by Nick Keller
Bernie cleared his throat and said, “I had rock stars and naked chicks on my wall.”
William’s attention went to Bernie and all he said was, “That’s crazy.”
Bernie gave an ironic chuckle. Breaking away from the conversation he said, “So this is where nutjobs live, huh, places like this?”
“Yes, correct, nutjobs. We live here.” He looked at Bernie. “How’d you find me?”
“Police department’s full of records.”
“Oh, right.”
Bernie moved to the staircase that led up to a loft area. He pointed up the stairs. “Bedroom?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” He walked around, still inspecting. “But just so you know—and I’m seriously undermining an investigation by telling you this—I didn’t look you up. My partner did.”
“Mark Neiman,” William said.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“I was here when he came by the other day.”
“Then you know he was snooping around.”
“Yes.”
“Now why would he be snooping around?”
William admitted, “He thinks I’m a lead in the Parks case.”
“Why would he think that?”
“I approached him, before I approached you.”
“Not smart.”
“How was I to know?”
“So, what happened?”
William thought about his answer and said, “I didn’t see where Mark Neiman would be all that helpful, to be honest.”
That made Bernie grin. “Decent judge of character, then. You got somewhere to go?”
“I do.”
“Then we need to leave. I’ll drive.”
They took the 110 toward L.A. Early morning traffic had thinned and the lunch rush wasn’t on just yet. They hit the traffic window perfectly, cruising at an easy sixty-five.
William looked out at the passing highway landscape. The sun was high giving way to clear, cloudless skies. Mountains purpled the distance falling away to the east, the landscape going from a rough natural beauty to the more seasoned rise of south Cali metropolis, turning God’s country into man’s. And far beyond was the ocean, a place where both God and man could come together, yet neither seemed to belong.
There was a man out there in all that wilderness who was about to start killing other men.
William found himself buzzing internally, wondering how so much beauty and ugliness could collide in such a tiny corner of the world, and still look as vast as it was. It sometimes made him reminisce on the better days behind in hopes that they would be called back again in the days to come. Yet in spite of themselves, and in spite of what was yet to come, they moved toward those days unable to yield.
He looked at Bernie. The big man was slouched forward, huge hands clutching the wheel, his face bearing that eternal rictus of a scowl. “You eat?” William said.
“No.”
“Are you hungry?”
Bernie shook his head. “No.” After a pause he murmured, “Could use a drink.” He gave William a half glance and said, “Where we going?”
“Benjamin Franklin Public library.”
“We getting a book?”
“Not a book,” William said.
Bernie grumbled, but didn’t say anything.
William sighed, swimming uncomfortably in the silence. He chanced the words, “So, why’d they move you to Cold Case?”
Bernie said, “We friends, now?”
William grinned and didn’t know why. He said, “It’s not important, Bernie. You don’t have to answer.”
Bernie shifted in his seat. As if capitulating, he said, “I’m not good with people.”
“What happened?”
Bernie huffed. He didn’t like questions, but maybe this was his one shot at having a partnership. Out of a calm desperation, he said, “Richard Rothwell happened.”
William nodded in familiarity. “Nexus Financial. I followed that. It was on the news, some child porn scandal, right? He got off, didn’t he.”
Bernie blurted with sudden anger, “He gets off on kids.” He shook his head. “Piece of shit smokes cigars down at the Gentleman’s Club. Plays his Wednesday morning golf at the Palisades. Owns a yacht in the bay. Bankrolls people’s money. And gets off on kids. It’s disgusting.” He tilted his head. “But yeah, he got off on the judge, too.”
“And they say it was your fault.”
Taking an irritated breath, Bernie said, “Yeah, they say it was me. I was the investigator. The evidence was all there. Fucking defense attorneys. They said I was dirty. Everything got thrown out. I guess there was a scene. They busted me down.”
“A scene?”
Bernie snapped, “You want details?”
William grinned again, but still didn’t know why. “No, no I don’t want the details, Bernie.” William looked back out the window watching the beauty of California slide by. He said, “It just doesn’t make sense.”
“He ought to be shot,” Bernie said with a grunt.
William reminisced again, thinking on the world as it went by, and the ugly parts, all caused by man, stuffed inside such a pocket of glory. He was half aware of himself when he muttered, “I’d skin him alive.” His own words snapped him back and he thought, Did I say those words out loud?
That made Bernie smile and he looked at William. “Heh, maybe we can be friends.”
35
Erter & Dobbs, On The Take
They pulled up to the library and parked a few rows back from the sidewalk. With its arched, brick-style windows and modest archway entry foyer the building had a classic look, reminiscent of Hollywood from the fifties, before the post-modern era brought back the retro regurgitation. People moved down the cement walkway quietly, books tucked under arms or book bags thrown over shoulders.
Approaching the entrance William said, “What has the department found out about the second dog, anything?”
Bernie pulled the last drag off a cig, then smashed it out in the standup, exterior ashtray as they moved past and said, “I’d love to know. I don’t have access to the Sciences Lab, at least not with current case referencing.”
“That’s convenient,” William said, moving through the main doors.
