A Killer's Role: Erter & Dobbs Book 1

by Nick Keller

  Who would shoot a dog, when they could shoot a person?

  Not your garden-variety hunter, but someone who’d been trained to shoot. Someone who was a damn good shot, that’s who.

  Someone who knew explosives, too—a real covert operator.

  William whispered, “He’s got to be military.”

  “What’d you say, William?” Cassy Donnegan said, turning to face him from the open refrigerator. She was licking sauce off her fingers, maybe Ranch dressing.

  William blinked and looked up. He’d forgotten he was in the professor’s lounge, completely lost in his trance. He forced a grin and said, “Oh—nothing…”

  20

  Reaching Out #1

  “That one.” William pointed to the cheapest phone on the rack, an AT&T Z222 flip phone. $19.99.

  The guy behind the counter looked at him through uninterested half-eyes, snagged it and slid the box to him. “Need minutes, dude?” he asked.

  “Yes, I would like the cheapest plan, please.”

  “Twenty duckets.”

  William fished out a twenty. “How many minutes is that?”

  “Hundred.”

  “Okay.”

  William unpackaged the phone at the counter, flipped it open and initiated it. “Thanks.” William sank back into the dense crowd of the Santee Alley. People were out in droves. All the tourists wore cute hats while they went around flashing pics at the most ordinary things on a cell phone. The local fashionistas trotted through the crowds in high heels and weird clothes, with chiseled out boyfriends walking beside them wearing skinny jeans and overpriced sunglasses. Businessmen and women went in droves toward the scents of outdoor pastries and palms, looking deeply occupied.

  William had no time for being leisurely. He was here for the crowds, precisely. No one paid attention to a man in a milquetoast sweater vest with Levi’s. In fact, they ignored him. And the guy at the prepaid phone counter was perfect. In two short minutes, he’d have no memory of William, either. Why would he? But that’s what William needed, to be trackless. He was about to reach out to Mark Neiman. It was foolhardy, but necessary. The man seemed suspicious of him already. The last thing William wanted was to become a subject of Mark’s investigation, so he found himself covering his tracks to avoid detection.

  William made it back to his car and took L.A. Street back to the 101. It was a straight shot all the way to his renovated complex, right through midday traffic. Next, he went to the South Pasadena warehouse district, down Lever Street, through the swing open security gate, through the building complex and down the parkway toward his gated unit entrance, and went inside. Here he was safe, didn’t have to cover his steps, didn’t have to hide. He brought up his Dell computer, went into the public access PD phone systems, found what he wanted and took a breath. Pausing to collect his courage he dialed on the prepaid phone and brought it up to his ear.

  A voice answered. “L.A.P.D. This is Neiman.”

  William cleared his throat. “Detective Mark Neiman?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve been working the case concerning animal deaths.”

  There was a pause. “The Parks case, yeah. Who is this?”

  William expected that question. “I prefer to remain anonymous.”

  Mark answered with an impatient, “Okay.”

  “I have information on the case. Perhaps you’d be willing to speak?”

  “You have information on the Parks case?”

  “I do.”

  “Have you called our hotline? We have a hotline for case information—an anonymous tip hotline.”

  William paced through his living area, turned, paced back. “I consider hotlines questionable at best. I prefer speaking to the officer directly attached to the case.”

  “What makes you think I’m that officer?”

  William froze, caught. He’d seen Detective Neiman at Heirloom and Athens Park working the case, but he couldn’t admit that. That information would give him away. He said, taking a chance, “You are working the case.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’d rather speak in person.”

  “Yeah, you said that. Look, I’m a detective. If I can’t trust my sources, then I don’t consider them a source. Give me your name, and we might be able to arrange something.”

  “A meeting?”

  “Maybe. Who are you?”

  William cringed and said, “The shooter’s going to start killing people, Detective. I know this for a certainty.”

  Another pause. William could imagine the detective perking up at his desk, going from a leaned back position in his chair to a leaning-forward position. “How do you know?” Neiman said.

