by Nick Keller
Nia hammered the door open with a heel. A second later the second-floor window flew open and Dar’quann squirreled out. He pulled a foot up and started to drop down, but Mark yelled from the street, “There, there!”
Dar’quann looked back, saw him, had to adjust. He reached up, grabbed the roofline and hoisted himself up.
“On the roof, on the roof!”
Nia scrambled inside, hurdled a laundry basket, went into the bedroom. The window was flung open. She went to it, looked down and called to Mark, “Take the car that way!” She motioned west.
She was too far for him to lend assistance. By the time he could have gotten up to the roof they’d be a world ahead of him. No choice. “Fuck!” He jumped into his Camaro, jammed it into gear and white smoked it down the street.
Nia hoisted herself out the window and up onto the roofline, and rolled to her feet in a single, catlike maneuver. Dar’quann was up ahead bounding over the roofs, moving fast. He was big, lean, very athletic, and he was armed. She took flight hitting the first decline like a runner sliding into home plate. Shingles flittered off the roof. Using her own momentum she was up the next roofline hurdling the apex and thundering back downhill, toward a deep, narrow gap between the buildings. She didn’t hesitate, only launched herself across the way and onto the adjacent roof.
Up ahead, Dar’quann had created separation. He paused, to look back. He whipped his pistol around and popped off a few rounds at her.
Nia dropped down for cover, came back up. Her prey had altered course, moving toward the rear of the building. She scoped the area, absorbing the landscape, calculating Dar’quann’s easiest escape route. Down below was a large empty lot full of tall grass and garbage. A series of lean-to sheds were backed up against a fence, all aluminum and plywood. To the west was a fence line grown over with shrubs and bushes.
Dar’quann dropped down to one of the sheds. It collapsed underneath him depositing him roughly to the grassy yard. Back on his feet he hauled ass toward the street. Nia aimed her pistol, fired a few shots. Dirt exploded. He slid to a stop on his feet and turned around windmilling his arms and speeding off toward the fence line. She holstered and dropped down from the roof landing full bore on both feet. Hissing against the pain in both ankles she sprinted after him.
When she hit the tree line, she had to smash her way through the shrubbery, navigating over the fence and bursting through on the other side. Dar’quann was nowhere in sight.
“Dammit!” she sneered, drawing her gun. To the left was a cinderblock structure with a steel door shut tight; to the right was the edge of the housing complex. Which way had he gone—through the door, or around the corner? “Dammit.”
She heard a whistle. It was a tiny sound, more like a whisper, very calm, collected. She looked over across the parking lot. Darius sat on his stoop still holding Floppy the dog and looking back at her, cool as a cat. He pointed to the cinderblock building, to the door. She nodded to him, and, raising her pistol, she crept toward it.
“Goddammit,” Mark growled, coming to a stop in his car at the end of the street. He’d driven down two full blocks and there was no sign of his partner. He threw it in reverse and stomped on the pedal giving a seasoned power slide, rear tires screaming on pavement, sliding around and jamming it into first gear. Popping the clutch, he was back on track, speeding down the street looking through the houses as he did. He came back out on Compton Street cranking the wheel to the south. He was back at the housing complex. Bumping up on the curb he slammed to a stop, got out, gun drawn, and moved toward the rear alley. If Nia was anywhere, she’d be there.
Nia reached a steady hand toward the door handle, gun up, ears probing. She wrenched the door open and stepped quickly away. It was dim. A basement. This was obviously the rear exit of a neighborhood bar. She inspected to the left, saw nothing, sidestepped to the other side and inspected to the right. Still nothing, just shelves and supplies.
She chanced a step inside and met three concrete stairs. She moved in, led by her .45, listening in the dimness, searching with her senses, ready to fire her weapon. Reaching back, she felt a bank of light switches. She swiped them all. Lights came on. Dar’quann leapt at her from behind. She spun too late. He bowled her over into a shelf crashing over trays of dry storage food and landing flat on her back. She felt her weapon slide across the concrete floor.
