by Nick Keller
William leaned further forward, murmured, “Yeah.”
“It’s a mal script. Their online sec-services plant them around like landmines, don’t want anyone snooping. But if you’re good…” he jabbed another key and the script vanished, “… you can do a kill mod and voila! Smooth as a baby’s ass.” He looked over at William grinning like a devil and said, “They never see me coming, man, and when the time is right, it’s time to bite. We now have an underside bridge right into their backend network. You’re welcome. Oh look!”
William shot a glance to his feet. A ferret nestled itself between his shoes, content to furl up and rest.
“Come here, Rascal, leave our company alone,” Jacky said, leaning over, and snatching the thing up only to rest it on his shoulder. The ferret scurried over to the other shoulder and began picking at Jacky’s hair making him giggle. “Crazy boy…”
William shook his head and said, “So what are we looking at here?”
“Dude, we just busted through Citibank’s online banking service.”
“What!”
“Yeah, you see these?” He ran the mouse down a list of numbers, each nine digits long. “Welcome to their entire national banking account registry. You know what we could do with these things?”
“No, I don’t, and I don’t want to know, Jacky. This is a federal crime.”
Jacky laughed. “All right, I’m backing out, jeez.” With another series of clicks and swipes, the screen blinked away bringing the original, public access home page back up. “You’re really no fun, Prof. But anyway,” he turned to face him in his swiveling captain’s chair, “that’s what I do. And don’t worry. They can’t see me. You see, I hide… like a chameleon.”
William nodded putting the pieces together in his head. He said, “Ah. Chameleon. I got it.”
Jacky made a bow from his computer chair.
William got up and went to the archaic modem sitting toward the back. He poked it with a finger. “And this?”
“Yeah, it’s landline based. It uses actual axial cable.”
“So.”
Jacky laughed at him. “Man, you know all about psychos, but tech?” he said, referring to the first-gen modem. “That makes it hard to trace when I jump online from certain user accounts. It’s analogue. It’s not digital. I basically had to rebuild it, old tech, new tech, blah blah blah. I mean, it becomes digital at some point down the line, but, here, in my apartment, it’s not digital. It‘s hard to locate. Phone companies can do it, but not the digital or fiber optic providers. Well, unless they inspect the joiner boxes out on the street, but who’s going to do that, right? See what I mean?”
“Sounds risky.”
“Well, it’s really just a novelty. Thing’s older than dirt.” He took a big breath, becoming serious. “So, professor, what do you want me for?”
William paced, stopped, and paced back. He finally said, “Data.”
Jacky gave him a big smile, said, “Data—man, I can get you data.”
“That’s just perfect, Jacky.”
“They call me Ceros.” He was obviously proud of that fact.
“Ceros?”
“Yeah, after the Trioceros Chameleon. Also called the Jackson’s Chameleon. Jackson—that’s my name. Jacky.”
William looked at him waiting for the point.
Jacky waved his soda can at him. “Never mind, Prof, you’d have to be a nerd.” He cleared his throat and popped his knuckles scooting the keyboard closer to him. “So, there’s a killer you say?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re talking law enforcement, then?”
“We are. Can you do it?”
“Can you be specific?”
William sat back down on the sofa looking him in the eyes. He took a breath. “How about breaking into the Central Los Angeles Investigative Crimes Division?”
Jacky drained the Mountain Dew, crushed the can, threw it aside with a burp and said, “Oh man, now we’re talking!”
24
Victim
Dragon was a rescue. He’d been found dumped in an alley over in San Bernardino and left to his own devices to survive. Those devices were severely diminished however, by what clearly looked like injuries sustained in a dog-fighting ring. It wasn’t unusual. Such rings operated out of the high desert where they could do so with impunity. Dragon had been a champ. But it cost him.
When he was picked up he’d been mauled in the face right down to the bone. Scar tissue laced his body and one of his legs didn’t function. He was pretty pissed off at the world, too. But the kind people of the Humane Society scooped him up amidst his snarling and threats, took him back to their shelter, fed him, got him to trust them enough to sedate him, fixed his wounds, cleaned him up and offered him back to the world, hopefully to find better hands than the ones that cared for him previously.
And they did.
Armando Sanchez, a hardworking employee for the city’s sewage facility, took one look at Dragon and saw immediate kinship. A year later, they moved to the big city of Los Angeles to be closer to Armando’s girlfriend. Together, the trio made quite a couple. A great big Mexican Catholic wedding was on the horizon and a baby was in the belly. Nonetheless, Dragon proved to be quite a great pet, once he’d shuffled off a few of the old demons floating around in his head.
Then one day—it was a Thursday—they all went to his favorite park where the playful kids were plenty and he could visit with Mitsy, his preferred bitch. He never knew walking down the dog path could be so deadly. He caught the whiff of something that smelled really delicious, like warm, bleeding meat. So, he ate it. Not a minute later, the dizziness in his head consumed him. There was a constriction in his chest he couldn’t shake and his body felt like it weighed a ton.