  Pacing again William said, “Look at the obvious. This person is proficient, plus he’s displaying multiple methods. He treats his killing like a science, maybe even an art. Also, crimes escalate. It’s fundamental forensic process. You know that. What do you think will be next?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has already used a rifle. Next was an explosive device—both in broad daylight at a public facility. What’s his next method going to be? Some sort of trap? Maybe poison or...”

  Neiman said, “Look, I’m not at liberty to say.” But his voice sounded curious. William had piqued his interest. “How do you know all this?”

  “These are very specific skills sets, Detective. Who could possibly know so much about ballistics and explosives? It stands a good reason that he’s…”

  “Wait. You’re that guy, aren’t you—that guy at the park. Heirloom Park.”

  William’s eyes bugged. “What guy?”

  He heard Neiman snap his fingers over the phone and say, “Uber. Ulers or something. Urder? Erter! William Erter.”

  He swallowed forcing a grin. “That—that’s not important.”

  Then, curious but almost sinister, Neiman asked, “What’s your interest in my case, Mr. Erter?”

  He shook his head. His heart was starting to bang. He could hear it in his ears. “Look, this person is going to start killing people. It’s his role. He’s playing a role. Look at the profile.” Pacing back and forth, around and around the sofa. “Do you think his interest is in killing dogs? He’s fighting his conscience. Something inside him is telling him to kill. He will snap, Detective. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Are you him?”

  He stopped, went agonized. “What?”

  “Why don’t you come in, William. We’ll talk.”

  “I—I’m not sure how to respond to that.”

  “Do you want us to bring you in? I can arrange to come get you.”

  “I’m not your perp.”

  “Then why’d you call?”

  Pacing again. “I have information. I’ve been very clear on that point.”

  “Mr. Erter. William. If what you say is true, then why don’t you come in before you do something that could put you away for a long, long time.”

  Neiman was getting suspicious. He was the wrong man to enlist for help. He wasn’t seeing the writing on the wall, not hearing the murder from around the corner. There was a killer out there, always living on the edge of a psychotic breakdown, running from demons with a high-powered rifle, always trying to find the enemy in an unsuspecting city. In hardly weeks, maybe days, possibly hours, he’d kill someone. He’d blow their head off. It made William lick his lips.

  Kill someone.

  Kill.

  Someone.

  “William, you there?” A voice came from the phone.

  William slapped it shut cutting off the line.

  21

  Mark Neiman, On The Take

  “William, you there?” Neiman said. “Hey, William. Mr. Erter? Shit.” Neiman jammed his desk phone into its cradle. He started typing, rapid fire, bringing up the citizenry public records. He didn’t know how to spell the name.

  William U-R-T-E-R

  William E-R-T-E-R

  William E-R-D-E-R

  William U
-R-D-E-R

  The registry brought up at least one entry for each version of the name in the six-county region. There were three for William U-R-T-E-R in Los Angeles county. Neiman shook his head. He would start at the simplest point. There was only one William E-R-T-E-R. And it was fairly close. Just over in Pasadena.

  Neiman squinted at the computer screen. Something caught his eye and he leaned forward, reading. Then he leaned back in his chair.

  “He lives in the warehouse district—hmm.”

  Los Angeles was an eclectic city, full of eclectic people, all of them looking for eclectic ways to live. They wore weird clothes, they ate strange foods, they found odd ways to socialize—always trying to be beyond the norm. Their living conditions were at the top of the list. He’d even heard that a guy over in Malibu disassembled an abandoned fire station, moved it piece-by-piece to the beach, and reassembled it as his home, engine bays and chrome pole and all.

  But a warehouse? That struck Neiman as oddly creepy. Only someone wanting to separate themselves from society, despite being smack dab in the middle of Los Angeles, would shack up in a warehouse—even a renovated warehouse.

  He snagged his phone up and dialed.

  “Records Department,” a voice said.