He was on top of her before she knew it, all panic and eyeballs. She slapped for her weapon, found it. Too late. He grabbed her wrist, smashed it into the ground, made her yelp. The gun reported loud as a cannon and slid away again.
Out on the street, Mark froze, terrified. A gunshot, a hundred feet away. He took off like a shot down the road.
Nia looked up. Dar’quann’s face was twisted up, more fear than hate, his jaw clenched showing a desperate snarl. His fist went up, came down hard. She juked her head left. Knuckles cracked on pavement. He screamed, pulled his fist back, took another shot at her. She juked her head right. More knuckles. More pavement. More screaming. He pulled back clutching his hand. She launched him off her with one powerful kick and he flew back into more shelving cradling a few jammed knuckles, maybe a sprained wrist. She threw herself over, snatched up her gun and had it poised for a kill shot sneering, “Do it, cowboy!”
Dar’quann froze, beaten, hands up.
The door kicked open from behind and Mark stepped in, gun poised. He jerked his pistol away assessing the situation immediately. Nia had everything under control. He met relieved eyes with her, gave her a nod.
6
Kendra Oaks And The Panel
Kendra Oaks wore her Anne Klein today. She needed to make an impression, not to mention a point. It was her nicest flap pocket business blazer and slacks. She traded her usual low-cut tee for a cute blue, collared blouse. Hair up, strappy power pumps on, and she was out the door.
The California Mental Health panel were all men, four of them, each tenured, each currently looking on and listening to her navigate cleanly through her six-month psychological assessment of William Erter, subject of the state. The more she spoke, the more they shifted uncomfortably, the more their faces began dawning a speculative, doubtful look. She was losing.
“In conclusion,” she said, “he doesn’t believe he belongs here. He doesn’t think he needs help.” She paced before them looking comfortable yet feeling tense, out of control. “As you doctors know, that’s the first sign of a psychotic event. Denial without resolution is the most dangerous aspect of his disease. It could lead him to do any number of things.”
“So, what’s your professional suggestion for moving forward?” Dr. Berry asked, sitting at the edge of the panel and looking characteristically scrutinizing.
Oaks took a breath. This was her entire objective, the reason for the Anne Klein. “Continuation of psychological evaluation. Another six months.”
Dr. Palmer, a rotund, thumb-headed bald guy, said, “You say ‘lead him to do any number of things.’ Like what, exactly?”
Oaks said, “Well, my very serious concern is …”
Dr. Wagner coughed lightly drawing her attention. He said, “Be careful, Doctor.”
She paused and cautiously said, “My concern is that he could follow in his father’s footsteps.”
The doctors cleared throats, adjusted, gave each other discerning looks. Wagner asked, “Is that all you have to add, Doctor Oaks?”
“It is.”
“His sleep patterns are stable. There’s no anxiety, depression, difficulty concentrating. He’s understandably irritable, but not above the line. Not even close. He’s as stable a patient as I’ve ever seen.”
Oaks collected her thoughts—no um’s, no uh’s. “There wouldn’t be, would there? His father never displayed any of these signs. It’s argued as to whether his father’s pulse ever even fluctuated during his killings.”
“What are you saying, Doctor?” Berry said, almost harsh.
“That William Erter is no more your measurable, garden-variety psychotic than his f
ather.” She stepped toward the panel desk. “We’re talking high-level mental control, perfect stability, with a psychotic endurance that goes far beyond any sane person’s.”
“Doctor,” Palmer said, “it sounds like you’re comparing your patient to Dahmer, or Bundy, for God’s sake.”
“No, I’m comparing him to Oscar, his father.”
Berry said, “So, it is your belief that he’s acting, putting on a grand show, as it were, to convince us he’s healthy?”
Oaks nodded. “I think that’s all too feasible, yes. And as for your remark, Doctor Palmer, is it so great a stretch? Many known psychotics were perfectly stable, perfectly sociable creatures.”
