by Nick Keller
17
William, On The Take
William jammed down on his brake pedal. Traffic was moving pretty slow as it was, but his tires locked up regardless. The commuters behind him followed suit, each of them coming to a stop. It was all bumper-to-bumper. The leather shoulder bag with his professor’s supplies flumped off the passenger seat onto the floorboard. There were no fender benders, but it was a good way to cause a pile up. There were honks and cussing. William didn’t hear them. He was glued to the radio looking at it, feeling the surfaces of his skin chill.
He had been checking 1190 KCTC on the AM band periodically. He had no interest in their broadcast shows. It was just a bunch of left wingers hating the right wingers, or vice-versa, not that William had any affiliation with either of the political parties. But the last time he’d landed on the station (completely by random) a pair of radio women had mentioned a dog sniped at the park.
Who knows, he figured, maybe that’s the kind of news that gets their goat over on KCTC.
Besides, a killer will always return to a target-rich environment. So, he tuned in, from time to time, hoping they’d repeat the story, or that a similar story would emerge. He’d included checking KCTC in his routine.
And now he sat dead still in the center lane of the I-10 from Pasadena knowing his life had just gotten complicated. From here on out, he’d be fighting paranoia, resisting urges, knowing—not believing, but knowing—there was some real heinous shit about to go down in the city of Los Angeles. Because there those two women were again on the radio, just like a few mornings ago, talking about another dead dog in a park.
“We have adjuncts,” William said into his cell phone. He stood on the highway shoulder pacing back and forth fighting to hear over the traffic. “That’s why we have adjuncts.” A crotch rocket zipped by weaving through traffic, its engine howling a tight, ripcord sound. William had to turn away to hear Fred over the phone.
“No, Will, that’s why high schools have substitute teachers. College professors can’t just bail on their classes the morning of.”
“I understand. I—look, I can’t help it. I wish I could, really, Fred, but...” he scrunched his face feeling stupid, “… I’ll make it up to you.”
A horn wailed out from across the highway.
“I’m not the one paying to be in your class. Your students are,” Fred said.
“It’s a price effective education, Fred.”
“A what?”
“One day won’t hurt.”
“One day?” Fred said. “As I recall, this is the second instance in as many weeks.”
William pursed his lips. Fred Willis was right. William was beginning to make it a habit, not showing up for his classes. He cringed as an eighteen-wheeler prattled by blasting him in its wake. “Alright, Fred, I’ll make it up to the class. But I can’t be there today.”
He heard Fred give an inconvenienced chortle. “Alright. I’ll cover for your two o’clock this time, but next time I’d appreciate more prep time.”
“I agree, Fred. What about my four o’clock?”
There was a pause. William pressed into the phone, listening. Fred finally said, “You already have a four o’clock, don’t you?”
William balked at that before the thought hit him—Dammit, I have a meeting with Dr. Oaks today!
“Of course. Yes, I do. Thanks again, Fred.” He thumbed off the phone tight-lipped, pondering how to get out of his four o’clock with Kendra Oaks. Those meetings were mandated by the state of California. There was no adjunct. He had to show. “Dammit,” he shouted over the passing traffic. He looked at his phone, then dialed. After a few rings, Kendra’s office phone voicemail cycled through with:
Please leave a message at the…
He hung up the phone before it connected him through to the recording. He’d have to explain later. Today, he’d simply have to be a no show.
When William got to Athens Park, the story had broken all over the local area. There was a bomb in the park. Everyone had to see. In L.A. no one ran away from explosions. They ran toward them.
People came in hordes from the neighborhoods to the west, north and south, while the apartments just to the east unloaded their residents as well. Everyone was on foot, clogging up the parking areas. William had to slide up next to a curb a block over, then head toward the commotion.
The park was a large flat twelve acres designed around opposing softball diamonds. To the north end was a recreation center while a winding walkway braided in and out of clumps of trees.
It wasn’t hard to spot ground zero. The bomb squad had rolled a massive, iron truck right over the baseball diamond’s outfield and parked not far from the point of explosion, lights still twittering in the mid-morning sun, damage control crews buzzing around. Cops patrolled the perimeter of the crime scene against the sporadic crowds.
William navigated his way through the people, still hearing the radio broadcast from earlier repeat over and over in his head. It was a story about a dog and an old man and an explosion in between traffic reports and commercial breaks.
William’s interest was piqued immediately. He had known all along it would happen again. His gut told him so. Once a person started killing, they couldn’t stop. In most cases, they even escalated their habits—it was the fundamentals of Criminal Psyche 101. This killer, whoever he was, would go from killing dogs to killing people. It was just a matter of time. Yet he was already guilty. His murders were inevitable. When, where and who—those were the only questions worth asking now. There was little time.
The yellow tape cordoned off the area. William stopped at it trying to see. There were too many bomb specialists and investigators standing around the blast area to glimpse much detail. A few of them were squatting in their slacks and suit jackets. Nevertheless, William could tell the damage was minimal. It was at the base of a Date Palm—a narrow, very tall tree, with high branches. Their trunks were flexible, good for withstanding strong ocean storm winds, but not explosions. This explosion had been contained. Whoever planted the device didn’t want to knock the tree over or kill a person. Their target was the dog.
