Gideon's Rescue

by Alan Russell

  “That’s why we were supposed to see you first thing tomorrow morning,” I said. “We had an eight-thirty appointment. I guess we can cancel . . . ”

  I stopped talking. And then the piece of the puzzle that I had always known was there suddenly revealed itself. It had been there in front of me all along, but I hadn’t seen it. Dr. Misko had overlooked it as well, because Emily’s head wound had presented as a dog bite.

  “We need to take an X-ray of that head wound,” I said. “I think you’re going to be surprised at what we see.”

  The other three dogs dumped at Boyle Heights had been shot. Everyone had assumed Emily must have appeared dead already, with no reason to shoot her. But Emily had been shot in the head. At the time of her shooting, the bullet must have knocked her senseless.

  Thank God she has a hard head.

  Removing the bullet proved surprisingly easy. Dr. Wolf-Fox said it was almost as if the bullet wanted to come out. Using specialized forceps, she took it out while I documented her handiwork with pictures.

  When she finished, Dr. Wolf-Fox held the bullet up for me to better see it.

  “You sure you want to throw in your lot with me?” I asked Emily. “You’ve had a hole in your head with a bullet in it, and I was too stupid to figure it out.”

  “As much as Emily probably appreciates the sound of your mea culpa,” said Dr. Wolf-Fox, “the bullet’s entry wound actually presented as an abscess. I wouldn’t beat yourself up over it.”

  With her forceps, she dropped the bullet into a small jar, and then covered it with a lid.

  I reached for the jar and held it up to the light.

  “You’re right,” I said. “It’s time to beat up someone else over this.”

  It was almost one a.m. when I awakened Lisbet. “I’m okay,” I told her, “but I’m going to need some medical treatment tonight.”

  She was instantly awake. “What happened?”

  “Long story short,” I said, “I was bitten by a dog in several spots, but primarily on my calf.”

  “It wasn’t Emily, was it?”

  “Quite the opposite,” I said. “In fact, Sirius and Emily saved me from getting bitten up much worse than I did. Both of them were just treated for their wounds. Now it’s my turn. I’m on my way to the Sherman Oaks Hospital. Since I doubt they allow dogs in the ER, and since after they shoot me up with pain meds they’re going to insist I have a driver, I’m wondering if I can impose on you.”

  “Impose? I would have been furious if you hadn’t called me, Michael.”

  “Just hearing your voice makes me feel better.”

  “Are you sure they haven’t shot you up with those pain meds already?”

  “Not yet,” I said, “but soon, I hope. My leg has stiffened up to the point where I think you’ll have to wheel me in.”

  “You’re making me worried.”

  “Don’t be. Believe me when I say it was worth it.”

  “I believe you. And it shouldn’t take me more than twenty minutes to get to the hospital at this time of night.”

  “Drive carefully,” I said.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A Serving of Soup

  It took me several days to get everything buttoned up before returning to Best Scrap. Not only did it take me time to get my ducks in a row, it also took me that long to be ambulatory. A pit bull had put a serious bite on me. Now it was my turn to bite back even harder.

  As I limped up to the Best Scrap trailer, Humberto Rivera didn’t hide his amusement. Fausto was also in the office. Judging by their expressions, neither man was surprised to see me. In fact, they had probably been expecting me for days.

  In order to open the trailer’s door, I put the bowl in one hand and did my pulling with the other. I entered the trailer and limped over to Tito’s desk.

  “For you,” I said, putting the steaming bowl down in front of him.

  “What is it?” he asked, looking confused.

  “‘It is not always the bull who loses,’ I said, quoting his punch line back to him. “Of course, this soup”—I pointed to the bowl—“isn’t quite complete yet. All it lacks is your huevos. And you’re about to serve those up to me.”

  Tito wasn’t smiling now. I was. And that was before the two squad cars came charging into the recycling center’s lot with their lights flashing.

  “Humberto ‘Tito’ Rivera,” I said, “and Fausto Alvarez, you are both under arrest.”

  I read them their Miranda rights, and then to be sure they understood what I had just said, I handed them cards containing the Spanish translation.

  “I advise you to carefully look over what’s written on those cards you’re now holding,” I said. “I want to make sure you understand your rights.”

  “This is a joke,” said Tito. “My lawyer will have me out in less than an hour.”

  I shook my head and said, “I don’t think so.”

  By that time the two uniforms had entered the trailer, and the confined space seemed that much smaller.

  “Do you understand your rights?” I asked them.

  The two men made eye contact, and then both nodded.

  “I don’t want either one of you to move,” I said. “So, are you holding the gun? Or where is it?”

  I saw Fausto’s eyes look to a spot behind the counter. That was enough for me to limp forward and retrieve the hidden gun.

  “That’s Fausto’s gun,” said Tito. “Don’t try and say it’s mine.”