Dr. Bowman grumbled, “Mmm—I’m bothered by your claims despite any presence of evidence.” Bowman was the panel senior, hard-throated, unmoving. He was the one that scared her.
She cleared her throat and said, “How could there be evidence? He’s only behaving in the way his highly cognitive mind would have him behave, manipulating the people around him, working to achieve its ultimate goal, even if on subconscious levels.”
“The insane never know they’re insane, is that what you’re telling us?”
“Yes,” she said.
Palmer said, “Doctor Oaks, sometimes a cigar is only a cigar.”
Condescended by Palmer’s version of Freud, Oaks gave him a subtle, cross look and insisted, “I would believe that. But then I have to consider the source, as do we all. William Erter is no common cigar, as the metaphor would assume.”
“Maybe he’s not insane. Maybe he simply doesn’t belong here,” he said almost benignly.
“The county court didn’t think so, not without an investigation. His involvement in the Starlet Killer case was very suspect.”
“He was exonerated, Doctor, you know that,” Wagner said.
“On suspicious grounds,” she said, feeling her emotions grow.
“Legal suspension that proves unevocative cannot be a consideration in your final risk assessment, Doctor Oaks,” Palmer said, pinching off a chuckle as he looked at his colleagues.
She rebuked hotly, “Yes it can. Of course it can. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.”
Palmer gave her a surprised look, but said nothing. She was right, so he shifted his gaze away.
She continued, “As his psychological evaluator, it is my duty to consider all elements of a case. Besides, it was an unofficial arbitration panel that conducted the hearing.”
“It never went to trial,” Palmer said back in argumentation.
“And if it had?” she said, leaving the moment open-ended. Her point was well-taken. If it had gone to trial, then who knows? Maybe William would be sitting in a prison cell. Nevertheless, Oaks said nothing in conclusion, forced calm, telling herself not to throw herself at Palmer, not to wrap that tie around his thumb-headed neck and yank until his tongue swelled. No, Kendra, don’t do it, girl!
Instead, she calmly, said, “I want to show you something. Look,” she opened her briefcase set on a side table, collected a manila folder and started placing eight-by-eleven inch full color photos on the table. This was where she would go for the jugular. “These photos were on William’s living room wall. He displayed them as benignly as a grandparent displays pictures of their grandkids.”
“Jesus Christ,” one of the doctors gasped.
They were copies of the portraits. They were literal victim profiles of Oscar Erter’s killings—complete families, entire gene pools. They were horrid, each of them a scene shot straight from hell.
“We’ve seen them before, Doctor Oaks!” Palmer said.
“No, Doctor Palmer, you haven’t. Not like William. He framed them, like portraits. He hid them from me, his own counselor, for five years—five years of peeling away his layers never revealed this fact, perhaps the most pragmatic manifestation of his sickness of all. They’re portraits, Doctors. Portraits.”
“Yes, we get it,” Palmer said, shoving them away.
“No—no, you don’t. His father—Oscar Erter—was labeled by the government of the United States as the Portrait Killer. And now, William presents them in exactly that way, the way his father intended?”
Wagner said, “He’s been perfectly open with you about those pictures, Doctor Oaks.”
“Only once I discovered them on my own recognizance,” she said, almost yelled. She was losing her cool. Control was slipping. She couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop, despite her training. “Denying their existence now would only make him seem imbalanced. He knows that, he’s a forensic psychologist. That doesn’t change the fact that he denied them to me for five years. And why—why do you suppose he did that?”
They didn’t answer, none of them; just looked at her perplexed.
She continued, “Because, he intends, even if in deep, unknowable layers of his mind, to continue his father’s work. He is his father’s son. He is Oscar Erter’s son. And like father, like son.” She took a breath, paused. “That’s my conclusion for further institutionalization. I urge the panel to consider this.”
Bowman pulled a huge sigh. His lips were in a frown. Everything stilled as he mentally prepared his next words in his mind. He finally said, “So, you’re telling us that you believe William Erter intends to follow in his father’s footsteps, or at least some semblance thereof, recreating what became America’s single most heinous crime spree in history.”
