by Nick Keller
“Administrations?” William asked, looking over Jacky’s shoulder. The screen on his laptop was black, littered with green code-type. Symbols and mathematics were sprinkled throughout. Blocks of text scrolled in separate windows. Jacky flew through the app, a real digital surgeon. The kid knew his stuff.
“Yeah, it was the easiest one to get into,” he said.
“Easiest one?”
“Department. The others were locked up pretty tight. But we’re in. Now all we need is a name.”
“Why a name?”
Jacky took a breath. “This is just the access to the access. I got you inside the department. They only see us as user F-wad, if they’re looking. We can’t move around though to access files and things. So, we need a proper password. If we get a proper password, we’ll be able to access any department we want.”
“How do we do that?”
“Do you know anybody at the station?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you have the name of someone who works there, or better yet, their social?”
William paced back and forth stretching his arms out to the side and said, “Mmm—try Mark Neiman.”
“Neiman.” He typed it in. “How chic? What else do you know about him?”
“Why?”
“We have to guess his password. The more information we have, the better we can guess. We can use his initials, date of birth, children’s names, the college he went to, his favorite movie character… anything that someone might use as a password. I have an algorithm program to help with that, but the more data we can reference, the faster it’ll go. It’s all about subset coding.”
William shook his head, almost sadly. “I don’t know anything about him. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band.”
“Not married, then. Yeah, that’s not much,” Jacky said, typing Mark Neiman into a parameters box. From there, the software would begin adding numbers and common symbols in random, multiple sequences until it landed on a correct password popup indicator. “Hope you’re patient, Prof.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because this could take days. I think I can speed it up, though.” Jacky opened a people finder program with access to multiple public usage databases. “If Mark Neiman has any public profiles out there with personal information on them—like bullshit cop associations or book club sites—we can include that information inside our search parameters.”
He typed away, entering information. Each time he did a new progress bar came up, little gray candy stripes going back and forth. They started pinging and popping up data windows. Jacky leaned forward. “Looks like we got something. Ha! He’s on dating sites. Look at this. Heart_cop81. What a douche. Thirty-five years old. Never married. No kids. A real player. He’s listed his favorite movies, favorite music, everything. This is a jackpot.”
“You can see all that?”
“Yep. If he used his charge card, I can tell what drink he bought last, and at what bar.” He looked back at William over his shoulder. “And this isn’t even illegal.”
“Huh—so can we get in?”
Jacky leaned over typing some more and dragging elements across the screen with his mouse. “Yep. Give me a minute to set up the search parameters and drop it into the finder program and… voila!” There was a ping sound. He looked over, excited. “Holy shit. Password score. Mane. Nineteen-eighty-one.”
“That’s his department password?” William said.
“Yep. The first two digits of his first and last name, and his birth year. This guy’s a cop? What an amateur.” He typed it into the L.A.P.D. admin screen and it welcomed him as MNeiman. “There we go.”
“You figured that out? That’s incredible.”
“Nah—this is child’s play.” He grabbed another Mountain Dew and looked at William with a conniving expression. “So, do I get an A in your class?”
William laughed, “Jacky, you’re going to get an A anyway.”
“Well, that’s true.” He popped open the can with an explosion of fizz.
28
Mark, On The Take
Mark Neiman was starting to feel the pressure of his job, and certainly the task at hand, weigh on him. He’d never been a part of an investigation that went higher up than his own captain, but that morning he’d been in the commissioner’s office advising her on how to approach the mayor. They were discussing shutting down all the Los Angeles area public parks right now, and for a city with more parks than any other, that was no small deal. The breadth of his case was growing, and he could see it quickly getting out of hand if he didn’t solve the goddamn thing.
Interviewing the sad and angry owners of Dragon the Pit Bull got him nowhere. Armando could hardly speak with his voice constantly cracking, eyes holding back tears. It was when his Mexican blood ran hot that he became really animated. Nevertheless, the whole thing had come down to a story about a dog acting drunk then convulsing to death for no apparent reason. Assuming it was poison, Mark had entered the body as evidence. It was in the lab. They had to bring a veterinarian in for the autopsy. No one at the station knew how to saw a terrier open properly. Mark had never seen a veterinarian and a forensic toxicologist work elbow to elbow.
And of course, the bullet from the first killing had gotten them nowhere, much less the explosive device. Anybody could make a homemade bomb out of half a pound of black powder and an electrical current. Sure, only a sicko would do such a thing, but this was L.A. Sickos were everywhere.
He rubbed his hair thinking.
There was one possible lead. William Erter. He’d gone to his residence the day before not knowing if he was even chasing down the right William E-R-T-E-R. At least it was something.
He grabbed his jacket and went down to Records.
“Oh hi, Mark,” Lena, said flashing a familiar smile. She was a swooner, especially for Mark. She tried to hide it, but failed.
“Morning. Need a rec,” he said.
“You’re always needing records. You must be an investigator.”
He grinned at her.
“Who?” she asked.