“Not if you’re trying to do shit like solve crimes.”
The place was spacious and quiet with that sterile, old library smell to it. The people seated sporadically at tables or lounge chairs read books, flipping through the pages slowly but intently. Bernie followed William as he moved to a bank of public computer terminals, sat, and brought up his personal Google email inbox. Bernie just watched. He could see there was an email from someone named Ceros. It made his eyebrows raise. William crooned, “You’re going to love this then.” He clicked on the email. He opened a video file that Ceros had attached and up popped a vid reader. He clicked play. The video started at its beginning. A man with plastic safety glasses propped up on his head and a lab coat stood staring at the camera pulling rubber gloves off his hands. Once he recognized the camera was on, he started speaking directly at William and Bernie.
“Okay, uh, date is five, twenty-five, fifteen. Case 11-7A-0641, Parks case. Victim number two. Canine. Device: explosive. Sciences department evidence entry number four. This is Specialist Darnigan.”
Bernie leaned forward with one hand on the desk, his other on the back of William’s chair. “You’re shittin’ me. These are evidence files from the Crime Sciences lab.”
“That’s right.”
“How’d you get them?”
“They were stored away in the Sciences Division Active Evidence server this morning.”
“Yeah, but how’d you get them?”
William started to answer, but an off-screen voice said, “Go ahead.” Their attention was redirected toward the video.
Specialist Darnigan took a breath and said, “Okay—we found evidence of high-yield searing in the surrounding environment—the grass and tree trunk—but very little tr
ace elements of an incendiary chemical—so, no residue. This suggests that whatever chemical components made this blast—probably a nitroglycerin compound—decomposed immediately which coincides with the nature of a high-explosive. Furthermore, the amount of damage done with such a limited blast suggests a supersonic radius. There was no fragmentation discovered, no shrapnel or objects to be used as projectiles, so it’s believed that the bomb maker developed the bomb to kill his victims by the blast concussion as opposed to physical injury—maybe to limit the damage.”
Darnigan moved to the evidence table and the camera followed him. The table splayed out before him had all the evidence collected—bits of blasted material, a large fist-sized object seared black, like a piece of toast left in a toaster for an hour. He said, “Pieces of the device were discovered. Near the site of the explosion were the charred fragments of a five-volt battery,” he picked up the object, and put it down, “and copper wiring. In the same vicinity of the blast they found a twisted piece of low-gauge aluminum, not unlike a street sign, with small rivet-style appendages.” He picked it up as well displaying it to the camera in its twisted, singed glory. “The theory is that this piece of aluminum served as a base for the explosive device on which set a five-volt battery and the copper wiring. This all suggests the bomb had an electrical trigger, but we never found any signs of a signal receiver or a detonator device so—heh—we honestly can’t say at this point what exactly triggered the explosion.”
The video froze on the screen with Darnigan making a perplexed expression. William’s mind spun. He remembered seeing Mark Neiman back at the crime scene at Athens Park. They had fished a large, fist-sized black object, charred to a crisp from the blast site and had collected it for evidence. William grinned. It was the five-volt battery. William looked up at Bernie. “What do you think?”
Bernie inhaled through his nose considering the video’s words. “I never heard of a bomb that didn’t have a trigger.”
“Yet it still went off,” William said.
“Hell, I ain’t never even heard of an electric bomb.” Bernie took a few steps away rubbing his face, hearing his own grizzle rub against his palm like thirsty sand paper. He turned around and said, “Hector Delgado.”
“Who?”
“The dog’s owner.”
William nodded in agreement. “We should go see him.”
They hit Soto St. in East L.A. at ten o’clock cruising down the thoroughfare. Bernie hadn’t said much since their conversation, but he tended to relax the closer they got to East L.A., as if he was getting closer to home. This part of town was full of color—salmon pink brick building to the right of the street, bright green cinder block structure next to it with the big, ugly bubble letter graffiti art that said Jiminez’s Auto Body Paint next to it, the ugly gray aluminum antique shop and junk store across the street. Everything looked rigged. East L.A. was a big patch-up job, building facades being maintained by busy hands and no budgets. The place reminded Bernie of himself. If there was any beacon of beauty at all it was the tall, street-side palm trees that studded the area. They looked like they were standing alone in an impoverished world, refusing to yield, forcing their majesty onto the people busying the streets.
Bernie swung the cruiser down a dumpy back alley, around the block and to a small, wood-frame house with a rundown roof and a carport over a concrete side yard. They got out looking around before stepping up to the door and ringing the bell. Behind a burglar cage the door opened. A Mexican woman answered with bright, nervous eyes.
“Jes?”
“I’m Detective Bernie Dobbs, this is my associate. We’re here to talk to Hector Delgado.”
“Hector?” she said.
“Yeah, el aqui?”
“No, no. Hospital.”
“Hospital. Por que?”
“Su diabetes estaba actuando.”
“When?” Bernie grunted.
“Se fue esta manana.”
“And, quien es usted?”
“Mi nombre Maria. Su ayudante.”
“Gracias,” Bernie said, leaving. Strolling back to the car he said, “Meet Maria, Hector’s helper, whatever that means. She said he’s at the hospital. Something about Diabetes. You’ll be on your own with Hector.”