  I dropped the firearm into a plastic bag. “An HK forty-five,” I said. Then I asked Tito, “Where’s the suppressor?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We have videotape footage of you walking around Angie’s Rescues waving this gun. At the time, though, the gun had a sound suppressor attached to it.”

  “You got me mistaken for someone else.”

  I shook my head. “No, Tito, it’s definitely you, and it’s definitely this gun. We have footage and pictures that just this week identified you and this gun.”

  “Like I said, that’s Fausto’s gun.”

  I turned to Fausto. “Is that so?”

  “Don’t say a word,” said Tito. “Let the lawyers do all the talking for you.”

  “I think that’s good advice, Fausto,” I said, “at least for Tito here. You see, we’ve been able to determine that this gun has been used in the commission of multiple crimes. And that’s going to mean serious jail time for the shooter.”

  “That’s bullshit,” said Tito.

  “When I saw the videotape of you walking around Angie’s Rescues,” I said, “I couldn’t understand what you were doing there. What was motivating you to trespass on private property while carrying a firearm? At the time, I didn’t realize that the reason you were there was to destroy evidence. You knew there was one thing left to connect you with the murder of those dumped dogs: the bullet in Emily’s head.

  “We have that bullet now and were able to conduct ballistics tests. After we do tests on this gun, I’m confident it will show that this is the weapon that fired the bullet retrieved from Emily’s head.”

  “That still doesn’t give you the shooter,” said Tito.

  “You hear that, Fausto?” I said, turning to the man with the eye patch. “I think we just heard the legal defense that your boss’s attorney plans to put forward. And I suspect you’ll be the one who’s hung out to dry.

  “What your boss doesn’t know, though, is that we’re also going to link this gun to a crime scene not far from the Nevada border. That’s where several other dogs were shot with an HK forty-five. I am quite sure tests will show this is the gun that fired those bullets.”

  “He’s lying,” said Tito.

  I shook my head. “No, I’m not. And both of you know I’m not. You’re just hoping Fausto here doesn’t give you up. Yes, he’s the registered owner of this gun, but you’re the one who’s been using it. Of course, that’s not the only lethal weapon at your disposal. There are the two pit bulls you
sicced on me. Did you know both those dogs have been captured?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I got to hand it to you, Tito. You played me perfectly. The last time I visited here, you set things up so that it looked like your mobile dogfighting ring was ready to roll. You played me hook, line, and sinker when you called me up asking about the reward, and all the while you spoke in pretend pidgin English. It was perfect, the way you acted, making it seem like you were so afraid of being found out. The more reluctant you played it, the harder I worked to land you. You suckered me, and then you tried to kill me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you saying someone tried to kill you? When was this?”

  “You missed your calling as an actor,” I said.

  Then I told Tito that the attack on me had taken place four nights ago, at which point he vehemently proclaimed his innocence.

  “I was at a party that night,” he said. “I can get you a dozen witnesses to that fact. And if that’s not good enough for you, I can produce video and pictures showing me there.”

  “What a surprise,” I said, my words more for Fausto than they were for Tito. “It’s almost like you prepared the perfect alibi for yourself. What about you, Fausto? Do you have a perfect alibi as well, or were you set up as the fall guy just in case something went wrong?”

  Tito was staring at Fausto. He was holding his index finger up to his lips, discouraging the man with the eye patch from saying anything.

  “Even if you both contest the charges,” I said, “we already have more than enough evidence to convict the two of you, and we’re in the process of adding even more.”

  I placed some paperwork on Tito’s desk, careful to keep the pages away from his bowl of broth.

  “That’s a search warrant,” I said. “It allows us free run of your property. I’m wondering what’s going to turn up on all those video cameras you have. Do you think there will be footage of those two dogs that attacked me? And let’s not forget the DNA and blood evidence we’ll be collecting. It’s amazing how a few follicles here, and a bit of splatter there, tell stories that are most convincing. If you used this site to dispose of dog remains, there will be plenty of evidence to show that.”

  I turned to the officers and nodded. “Please handcuff your prisoners and take them to be booked.”

  “I want to make a call,” said Tito.

  “You’ll get that opportunity,” I said.

  I took out my business card, circled my phone number, and handed the card to Fausto.

  “You can make a call, too. My advice to you is to dial this number. By now, I imagine you realize that you’re supposed to be Tito’s sacrificial lamb. If you don’t want to spend the next ten years in jail, though, you had better tell me what you know. And I wouldn’t hesitate if I were you. As soon as people hear about the arrest of El Gallo Negro, and that he’s safely behind bars where he can’t hurt them, they’ll be calling for the reward. You’ll want to act before then, while you still have some bartering power.”

  The suspects were handcuffed. As they were being led out, I called to Tito: “You sure you don’t want your soup?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Something Wicked This Way Comes

  The only good thing that came out of being chewed up by a pit bull was that it allowed me to back out of my scheduled call with Ellis Haines. My convalescence provided even more excuses to put off that call, as did the demands that came with trying to close two cases.