Concerned looks were on Armando’s and his fiancé’s faces as they knelt over him. Dragon had no idea why they were so concerned. He just wanted to sleep. So right there in the park, surrounded by good people and feeling thankful that the last three years had been more than he could have asked for—and certainly more than he had expected, considering the first three years—he took one more good nap.
25
Politics
Captain Heller stood at the front of Commissioner Elizabeth Johnston’s office. Her large Cherry wood desk sat at the far end next to a window overlooking downtown L.A. It was a gorgeous view, when it wasn’t overly smoggy. Weather patterns tended to assist that aspect of L.A. living, and today the breeze was nice, the skies were blue, the town was bustling.
The window framed her perfectly, washing her out in enough light to narrow her silhouette without softening her features. And she had hard-molded, distinctive features. At sixty years of age, she was still as beautiful as she had ever been, but the title of Police Commissioner—and before that it was Investigative Department Captain, and before that it had been Detective—had hardened her. She was cast-iron.
At the other end of her office was a long conference table with expensive leather chairs and penholders, all positioned around a phone conferencing speaker device. And on the far wall where Captain Heller stood, was a huge map of their beloved city, etched in the finest detail right down to side streets, alleyways, and walking paths.
“Here and here were the first two,” Heller said, pointing out Athens Park and Heirloom Park, the first two crime scene locations, “and this morning, here.” He jabbed his finger into Underson Park. “All within the last ten days, all within a four-mile area.”
Johnston nodded, as if waiting for a punch line. “Do we have any leads?”
Mark Neiman sat at the conference table, the third member of the party. He said, “We do, actually. We have a couple. We’re expediting them as we speak.”
Johnston’s eyes went to the captain. “I feel a but coming.”
Heller said, “These crimes are easy to overlook, Ma’am. The victims are—they’re dogs. But we have to be careful. The public eye is starting to look our way. This case is stirring up animal rights ac
tivist groups. Pet community associations. PETA. You name it. They’re going to start pressuring our division to push the investigation. Right now, our resources are allocated properly. But if we don’t do something…”
Johnston put a hand in the air. “I’m not concerned with activist groups, Captain. I simply can’t be.”
“I understand, and I agree. But it’s worth giving some thought to. After all, where there is a man violently killing animals, there’s always the risk of harming citizens.”
“This city puts a great deal of emphasis on our public parks. They’re the lifeblood of the citizenry. Our parks are tourist attractions. They could very well be a gauge for the overall morale of our city. Closing them down, refusing to let joggers and families and couples enjoy our parks is… is difficult.”
Heller and Neiman gave each other a look, waiting.
Commissioner Johnston finally said, “I’ll approach the mayor. But I need a time frame to work within.” She looked at Neiman. “You say you have leads. Are they promising?”
“Absolutely. One in particular.”
“So, what do I ask the mayor for?”
“An indefinite period of time,” Heller said.
She looked at him, deeply insulted.
Heller shrugged and said, “One month.”
“No way. I’ll go with two weeks. But if we do this, I’m going to want to see results.”
Heller and Neiman both said, “Understood.”
26
The Rock And The Hard Spot
Bernie parked in the west lot, entered through the rear security, made his way through Investigations avoiding attention from Neiman, spied Heller’s office in the back, then spied his own desk, still empty, and took the elevator down to Cold Case.
Once there, he took his station and went to work. The only thing on his mind was William Erter. He was going to unravel the man, find out everything about him, including why Mark Neiman was investigating him. One way or the other, he was determined to be a part of the Parks case.
He discovered William Erter had a case file, but it was odd. There was no criminal history—no battery, no assault, no traffic violations, no DUI, DWI, or even a Public Intoxication. There wasn’t so much as a bounced check. Everything was listed, plain as day—William’s residence, VIN number, social, all his pertinent info—and had been updated regularly.
With no history, why?
There was an attached file, and once Bernie clicked on it, it linked directly to the Civil Appointments Division. Apparently, William Erter was under the care of Psychology Specialist Kendra Oaks, and he had been for four and a half years. They’d been meeting once a week. The only information he could find was a case status filed on William.
Case: pending.
Duration: Open.
But the rest of the file was locked. Accessing it would require a bunch of red tape protocol bullshit starting with Captain Heller, and that son of a bitch would never grant Bernie access to William Erter’s file.
Bernie sat back intrigued and whispered, “Okay.”
He switched gears. Forget William Erter. Let’s go with just Erter. He entered E-R-T-E-R, no first name, and searched the database. When the information window popped up on his screen, Bernie could feel the hairs on his neck stand up.
William Erter was the only son of Oscar Erter.
Oscar. Fucking. Erter.
Everyone knew him. His reputation was no secret. He fit right between Jeffrey Dahmer and Charles Manson. Why hadn’t he considered that? Connecting the dots was so clear. He’d missed it all along. That’s why William was seeing a specialist. Hell, Bernie would be seeing a specialist, too, if he was the only son of Oscar Erter.
But still, why was that bastard Mark Neiman investigating him? Bernie smiled, plopped his hat on his head and stormed out of Cold Case.
