-eighty-two.”

  “Fuck you again, Dobbs. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Nevertheless, Mark, I’m on the case.”

  “You mean…” Mark said with an incredulous undertone.

  “Yep.”

  Mark huffed and looked over the printout. He flapped the printout down to his lap and said, “Sexual assaults? This has nothing to do with my case, Bernie.”

  “The database matched them up, not me.”

  “Yeah, because some idiot down in Admin used ‘dog’ as a search tag on some outdated database thirty fucking years ago.”

  “So…”

  “You just want out of the Dead Bin.”

  “Look,” Bernie said, holding a finger up. “If the computer wants it investigated, then I’m investigating it. Now we can ride together, or we can ride separate. But I’m on this case, Mark.”

  Mark said angrily, “It’s going to go nowhere, and you know it!”

  “You willing to bet this case on that?”

  “It’s been fucking unsolved for over thirty years!”

  Bernie grinned at Mark’s frustration and repeated, “You willing to bet this case on that?”

  Mark sneered at him. “Fuck!” He snagged his jacket from around the back of his chair. “Well, you’re in luck. We just got another victim.”

  Bernie’s eyes lit up. “Sexual assault?”

  “No, asshole. A dog. Athens Park. You got crowd control, like it or not.” He headed away saying over his shoulder, “And you can ride separate.”