A Killer's Role: Erter & Dobbs Book 1

by Nick Keller

  William looked desperately at Jacky who went typing like a madman. He brought up the Investigations Department personnel page. It read: Department Head, Captain Heller.

  Into the phone William said, “You mean Captain Heller, head of Investigations—I prefer to talk to you.”

  “Why me?”

  William took a breath and held it. He was about to play a card. “Because I don’t work well with protocol.”

  There was a long pause on the phone…before Bernie said, “Who the fuck is this?”

  William said, “I was told you might be able to help.”

  “Well I hate to say it, but protocol trumps your preference.”

  William chanced, “I think we both know that’s not entirely true.”

  That made Bernie stop and think. His eyes danced. He was curious. “What department are you from?”

  “Actually, I’m not from a department. I’m an independent.”

  “P.I.?”

  “Not exactly. A specialist.”

  “Look, we don’t contract. We got plenty of specialists. We’re all specialists here,” Bernie said.

  William said, “Bernard, right? I want to help you. But I need your help in return.”

  “It’s Bernie. Who are you?”

  William cringed looking at Jacky for instruction. Jacky just shrugged in his over-exaggerated way. William said into the phone, “I’d rather not say. But perhaps we could…”

  “Stop playing fucking games with me. Who the fuck are you?”

  William clenched his teeth and winced as he said, “My name’s William Erter, Detective Dobbs.”

  Bernie could feel his blood run cold. That was a rare thing for him. His blood never ran cold. But here he was, feeling his blood run cold. William Erter was calling. How curious? “Why’re you calling?”

  “There’s a killer out there, and I want to catch him.”

  “Uh-huh. What do you want from me?”

  A long silence went by. William said, “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Yeah, nothing at all. You’re right. I got the wrong number.”

  Bernie made a confused face, half pissed off. “What?”

  “You know, I’m in the mood for a drink. You wouldn’t happen to know a good spot to get a drink, would you?”

  “You want a drink?” Bernie said, squinting.

  “A nice pilsner, perhaps.”

  “Pilsner, right.” Bernie strode to the exit from Cold Case and looked up and down the hall. No one was there. Thinking to himself, questioning himself, he clicked his tongue, torn. What to do, what to do? He could hear this caller waiting on the other end, breath held, hoping. Fuck it. He finally said, “I’d try Shankley’s.”

  Jacky typed, fingers flying. He spun the laptop screen to William. Reading, William said, “Shankley’s Port & Sport, up off Almanza?”

  “Yeah. Not a bad place to go,” Bernie said. “I’ve been known to go there myself. Eight o’clock is a good crowd.”

  “Eight o’clock. Right, okay. Thanks for the information, and good luck, Detective.”

  “Right.”

  William hung up the phone and took a breath. Meeting for drinks. It was a good first step.

  Jacky laughed, “A nice pilsner? You little devil.”

  31

  Mark And The Hard Spot

  Kendra Oaks’ last appointment for the day ended ten minutes early. It was a beat cop who’d shot a suspect. It hadn’t been fatal, but it put the suspect in ICU for three days. That was usually enough to put the shooting cop over the psychological edge, especially if it was his first time to shoot somebody. Kendra was both relieved and concerned to see that her cop had no remorse whatsoever. As the offending perp had threatened to shoot him first, he was happy to have done it, and was eager to get back to work. So, she prescribed him an attitude adjustment, such as a Xanax, and sent him on his way.

  Strike that. The beat cop hadn’t been her final appointment. Apparently, there was an impatient detective from Investigations who had set up a last-minute appointment with her at five o’clock. She was in the habit of staying at the office late, so it wasn’t any great inconvenience. His name was Mark Neiman. She sighed blowing her bangs up out of her eyes. At least it wasn’t that hulking lug, Bernie Dobbs, from the other day.

  Much to her delight, Mark Neiman was a few minutes early.

  He knocked on her door, she opened it. He struck her as tall, handsome, very serious, her age, maybe mid-thirties. Definitely not Bernie Dobbs.

  “Specialist Oaks,” he said, “I’m Mark Neiman.” They didn’t shake hands.

  “Okay, come in.” She moved back to her desk and produced a digital voice recorder. Plopping it on the desk she said, “Just so you know, this meeting will be recorded by mandate.”

  “I expected it would be,” he said.

  She turned it on. “Thank you. Do you have the department request documents?”

  He handed them to her. She scanned them quickly as Mark said, “They were approved by my department lead, Captain Heller.”

  “I know Heller.” She put them aside. “You put a code red on the conscript. Something urgent?”

  “Yeah, it concerns a pending investigation. A patient of yours.”

  “How did I know you were going to say that?” It was her usual banter at such times.

  He cocked his head over. “I don’t know. How did you know?”

  That caught her and she gave a defensive smile. “Go on.”

  “A William Erter. Did you know I was going to say that, too?”

  Her smile broadened. “You detectives…”

  “What about us detectives?”

  “Always assuming the world is against you.”

  Mark grinned, intrigued. “Isn’t it?”

  She switched her tone. “To answer your question, I have no official reason to believe William Erter would be under investigation.”