“A William Erter.”
“Again?”
“Yeah, need the hard file.”
“Copies?”
“Yes, please.”
Lena left and came back with a manila envelope and handed it over. He took it, mentally noting its weight. There wasn’t much on William Erter. “Hmm,” he said, “Thanks, Lena.”
“Come back again.”
Back at his desk he began thumbing through the pages. There was no rap sheet. Erter was a perfect citizen, a professor up at the junior college, in fact. He taught criminal psychology. Mark flagged that fact. Might be something to it. He licked a finger and went to the next sheet. It was an unusual document for a civilian to have—a departmental status enroll sheet for the PD Psyche Department.
“Huh.”
He continued reading. Not thirty seconds later, he made the same discovery that Bernie had.
William Erter was the only son of one Oscar Erter.
He slapped the manila folder closed in shock. He opened it again, scanning ravenously. William Erter was under the care of Specialist Kendra Oaks.
He grinned. Red tape.
He snatched his desk phone and dialed.
Captain Heller said, “Yeah.”
“Captain, Neiman here. I got something on the Parks case.”
“Go on.”
“Oscar Erter.”
“Serial killer Oscar Erter?”
“That’s the one.”
“Jesus. What’s he got to do with this?”
“Nothing. It’s his son. A William Erter. He’s been snooping around the crime scenes.”
“No shit. That’s very interesting.”
“It’s true.”
“How do you know?”
“I met him. It was at the Heirloom Park location, then I saw him again at Athens.”
“Did you report?”
“Didn’t know it
was him. I just put two and two together. Did you know he’s going through the Civil Appointments Division, seeing one of our specialists?”
“Had no idea. Why’s he doing that?”
“Probably because he’s fucked up. It’s mandated by the state, son of a serial killer and all. Cali isn’t taking no chances with this one, I guess. Looks like he’s seeing a Doctor Oaks on indefinite psyche observation. She’s been his counselor for over four years. I want to talk to her. Going to need a clearance request.”
“I’ll run it now.”
“Thanks, Cap.” He hung up, then dialed again.
A voice picked up. “L.A.P.D. Civil Appointments Division.”
“This is Detective Mark Neiman in Investigations. I need an appointment with…” he looked at the file sheet and said, “Kendra Oaks. I’ll have the req on hand.”
“Sure, Detective,” she said. There was a pause and the sound of keys being typed. “There’s an opening Friday at nine-thirty in the AM or one in the afternoon.”
“Nope. Make it today.”
29
Finding Their Man
“Okay,” Jacky said, “we can get into everything that user MNeiman has access to. Records. Cases. Evidence requests. We could even put in for vacation if we wanted. And they can’t trace us. Even if they did, they’d just see us as F-wad. No search history. We’re in the clear.”
“That’s perfect,” William said, rubbing his lips, mind scrambling.
“So, what’s the point of all this, Prof?” Jacky asked.
“It may be too late to say it, Jacky, but I don’t want you any more involved than you already are.”
“I just broke into the L.A.P.D.’s internal communication matrix.”
William scratched his head. “I want you to consider what you’re doing as an exercise in what not to do.”
“Prof, I know all about what not to do. It’s what makes me good.”
“Alright.” William took a big breath. “The reason we’re doing this is because the system doesn’t allow outside assistance.”
“The system? You mean the department. You mean law enforcement.”
“That’s right. I need help from the inside. And what that requires is finding the right candidate, someone who’d be willing to work with me—”
Jacky interrupted. “With us.”
“Fine. With us. Someone who has, in the past, shown a penchant for, let’s say, operating outside of protocol.”
Jacky nodded making a knowing grin and said, “You want a bad cop.”
“No, not a bad cop, just…”
“No, I get it. You’re appropriating your resources, yeah?” He grinned at William and tapped a finger to his nose. “So, what’s the bigger picture? You said something about a killer…”
“Yes, I believe there is a dangerous person out there.”
Jacky made a curious face. “Tell me about this person.”
William leaned back on the couch with his fingers laced together and said, “What’s the first rule in crime stopping?”
“That’s one-o-one stuff. Crimes escalate. Not the other way around. It’s like the kid that kicked puppies. Pretty soon he’ll probably start beating people up, then stealing cars, then shooting up shopping malls.”
William played the comparison off with a humored smile and said, “That’s right. Well,” he puckered his lips hoping to be tactful with his next words, not overly blunt, “someone out there is displaying repressive tendencies, directing their desires onto a neutral party. Meaning, they’ve been exercising some very cruel and unusual methods by killing domesticated animals.”
Jacky squinted, listening intently. “Crap, man.”
“I think it’s a step in the process of escalation. He’s transitioning, and it’s only a matter of time before his crimes get worse. Much worse.”
Jacky said, “You mean… people?” He sounded, for the first time, just a little scared.
“That’s right. The police need to treat this case like this man is a serial. Because he’s about to be exactly that.”