She sighed aloud and said with resolution, “William Erter is the single most potential menace to society I’ve ever encountered.”
The doctors looked at each other, shifting eyes, puckering lips thoughtfully. Bowman finally nodded and concluded, “Thank you, Doctor Oaks. We’ll give utmost consideration to your evaluation.”
She smiled, tight-lipped. “When will I know?”
“By the end of day.”
She nodded collecting her presentation materials, shutting her briefcase and saying, “Thank you, Doctors.” Taking one last glance up at the CCTV camera probing her like an eyeball, she left.
They all sat around in momentary silence. The phone blinked. Incoming call. All eyes went to it, then up to Bowman. He sighed reticently.
“It’s the FBI director, sir,” Dr. Palmer said.
“I know who it is,” Bowman groaned, and punched the speaker button opening the line. He cleared his throat and said, “Director Mathis. Did you see, sir?”
“I saw,” came a cold, implacable voice.
“What’s your observation?”
A pause. They waited. Then, “Doctor Oaks’s analysis is too ambitious. I don’t buy it. It’s a book deal.”
“Maybe she’s right, sir,” Palmer said.
“No. I trust William Erter.”
“You owe him,” Palmer said.
“Be careful with your words, councilor. I made a promise to him. I made that promise because I trust him.”
“Understood, sir,” Palmer said, and shrunk away.
Bowman said, “May I submit, sir, that was a long time ago. He was seventeen. He was just a boy.”
“That was no boy.” The voice remained as emotional as a rock.
“Yes, sir. What’s the call, then?”
There was another pause on the other end. The councilmen all looked at each other, holding their breaths. The voice finally said, “I’m pulling the trigger on this. Get him out of there. Reinstate his civilian status.”
“And Doctor Oaks’s insistence that he’s a menace to society?”
“She’s compromised. That’s not up to her.”
“With all due respect, sir, if it’s not up to his primary psychologist, then who?” Bowman asked.
“It’s up to him,” the voice said. “Now get it done.” The line ended.
Everyone took a universal sigh of relief before Wagner groaned, “Sounds like it’s more up to Director Mathis.”
Bowman looked at him sharply and said, “It is.”
7
Mission
Mark leaned against a wall just outside the
interrogation chamber while Nia sat on a bench, her posture astute and proper. Mark eyed her. She hadn’t learned that growing up in the hood. That was Navy training, JAG office stuff.
Nevertheless, he felt like a fool. Nia had been shot at, day one. He was responsible. The door opened and Heller stormed into the hall. Nia got to her feet as he stopped directly before her, a look of concern and irritation written all over him. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine, sir. I’m fine,” she said reassuringly.
“What did psyche say?”
“They’re evaluating.”
He made a glum face.
“I’ve been psyched before, sir. I promise, I’m fine.”
“Well, good.” He turned to Mark, a mean look on his face. “Your rookie got shot at today.”
Mark nodded.
“Nothing smartass to say?” Heller said.
“I take this very seriously, Captain,” he said defensively, with the slightest insult in his voice.
Heller looked at him, not impressed. He scoffed, irritated, and walked off. “I want you two in my office in ten minutes.”
Mark and Nia exchanged a glance. She said, “He’s in a bad mood.”
“Who, the captain? Nah.”
Heller’s office was in its usual state of organized chaos. He stood with his back to them rifling through a standup file cabinet, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. When they entered he simply kept digging through paperwork. “I have a departmental regs meeting with a federal securities board later. Goddamn mayor’s office is getting involved—again! Politicians have been coming out of the woodwork for six months. It’s that whole Komatsu thing. Ever since, it’s opened a whole Pandora’s box full of shit, everyone trying to provide oversight between departments. FBI’s paranoid, afraid we’re going to spill the beans on the whole thing. What the fuck do we care? They want our shit, and I’m the one got to dig it up. Fucking mess.”
“What can we do?” Mark asked.