The Civil Appointments Division was located in Building Seven a few blocks down from Criminal Investigation. It was too far to walk, and Bernie wasn’t waiting. He swung the Crown Vic into the lot and into the first spot, right next to the entrance. In seconds, he was through the glass entrance, through a welcoming center and into a tiled hallway lined with doors. A girl behind the desk followed him with her eyes. She got to her feet when it was clear Bernie wasn’t slowing down.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Which one is Kendra Oaks?”
“Do you have an appointment?” she said, but Bernie was already on his way.
Frosted glass panels displayed names.
Found it—The Office of Specialist Kendra Oaks.
He knocked and without waiting he jiggled the knob and cracked the door open peeking in. He heard a voice. Kendra looked up from her desk with a critical expression. “Let me call you back,” she said and set her desk phone into its cradle. “Can I help you?” she said, looking a bit miffed at the intrusion.
Bernie smiled pushing the door open. He took his hat off. “Are you Doctor Oaks?”
“Specialist Oaks,” she said.
“Right. I’m Dobbs from ... well, Investigations. I was hoping to talk to you.”
“Dobbs. Are you a detective?”
“Uh yeah—Detective Bernie Dobbs.” He approached her, but her words cut him off, made him come to a stop.
“An appointment would have been ideal.”
“Oh, this won’t take long.”
She rested her elbows on her desk and brought her hands together, forcing patience. “What’s this about?”
“A patient of yours.”
Tight-lipped she said, “How did I know you were going to say that?”
“A William Erter. Did you know I was going to say that, too?”
She tried to smile, but failed, “You detectives. Always thinking the world is against you.”
“Isn’t it?” Bernie said.
She put her hand up, palm forward in a halt gesture. “Before you begin, I report to the Advisory Council on Mental Health. Given the doctor patient confidentiality codes, I can’t give you any more information than what’s in those reports.”
Bernie grimaced. He sensed she was perturbed by his presence. Now she was giving him a hurdle. Not to mention a sprinkling of hoity-toity attitude. He grinned at her, “It’d really save a lot of time if you let me ask questions, then I let you answer them.”
She half-laughed. “It doesn’t matter that you feel that way, Detective.”
Bernie looked back at the door, then back at her. “Did I say something?”
“I feel like I’ve answered all your questions so far.”
He laughed trying to disarm her. “Look, why don’t we start over? I need your help. What do you say?”
“If you’re investigating William Erter, you need to go through proper channels. Approaching me without so much as a conscript or appointment isn’t exactly due process. Who’s your department lead?”
“No need for all that. Let’s just call this an unofficial visit.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, Detective, William Erter is a patient. That patient has rights. I am obligated to protect those rights. Conducting unofficial meeting requests against his behalf isn’t exactly serving that obligation, now is it?”
Bernie flinched. “Do you have a problem with cops?”
Kendra dropped her brow at him. Seriously? “I work with cops, Detective. I’m in the department. I went through the training. For all intents and purposes, I am a cop. But tell me, do you have a problem with proper channels?”
He switched subjects, getting to the point of his visit, “I know William Erter was appointed to you by the state for extenuating circumstances, one of which being because his father was a long-time psycho nutjob that led state and federal police…”
“Stop right there,” she said, getting to her feet. Bernie’s eyebrows lifted. “If I thought William wasn’t fit for society he would be in an institution. And I don’t appreciate you assuming my client’s guilt for circumstances that, as you say, are extenuating.”
Bernie said half-d
efensively, half-angry, “I think your patient is running around town with a sniper rifle blowing people’s dogs up. Does that sound like something he should be institutionalized for?”
Kendra was infuriated, moving around her desk and toward the office door. “I hope you have proper evidence to support that.” She spun to face him. “Otherwise, that sounds dangerously like a false accusation.” She opened her door inviting him to leave.
“Well,” he said, moving toward the door, “if it turns out to be true, he’s not the only one I’m going to burn at the stake.” Now they were face to face, he was looking directly down at her, she was looking directly up at him.
Her eyes narrowed. Refusing to back down she said, “You need to be very careful when you’re standing in my office.”
He grinned with half eyes. “You don’t scare me, Specialist Oaks.”
“You don’t know me, Detective Dobbs.”
Bernie gave a humph and stepped out, but before he strolled away he turned to face her. “As soon as your boy pops someone’s head open with a high-velocity bullet, I’m sure we’ll talk again.”
“So, this is goodbye then?”
“Mmm.” He put his hat on his head, turned and left as she swung the door closed.
27
Jacky, On The Take
“We’re in. Looks like the admin department,” Jacky said, crushing another Mountain Dew can. He’d been blasting away at the L.A.P.D. security walls for a day and a half, basically minimizing the entire Central L.A. Headquarters down to a digital board game on which he could launch his Interference strategies. Several hadn’t worked forcing him to create back-end work-arounds. Bridges. It seemed the more he was denied, the more determined he became, like a boxer punching away at an adversary, refusing to yield, refusing to go down. He was finally successful.