  “Well, evidence suggests he’s attached to a case dealing with…” Mark cleared his throat, “unusual cruelty.”

  Kendra tightened her brow, slightly shocked.

  Mark said, “I can tell by your reaction, that concerns you.”

  “Actually, William has always struck me as quite patient. Quite gentle. In four years, he’s displayed no malice or willful desire to do harm.”

  “And his father?”

  The air thickened around her. “That’s a different story.”

  “Is it?” Mark said.

  “It certainly is, Detective.”

  “Then why does William come here? Why does he see you?”

  “My meetings with William are strictly observational.”

  He clicked his tongue on his cheek and said, “I think it might be in his blood to be evil.”

  She laughed, half amused and half offended. “Well, I would be the qualified one in that area.”

  Mark grinned at her. “True. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Fair enough.” She put her hands together on her desk. “William has suffered a traumatic life event that goes back to his teenage years, and that at one point repositioned his sense of personal identity. You know his story. I’m sure you can imagine how that might affect a seventeen-year-old boy. He was unstable for a time, which is to be expected. But psychological instability can be very revealing in reference to a person’s constitution. It can reveal a person who breaks down and is never the same. Or it can reveal a strong will, a strict ethos, a desire to correct, even if painfully so. William is clearly the latter.”

  “I’ve ordered your records on him. Should I assume they will reflect the same?”

  “Absolutely.” She punctuated that with a gesture of her hands.

  “What about obsessive behavior?”

  She gave him a strange look. “Why do you ask?”

  “The reason he’s a suspect is because he seems to be obsessing over this particular case.”

  Her strange look deepened. “How so?”

  “Showing up at multiple crime sc
enes. Conducting unofficial interviews with the investigating officers, namely me. Wanting to be involved. Has he ever done that before?”

  She was careful with her words. “Mmm—he’s always had an interest in criminality. I’m sure that led to his role as a professor of criminal psychology.”

  Mark dipped his head. “I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Oaks, but it doesn’t answer the question.”

  “No. Never an obsession.”

  “Then why now?”

  “Detective, I can’t assume my patient is obsessing over something just because you say he is. I haven’t observed anything in him.”

  “But then again, if he wanted to hide his objectives from you, you wouldn’t observe anything, would you?”

  “But you have.”

  “Is that the same?”

  She had to capitulate on that point. She said, “No, I suppose not.”

  “Then why the disconnect between your impression of him and mine?”

  Kendra took a breath and said, “I suppose if anybody wanted to keep something hidden, it would be within their power.”

  He watched her, reading the thoughts behind her eyes. He finally said, “You’re concerned. Why?”

  “Because of…” she let out a tight breath, “well, there is one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I hesitate to say this.” She arranged her words in her head and said, “For four and a half years since he’s been under my care, William has been the model of punctuality. Never late. Not once. For the first time, he didn’t show for our meeting this week.”

  “Huh. Well, that’s very interesting. What does that imply?”

  “He had a flat tire and a dead cell phone, perhaps.”

  “Or maybe he’s regressing in his therapy.”

  Kendra couldn’t help but feel defensive, yet she found herself enjoying sparring with this Mark Neiman. He was an intelligent, well-spoken detective, yet somewhere under the surface he had William Erter in his crosshairs. William was a target, and this Neiman seemed a deadly marksman. At the same time, she had to consider the merit behind Neiman’s theory. “I’m not ready to come to that conclusion,” she said.

  “With all due respect, ma’am, that’s where you have a luxury I don’t.”

  “What do you intend to do, Detective, if I may ask.”

  “You may. I intend to pursue my investigation with the assumption that William Erter is a suspect.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. She said, “That could very well be a false accusation, Detective Neiman.”

  Mark gave her a charming smile. “I think we both know that, Mrs. Oaks. I also think we both also know it could be true.”

  She was wordless, just looked at him. He broke the moment getting to his feet and said, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Oaks.”

  Again, no handshake. But she did say, “Thank you for your due process, Detective.”

  “Of course.” He went to the door, but her words struck him. Thank you for your due process? What an odd thing to say, very conspicuous. He stopped and turned to her, curious. “Why would you say that?”

  Kendra rolled her eyes. “The last detective with inquiries into William Erter had no respect for protocol,” she said with surety, “I kicked him out.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two days ago.”

  Mark flushed red with fury. “Was it Detective Bernie Dobbs?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact it was.”

  “That son of a bitch.” He smiled at her, pissed off and tight-lipped. “Thank you.”

  Mark pulled up to the station in a hurry. He hit the brakes, screaming to a stop. It was late in the day, almost six o’clock. He knew it would be unlikely that Bernie was still hunched over down in Cold Case, but he wanted to put a stop to this shit, now! Maybe with luck, he was still there. Mark got out of his Camaro big-chested, ready for a confrontation.

  He stormed through Investigations, to the elevator and down. The doors slipped open. A few remaining Boys-in-Blue were finalizing their day and the administrations department was changing shifts. When they saw him as he moved out, they got out of his way. He was on a mission, and they could tell.

  He stormed into Cold Case huffing like a bear. Donna’tella looked up, startled. “Mark?”