“Why?”
“I’m not supposed to be on this case. We make a visit to the hospital, it’ll leave a trail.”
“I’ll go in.”
“My thoughts exactly. Just stay out of sight.”
“I don’t speak Spanish.”
“According to the police file on his case, Hector’s military. He was in Vietnam. He speaks English.”
They got to the Los Angeles Veterans Affairs hospital halfway knowing what to expect. The place was a dump with dirty walls and dirty floors, an understaffed and overworked crew with low morale. William went to the reception desk and asked for Delgado. The girl had no idea there was such a patient, so she asked someone else when she couldn’t find his records. Eventually, William was directed down the hall, up the stairs, and to room 230.
When he entered, a nurse was leaving with a tray. William walked in peering in the low light. Hector was propped in his bed looking at the world through a low, grim brow. He looked ninety, but he probably wasn’t seventy yet, like a smaller, older version of Bernie.
“Mr. Delgado?”
“Yeah.”
“My name’s William. I’m with the L.A.P.D…” who’s sitting downstairs in the car. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”
“Is this about Bum?”
William hadn’t heard the term Bum, so he had to connect the dots, see the blind spot. It was simple.
Old man. No family. One dog. Blown up in a park. Must be Bum.
He said, “Bum, yes.”
“They already asked me a thousand questions. You sure you want to ask me more questions?” Hector sounded irritated and William could tell he was fed up with the L.A.P.D. already. Even through his thinly veiled frustration, William could hear the chicano accent that had spent a lifetime rubbing off, but he could also hear the L.A. influence grabbing hold of its trace elements.
“Just a few. Do you mind?” William said.
“Why not? Whachu want to know?”
“It’s about the nature of the explosive. We’ve actually been able to determine a great deal about it, but—well, there are still things we don’t understand.”
“Like what?”
“We think it was an electric charge that set it off, but… well, what did you see exactly?” William stepped closer to the foot of the hospital bed.
“I thought there was something a little loco,” Hector said. “I mean, how was I supposed to think anything of it really, but… I don’t know.”
“What is it?”
“Saint John.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Patron Saint of bad memory. Watching Bum, it uh—well, it made me think of a shock bomb. Dios me, amigo, I hadn’t thought of a shock bomb in over forty years. Vietnam, man. You see—that’s Saint John, I tell you.”
“Ah, I see.” William chanced sitting on the vacant medical rolling-stool next to the bed and asked, “What’s a shock bomb?”
“We used them in seventy. First Cav. Just like you described. It uses some TNT or plastique.” He waved a hand in the air, “No trigger.” He chuckled at the ingenious design of a shock bomb. “What bomb ain’t got no trigger, right? But that’s what made a shock bomb a shock bomb, mirra. Well, they were too sensitive, though. It was too wet in Nam. Pinche cosas, man. They were going off all the time.”
“What do you mean too wet?”
“That’s the thing of a shock bomb. You have alternate current and direct current, but there’s no connection to complete the circuit. No current, no charge, right?”
“Then how does it trigger?”
Hector turned his head to look at him. His eyes were the color of red chili tamale sauce. He said, “You have to get it wet. That’s how you do it. That’s how you—”
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“Complete the circuit,” William said as the thought dawned on him.
“And chingau…” Hector whispered, his thoughts clearly on Bum.
The explosive was electrically charged, but it wouldn’t go off until it got wet, usually with water, but in this case, urine. More precisely, dog piss. Then zzzzzzzzt Boom! William settled back on the stool drifting his gaze up to Hector’s. He asked, “Is that what happened to Bum?”
“I tried to tell them, but they got their fancy laboratories and them cop computers. Who’s going to listen to an old busted up cavron like me, eh?”
William squeezed Hector’s forearm and stood, “Thank you, Mr. Delgado.”
“Heck.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m called Heck.”
“Thanks, Heck.” William turned to leave.
“You going to take him down, Detective?”
William stopped. The word detective shivered him momentarily, but he liked it. Suppressing a grin, he turned around.
Heck continued, “It’s a sad place, ain’t it. An old hijo de puta like me. An old dog like Bum. My heart’s not so good. Hell, I got bad blood too. That dog was all I got left in the world.” He looked down at his belly, then back up. “I ain’t mad. I left all that behind. It’s just a sad place.”
William looked at him pondering his words. What was a sad place—a hospital bed? The place he stored all the agony of his life? Los Angeles itself? Probably all three. There was plenty to be angry about—plenty to be mad over—but not for old Heck. He had left all that behind. William found himself staring and nodding at him, impressed. Old Heck had a shitty role, but it was his, and he was determined to play it. Good for him. The old man’s blood wasn’t all that bad, despite what the doctors told him. William said, “Then you win, Heck, no matter what.”
They shared a moment before William left the room.
Fifteen seconds later, William entered the stairwell to the sound of footsteps plodding up from the flight below. They were loafers, definitely. William caught a glimpse of a suit jacket as he glanced down over the railing. He froze. He knew that jacket. He could sense the owner of those footfalls.