  “Lena, this is Neiman.”

  “Oh hi, Mark.”

  “I need you to get me everything we have on a William Erter.”

  “How do you spell it?”

  “Shit if I know. Let’s go with E-R-T-E-R for now, okay?”

  “Okay. You want me to email?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get it on my phone. I’m out for the next hour or so.”

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up and stood there thinking. He picked up the phone, dialed again.

  The other end rang, picked up. “L.A.P.D. tech.” The voice had an eastern trill, hard syllables, even harder consonants.

  “Deveesh, this is Neiman, Investigations.”

  “How are you, Detective?”

  “Fine. Got a favor.”

  “Okay.”

  “A call was just placed to my desk phone. Can we find anything on it?”

  “Your phone…” there was a pause and the sound of fingers on computer keys. “A two-one-seven-four number?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I will have to check with the utilities.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It will be difficult. No trace. We’ll have to go by records. If it was a prepaid, we’ll never trace it.”

  “At least we’ll know it was a prepaid, right?”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “That works. Put a PD-Urgent code on it. Push it through. I want to know who that phone belongs to.”

  “Okay, Detective.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up and stood there thinking again.

  William Erter. Warehouse district.

  He snagged his jacket and headed for the door at a double pace.

  22

  Bernie Dobbs, On The Take

  Bernie got up from his workstation. He’d been sitting too long. Everything hurt at first. It’d be slow going for him, but he was determined to leave. It was getting close to five thirty. He needed a drink. He thought about shoving up at Murphy’s Bar. He shook his head. Cops would be there. Maybe even Mark fucking Neiman. He decided against it. He’d hit Shankley’s Port & Sport just outside of downtown proper. If they weren’t cranking the classic country hits too loud, it was a peaceful place to sit and get shit-faced.

  He took the elevator up to Investigations. The place was full of desks. People still buzzed. He eyeballed his old desk sitting toward the back. It was still empty.

  “Heh,” he muttered and moved on, determined not to look over at Mark Neiman’s desk. He couldn’t help himself. His eye drifted that way. He came to an abrupt stop, eyeballing him.

  Mark Neiman was on the phone, but he wasn’t sitting down. He was standing at his desk. He was talking fast, making decisions. He only did that when something was amiss. When something was up.

  Bernie stepped backwards one full step and sidled up behind a pillar. He tried to listen, but couldn’t hear much—Mark was saying something about a warehouse district. He wanted an address. Bernie peeked out. Mark Neiman hung up, stood there thinking, picked up the phone and dialed again. Bernie listened. He thought he heard him say something like, Deveesh, this is Neiman, Investigations. After a moment Mark hung up again, then grabbed his jacket and left at a double pace.

  Bernie made an interested look. Mark Neiman was on the move. Maybe that drink could wait. He straightened his jacket and followed Mark Neiman toward the station exit… at a double pace.

  They hadn’t parked all that close to each other that morning. Mark was way on the other end of the west parking lot, under the covered area. Bernie quick-stepped through the parking lot weaving through cars but keeping an eye on Mark as he disappeared in the distance. Bernie got to his car, cranked the engine on and pulled out to a squealing steering mechanism. Once he hit the access street he slowed down sharking a look at the covered lot. Mark’s black Camaro SS pulled out a block down, rumbling and grumbling. Bernie grinned. That was perfect. Far enough to be covert, but close enough to tail him.

  Mark moved away from the depot sliding into traffic along West Sixth Street headed toward the 110. Traffic was in slow moving lines, slinking toward the highway in rhythm with the stoplights. Bernie slipped in several cars behind, checked the rearview and pulled into the far right keeping an eye on that black Camaro. Everybody was commuting away from the city. If he was tailing Mark to someone’s home, chances were, he’d be going east. Bernie was being preemptive. Sure enough, Mark slid over as the 110 onramp approached. Bernie followed keeping his distance.