  “Donna. Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Killer.”

  She gave him a defensive look. “You know he don’t like that.”

  “Where is he!” Mark yelled.

  She yelled right back at him, immediately pissed off, “Oh no you didn’t! You don’t get to come down here all cock-hard and start throwing yo’ shit around like you some Popeye Doyle muthafucka from upstairs & shit. I don’t care if yo’ shit says El-Tee, commissioner or J. C. his holy self. This is Cold Case, muthafucka. You can march yo’ cracker ass back upstairs. I don’t care if you go riding the elevator doggy-style. So, go on wit yo bad cotton Docker, pullover, loafer wearing self…” and on and on.

  Mark quivered, furious. He knew where Bernie was—probably at some dumpy pub elbowed up to the bar sucking down Jack on the rocks contemplating his bitter life. Mark gave Donna one last look and receded out the door leaving her waving a finger and ranting at him like a mother hen warding off a coyote.

  When he was gone, Donna flipped her extensions back over a shoulder and said, “Mm-hmm, ain’t no bullshit down here, hell naw. That’s right.”

  32

  Erter & Dobbs

  Shankley’s Port & Sport House was at the east edge of Los Angeles. It was a sprawling, wood structure with old cattle-post remakes stretching around its exterior. It was just about the only bar in town that hosted old caballero motifs and country music from the seventies. The place had a hard-edged, possum-eatin’ cowboy sensibility to it. It was perfectly out of place, more Houston than Los Angeles. But that was the draw.

  William pulled into a spot and got out of his car. He scoped the joint nervously. Lots of trucks. Horns honked from the city down in the valley reminding him of the millions of souls all around him.

  He stepped into a long, low restaurant area that was just under dim. He could imagine how rowdy the place got on weekends and Monday night football, but on a Tuesday night at eight o’clock, no one was there. Even Bocephus playing on the jukebox was at low volume. William went to the far end of a long bar and sat, no more than a shadow in the corner. But William felt eyes on him. It made him shiver.

  After another five minutes, he started wondering if Bernie would show. He sipped on a glass of water he’d ordered from the bartender and scanned across the dining floor. At a corner table, he found him, a huge hulking bull-of-a-man hardly visible in the shadows, eyeing him speculatively from under his fedora. William grimaced. He’d been right. Eyes were on him. Bernie had watched him walk in, sit down, sip on his water. He’d been watching him the whole time. And now they stared at each other across the room.

  William got up and moved to him leaving the water there. He stood at his table. Bernie looked up at him with one hand cupped around a tumbler glass of umber-colored whisky. The ice was melting. “So, why am I here?” he said.

  William slid into the booth across from him.

  “I’m asking for help.”

  “Help, huh.” Bernie’s eyes went down to William’s hands, back up. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

  William looked down, then up at the bar across the floor. His water was still over there looking lonely. He said, “I don’t actually drink.”

  “Is that a religious thing?” Bernie grunted.

  “No,” William said.

  “A holier than thou thing, then?” Bernie said.

  “I just never had the taste for it.”

  Bernie sipped his drink staring holes through William from under his fedora. He put the drink down, said, “I can’t trust a man doesn’t drink.”

  William gave him a hopeless look. He was getting nowhere already. He flagged a passing waitress. “Do you have a beer?” he asked.r />
  She gave him a ridiculous laugh. “Uh—yeah.”

  “He wants a pilsner,” Bernie said. “Surprise him.”

  She smiled, intrigued, and left.

  Bernie looked back at him with a half-eyed frown, brow heavy, just studying. He finally said, “It’s a police investigation already. It’s my case. What good are you going to do?”

  William cleared his throat. “Your case. From the unsolved files?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Bernie said, showing the tiniest offense at the question.

  “You’re trying to step across departments. They’re going to tie your hands.”

  Bernie tilted his head at him looking curious, wondering how this guy knew so much about internal police procedure. “And?”

  William continued, “I have more latitude. I can maneuver under regulations. You won’t be able to do that.”

  “Is that what you’re going to do—maneuver under regulations?”

  “As much as I can.”

  “Until what?”

  “It’s not so much a matter of until something happens. It’s a matter of before something happens.”

  “You a fucking riddle?” Bernie grunted.

  “What I mean is, this person will kill.”

  Bernie flapped his lips and nodded. “Yeah, I got that. What makes you so sure?”

  “Detective, whoever we’re dealing with is firing weapons and setting explosives, building traps—you name it—in public parks. What do you think’s going to happen next?”

  “It takes a nutjob to chase a nutjob. That’s why cops are sanctioned. But you?”

  William blinked, mouth half-open and said, “I—I don’t follow.”

  “How do you know he’s going to kill? Weapons and traps and bullshit—I don’t buy it.”

  The waitress swung by and wordlessly left a bottle of Budweiser beer. William flinched at it, then took it gingerly in his hand. His eyes went back to Bernie and he asked, “What do you mean?”

  “The Parks case is a big media stir. Every loco in the city knows about it. But they’re not eyeballing crime scenes, busting up investigations, sniffing around where they don’t belong. Why you?”