That meant…
The gun blast that killed Bandy the Retriever a few days ago was no miscue. The bullet had gone right to the head at almost two hundred meters. Very professional.
Now, dog number two.
William rose up on his toes watching the investigation team muddle around in the grass and dirt. They were probing for an object, probably the explosive itself, or what was left of it.
It had to have been a pressure device, William thought, something with a hairpin, like a mousetrap, but with a strike point. A dog steps on it, a spring or a small lever releases, a blast cap is punctured, and boom. No more doggie.
William looked up. One of the investigators got to his feet with a large plastic evidence bag pinched between his fingers. William ducked down privately, and squeezed his way into the crowd standing behind. He recognized the detective. It was Mark Neiman.
William’s eyes went to Neiman who moved toward the bomb van. Weaving his way through a group of people, William mirrored him trying to spy the evidence bag. The object was fair-sized, about as big as a fist and seared into a block of black carbon. William squinted at it trying to guess what it was, but Mark ushered it into the Crime Sciences Evidence van and disappeared.
“Sir!” The word broke his attention away. It was a cop looking at him. “We’re moving the crowd away for the bomb truck. Clear away.”
“Oh, uh sure. So, was it plastique, or black powder?”
“Excuse me?”
“The explosive,” William said. “Do we know the incendiary?”
“Look, that’s not my job. My job is getting you to move, so move.”
William nodded and stepped away taking one more look at the bomb truck, but he stopped, turning perfectly cold. Mark Neiman had stepped back out of the bus and was staring back at him across the distance with a look of interest on his face. Thei
r eyes met. William was spotted.
Mark pointed to him, but before he could complete the gesture, William receded back into the crowd. He turned and bumped his way through, making it toward the recreation building. Glancing over his shoulder, Mark had disappeared.
Oh shit…
He was after him, plunging into the crowd.
William made it to the large awning that serviced a concession stand, bolted around the corner, and saw the RESTROOM sign. MEN to the left, WOMEN to the right. He closed his eyes holding his breath and sank quickly to the right, into the women’s restroom. No one was there. He settled into the nearest stall and waited, and waited, and waited some more…
18
Odd Man Out
Bernie had spent the morning securing the crime scene with a half dozen Boys-in-Blue while the Bomb Sciences Squad and Mark Neiman investigated the explosion. He’d been a beat cop for two years before he got promoted to Vice, then Narcotics, then Investigations.
Then Cold Case.
And he wasn’t very goddamn happy about it, either. He was supposed to be investigating new crimes, but Mark Neiman obviously wasn’t buying his story about pursuing an unsolved mystery, especially a sexual assault, and had him relegated to scene security. Of course, Mark didn’t outrank him any more than he outweighed him, but he’d threatened to call the precinct and get the captain involved. That was the last thing Bernie needed. It was time to play smart.
So, fuck it. He had helped the beat cops secure the area. Bernie considered it a smoke break. He had waved the bomb squad truck over the fields and through the park with a Camel pinched between his lips grumbling to himself about how one of these days he was going to monkey punch that asshole Mark Neiman in the kidneys, fold him into a pretzel ball and bounce him down Chicago Avenue. In the meantime, he’d help secure the location and make plans to get information from the Evidence Labs back at the station later. He would soon discover that Neiman and Heller and the rest of Investigations had their outfit buttoned up tight leaving him pissing in the wind.
The technicians down in Evidence were kissasses. Bernie knew goddamn good and well they had bits from a blasting device going through chemical testing for traces of explosives. They were determining the accelerant right now with their microscopes and rubber gloves. Once they knew what kind of trigger device it was and what the incendiary was, they’d open a whole Pandora’s Box to other evidence—where it came from, how it was put together, who had access to the materials. You name it, it was how crimes got solved. Information, information, information. Unfortunately, the department had cut Bernie right out of the loop.
Assholes.
His End-Around had gotten him only so far. Sure, he could investigate current crimes under the radar, but getting access to current evidence was another trick all together. And it seemed Investigations was dead set against that.
It was the captain. He’d busted Bernie to the Dead Bin specifically so he couldn’t investigate, couldn’t stir shit up. And with that prick Mark Neiman in the captain’s ear, they were sure to deny him access in every possible way. They’d probably held a quick meeting with the forensics engineers down in the Crime Lab right after they all got back from the Athens Park crime scene. Bernie could imagine them now:
Captain Heller: “Ascertain everything you can on the explosive device, along with the incendiary. Get me your reports as soon as you can.”
Crime Lab Kissasses: “Yes, sir, Captain.”
Mark Neiman—whispering in Captain Heller’s ear: “Sir, should we address Bernie Dobbs?”
Captain Heller—giving a nod: “Oh yeah, there’s one other thing. For those of you who know Detective Dobbs—he may be a liability to this case. Don’t share any of your findings with him.”