“And pow, down goes Johnny the mailman,” Jacky said, smacking his hands, making William jerk. William gave him a serious look nodding his head, allowing the point to sink in. Jacky sighed puffing his cheeks out and turned to his computer. “Okay, then you’re going to need personnel files. I’ll bet that’s in…” he thought momentarily wiggling his fingers, then started typing furiously. The screen switched and changed as he swished access windows around and typed some more. He finally said, “Okay, this is good. We have demerit records.” He studied the screen closely, his eyes switching back and forth rapidly. He found something and leaned even closer.
“Look at this guy. Oh yeah—here’s your helper dude. His personnel file looks more like a rap sheet. Marks for insubordination, twice last year. He was brought up for police review for unsafe police action; that was two-thousand eleven. Internal Affairs has him earmarked as volatile. Oh, this guy’s a gem. Lookie here. They processed an investigation sheet on him for brutality and questionable conduct. There are process breaches and protocol demerits all over the place.” Jacky laughed and looked back, “Oh man—this is your guy, Prof. There’s more. He was put on paid leave, reasons unnoted, two-thousand ten. More Internal Affairs earmarks. Look at this, he was put on indefinite paid suspension in two-thousand eight by a—oh shit—by a Grand Jury?” He typed and a window popped open showing an official document. Jacky leaned back turning white. “Holy shit, man. Check this out.”
William scooted closer and read over Jacky’s shoulder. The document was an investigative launch generated by a top-level L.A.P.D. internal investigation. There was an accident.
Cause of death: shooting.
Victim name: Shanique Brown
Age: 12.
William rubbed his face, his eyes beaming forward. He finally said, “Jeez, he killed somebody—a little girl. He was investigated by a Grand Jury.”
“Yeah—they cleared him, though. Ruled accidental. He was found not responsible,” Jacky said as if it were any consolation.
William looked at the report, a .pdf file nearly a hundred pages long. It included psych evaluations, legal hearings, paneled questioning, an entire wing of Internal Affairs had been launched in an effort to resolve the matter, headed by a Captain Pruitt. In the end, the whole ordeal culminated into a single observation of the night in question:
0110 hours, date of incident. The investigating detective, Bernard Dobbs, pursued the Hickman lead to the Altron dry goods storage facility. The detective reported approaching and bearing arms upon hearing the screams. He entered the building disoriented by the echo effect, called for constable backup but continued his field investigation against standard protocol. Unexpected gunfire was yielded from an unexposed area prompting the investigating detective, Bernard Dobbs, to return fire. Once backup arrived, it was discovered that the assailants had escaped through the rear exit while the body of a bound and sexually assaulted twelve-year-old girl, Shanique Brown, was found, hit twice by bullets matching the officer’s weapon, identifying the investigating officer, Bernard Dobbs, as the killer.
William scanned the report gathering insight as to this particular cop’s character and personality. He seemed impetuous and flippant toward police procedure, embittered toward authority as well as the protocols involved in crime fighting, and now it seemed there had been an investigation in the accidental shooting death of an innocent girl.
God, how that must weigh on a man’s soul, guilty or not.
Determining this man’s psychological state wasn’t difficult. It was easy. The man was most likely a pent-up ball of human unhappiness tickling a constant hair trigger set to ignite the explosive qualities of frustration, anger, and remorse.
William scanned across the file header and whispered, “Detective Bernard Dobbs.”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s he at now?”
Jacky clicked and clacked, reading. “Uh-oh. He just got transferred this w
eek. Looks like they didn’t want him in Investigations anymore, so they put him in Cold Case. What is that, like unsolved mysteries?” Jacky turned to face him. “What’re you thinking, Professor Erter?”
“I’m thinking he’s the unwanted cop. He probably doesn’t have many friends at the station. He’s demoralized, probably a drinker, and isn’t quite sure where his loyalties are.”
Jacky made an impressed face. “That’s pretty good, Prof.”
“Cold Case, you say?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s perfect. Is there a department phone number?”
30
Reaching Out #2
When the phone rang, Bernie disregarded it. Phones never rang in Cold Case unless someone dialed the wrong number. Occasionally someone needed an old reference to a new case, but he figured they could make the trek down to the Dead Bin themselves. He did it every morning. But this time, the phone never stopped ringing. Grumbling he walked over and picked it up.
“Dobbs.”
The voice on the other end said, “Detective Bernard Dobbs?”
“Bernie. Yeah.”
“I’m assisting on a case investigation and I was hoping that…”
He cut the voice off, almost angrily and said, “You got the wrong department. You want Investigations. Let me transfer.” He started to jab the transfer button on the phone, but the voice called…
“Wait! That’s not necessary.”
Bernie waited for the voice to continue, then said, “Yeah, why?”
“Uh—I’m assisting in a case that might be in your area. I heard you were the man for the kind of information I need.”
“Cold Case?”
“No, not exactly.”
Bernie chuckled ridiculously. “If you want info on a current case, that would be the Investigations department head. That’s kinda the way it works around here. And I ain’t him.”