  The 110 itself was a jam. Traffic moved well, but it was heavy, all the L.A. natives attuned enough to beat-down traffic to keep the forward momentum greased. They cut off downtown to the right, all the glass skyscrapers catching the western light and beaming it back at them. Eventually, they hit the mixmaster sloughing drivers away by the dozens, others cramming in from I-5 and the San Fernando onramp. Bernie groaned skipping over a lane. Sharking his eyes up ahead he glimpsed Mark’s hotrod humming along, bright black under the late day sun. Once he moved through Highland Park and toward San Bernardino County, Bernie figured they were heading toward Pasadena, maybe even as far as Lamanda Park.

  Mark’s blinker started. He was going for the off-ramp at California Blvd, turning west toward Fair Oaks. Bernie followed. They wound up on Fair Oaks, headed south. The place had that old industry taste to it, warehouse complexes all gated up, built by brick, not the new prefab iron and pebble-textured construction. It was an old neighborhood, but with an artsy-fartsy feel that relished its antiquity.

  Mark took a side street leaving the traffic behind. Bernie had to make a judgment call. He was going to get caught tailing him. No choice.

  “Shit…”

  He followed.

  Lining the street were rows of low-topped buildings, mostly warehouses and dry storage structures from the fifties and sixties. Most of them had been renovated into boutiques and bazaars. Some of them looked lived in. The Camaro came up to a black, rod-iron fence and stopped. Gritting his teeth, Bernie sunk down in his driver’s seat and continued ahead running past Mark’s stopped car. Bernie sat back up, looked behind.

  Mark was now fading away in his rearview. He was going to lose him.

  Bernie took the next block up and came to a stop at an access way into the complex. It was gated, too. Mark didn’t seem to notice him, so Bernie watched, parked three hundred feet away.

  Mark got out of his car and went to a code box for the gate studying it, hands on his hips. Then he went to the gate and tugged on it. It moved, but hardly enough to squeeze a car through, so he tucked his tie down and shimmied his body through the gate.

  Bernie squinted at him. “What the hell are you doing, Marky boy?”

  Once through, Mark proceeded on foot disappeari
ng. Bernie reversed it, and took the access road around the complex. He moved past a few buildings scanning desperately. “C’mon, where’d he go, where’d he go?”

  The complex was enormous, an easy place to get lost, with all the buildings nearly identical and arranged in rows, as if the city had designated this square mile as the centerpoint for warehousing and storage.

  There! He found Mark way in the distance walking through the buildings going from row to row. Bernie hit his brakes hard and came to an abrupt stop. He watched, tilting his head to get a better view.

  Way in the distance, Mark hesitated, scanning the warehouse in front of him as if he’d found the building number he was looking for. Bernie reached over, rummaged through his glovebox, and grabbed his binoculars. Focusing and refocusing, he sharpened the image through the lenses. The PO Box on the building read 1310. He looked back, then forward, then to the right for a street sign. Company Court.

  Bernie pulled the onboard mobile data computer over to him and flipped it open bringing up data windows. He moused to the public records window on the laptop pad and typed in 1310 Company Court. The loading bar appeared. Bernie looked back at Mark.

  Mark buzzed the bell and stepped back. He waited, buzzed again. There was no answer. No one was coming to greet him. Still watching him, Bernie looked back at his onboard computer. The resident information for 1310 Company Court populated on the screen—name, date of birth, social security number, everything. Bernie said, “A William Erter’s residence. William Erter. Who the hell is that?”

  Meanwhile, inside the warehouse unit, William was going silently berserk. He brought up his surveillance software on his desktop computer, and couldn’t believe what he saw. It made him go cold. Mark Neiman was buzzing himself in at the entrance corridor to his warehouse building.

  He knew it! Should never have called that bastard! Now he was probably here to arrest him.

  William streaked up to his loft area skipping stairs by twos, where he had an eye line to the building entrance through a high-set narrow window. Beaming down through horrified eyes he watched the detective buzz again and stand there waiting at the front door. William held his breath.