Crime Lab Kiss-Asses: “Yes, sir.”
Captain Heller: “And for those of you who don’t know Detective Dobbs, the same pertains to you.”
So, Bernie was stuck sitting in the Dead Bin, his detective’s balls sitting in a jar up on the shelf.
19
Jacky Lee Hobar
William had just reached the halfway point in Serial Patterns & the Killer Mind, a comprehensive study on killers throughout history from the exploits of H.H. Holmes, the earliest killer in U.S. recorded history, to the infamous Jack the Ripper who prowled the impoverished streets of London’s Whitechapel District, when Jacky Lee Hobar stepped into his office. William closed the book, looked up and said, “Oh, come in.”
Jacky dropped himself into the chair, knees apart, head tilted over. William knew it wasn’t his style to huff and puff around the point. “Hypothetical situation, right?”
William nodded. “Okay.”
“You’re profiling a criminal. You know your resources are better than the police department’s resources because the police department’s resources suck. You also know that if you use your own resources—your better resources—you won’t be able to sanction your work.”
William nodded, listening. “Uh—that’s right.”
“So—do you still use them?”
William slid Serial Patterns & the Killer Mind to one side and leaned back with one hand still on the tome. “Well, you’re assuming a few things, Jacky. First, law enforcement—i.e. the police department—possesses the finest investigative protocols in our society. Entire fields of study have been devised around every conceivable aspect of investigating a crime,” he thumbed the pages of the book making a flapping sound, “from ballistics analysis, to case research to medical examination. Even criminal psychology itself exists because of law enforcement’s need to perfect the field. In short, the police department resources don’t exactly suck, as you put it.” He smiled, curious now, “Are you assuming that a person could acquire private resources that go beyond that level of investigation?”
Jacky shrugged. “That’s why it’s a hypothetical.”
“Okay.” William thought for a moment. “It’s a question of ethics. Is it worth breaking protocol to find the truth, or should we put protocol above everything else, right?”
Jacky pulled back and forth on the draw strings of his hoodie. “I guess so. Ethics. Right.”
William took a breath angling toward his point. He would have to be careful. “I would say—these resources—use them, but only if they’re legal, and only for your own means. It’s risky, though. Remember, any time you step out of your discipline you sacrifice credibility.”
“What do you mean?”
“Any evidence you acquire in any criminal case that isn’t acquired by official means, to use your words, would be inadmissible in a court of law. At that point, all the evidence in the world means nothing.”
Jacky gave a thoughtful frown. “So, a person with, let’s say, underground resources, shouldn’t use them.”
“Mmm—probably not.” William leaned forward hoping to punctuate his next point. “You have to work within the framework of the criminal justice system, Jacky, especially if you want to be a forensic psychologist someday.”
Jacky winced. He didn’t like the answer. He stood up and walked to the wall where William’s college diploma hung. It read:
The Regents of the
University of Southern California
have conferred on
Mr. William Erter
the Degree of
Bachelor of Psychology
this date of
Blah blah blah….
Jacky straightened it on the wall, then turned and said, “Okay. What if you didn’t?”
Curious, William asked, “What do you mean?”
Jacky walked in a circle taking in the rest of the office, his mind working. He said, “So what if you were—and this is hypothetical, again—what if you weren’t in the criminal justice system, not a part of law enforcement. What if say…” he paused, “what if you were a college professor, like you.” He gestured to William conversationally. “And you had these resources, and they helped you know things. Important things. Things that could help an in
vestigation. Things, even that the cops couldn’t know ‘cause they suck. Would you use them?”
“Uh—well, I suppose it wouldn’t be up to me.” William observed him, giving him a sideways look.
“Why?” Jacky said, sounding disappointed.
“It would be up to the investigating team. If I—or the person in your hypothetical situation—used unsanctioned means to gain unofficial evidence, law enforcement would then have to choose whether or not they wanted to use it.”
Jacky flumped back in the chair leaned forward over William’s desk. His eyes looked hungry. “Forget the police, Prof. Would you use it?”
“You mean hypothetically.”
“Mmm—forget hypothetical, too. Would you use it?”
William grinned nervously. “Are you talking about these underground resources, Jacky?”
“Uh-huh. Would you?”
“Well,” William cleared his throat, “what you’re talking about now is ethics—your question is an ethical one.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
William squinted. “I—I’m not… I don’t think…”
“Ha—I knew it!” Jacky said loudly, standing up and flinging his backpack over his shoulder. “You would use it. You just can’t say that you would because you’re a teacher.”
“Well, actually, Jacky…”
“It’s okay, Prof. It’s all just hypothetical, anyway.” He flashed him a grin that William could only describe as mischievous, and left the office. William sat in dumbfounded silence for several moments wondering what the hell Jacky had been playing at. There was something very odd about his student. Odd indeed.
William took a breath staring in a hypnotic state at the white, laminate table surface in the teacher’s lounge—no shape, no color. It gave his mind room to spin like a wheel without distraction.