  And, of course, there was the third case I’d been working, that of Haines potentially committing a murder or two while spending time in Las Vegas. Detective Charles and I were now calling our investigation the Karaoke Creep case. She had found two more witnesses who remembered a man who looked like Haines being friends with Carol Shipley, the woman we suspected Haines of murdering.

  Even though I had avoided talking with Haines, I had kept current with the goings-on of the All-In Killer case. The FBI now had me in the loop on all their reports and crime scene investigations. It was their belief that Diana Prince—the queen-four killing—had been the most recent victim. Of course, the more I studied the cases, the more I became convinced the FBI had missed some significant clues.

  That was why I agreed to return to San Quentin to meet with Ellis Haines.

  I waited for him in the lawyers’ room. For whatever reason, it took the correctional officers longer than usual to bring Haines to me. Once more, I wished I wasn’t there. Prisons bring out the claustrophobic in me. I found myself breathing through my mouth, not wanting to inhale the pervasive odor of desperation. To me, it’s worse than cigarette smoke and even more toxic.

  Finally, I heard the sound of approaching chains. For whatever reason, Haines had chosen not to sing today. I thought of the lyrics to “Creep” and imagined Haines singing it. By then, Haines had murdered a number of women and knew exactly what he was. His singing was a way for him to confess to the world, all the while riotously laughing inside. I wondered if he had sung the song expressly for Carol Shipley, knowing he would one day murder her.

  As Haines drew closer, I tried to think about something else. I was probably being irrational, but I was afraid of his psychic bloodhound abilities. I didn’t want him to sniff out my thoughts.

  When he came into view, I put on my best poker face but immediately wondered if I was offering up a tell. Whatever Haines saw made him smile.

  “Detective Gideon,” said Haines, “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, but you know how the help is around here. It took forever for the staff to muster up a contingent to walk me over here. I volunteered to walk myself over, but they declined my offer.”

  Haines kept up his chatter as the cell was unlocked and his bracelets were removed. As he was seated, I declined the offer from the correctional officer to have Haines shackled to the table.

  After the officer vacated the cell, Haines and I sat looking at one another over the table. He was still smiling.

  “No pictures for me today?” he asked.

  “The FBI gave me this month off from courier duty,” I said. “They tell me you were given pictures of the queen-four killing, as well as from some other homicides.”

  “So many murders,” he said, “and so little time.”

  “I read your write-up on the Diana Prince killing.”

  “A write-up,” he said, “that was made necessary when you didn’t call me for our scheduled meeting of minds.”

  “You mean you didn’t get my flowers and note of apology?”

  “I understand you were wounded in the line of duty. And if the story was relayed to me correctly, we now have something else in common: each of us carries the scars of dog bites on our bodies.”

  He stared me down, his smile long gone. “I’ll show you mine,” he said, “if you’ll show me yours.”

  “I get the feeling you’re not talking about scars,” I said.

  “How perceptive of you.”

  “Is that anger I detect?”

  “I would categorize it more as disappointment.”

  “Funny,” I said. “When I talked to Special Agent Corning, I used that same word to describe what I thought of your analyses of the All-In Killer homicides. I told him that today I’d be asking you why you’ve been less than forthcoming with the FBI in your write-ups.”

  “Forthcoming,” he said, almost like he was chewing on the word. “You are questioning my being forthcoming? Isn’t that like the pot calling the kettle black?”

  “A club flush is called ‘puppy feet’ because the clubs supposedly look like the paw prints of dogs. The croquet mallets left at the queen-four crime scene constituted puppy feet. You never commented on that. You never brought up the subtext in the All-In Killer’s crime scene. And that wasn’t the first time.”

  “Do tell,” said Haines.

  “The All-in Killer likes to offer layers of riddles. That’s why you’ve been asking for such detailed crime scene reports. You w
ant to know what was in the room where the victim was found, including titles of books, or songs being listened to, or brochures left on a table. You were curious about brand names and the names of plants. No detail was too small, including the perfume or aftershave worn, fruit or food left out, and what was on display.

  “The obvious clues were easy to pick out; the well-known poker hands and meteorological symbols. And clearly you were the intended target for those messages; the killer was speaking in tongues you were familiar with. But his messages continued beyond the surface clues.

  “For example, I never realized that I was a point of discussion from the first murder. When hunting season was announced in the ace-two staging, you pointed out the umbrella, but not the MP3 player also lying nearby. Like you, I’ve also been asking questions about the crime scene. What I recently discovered was that the song the victim was supposedly listening to was Elvis Costello’s ‘Watching the Detectives.’ I think there was a double meaning in that. Card players, as you pointed out, refer to a king as Elvis. And I’m pretty sure I was the detective in question.”

  Haines lightly clapped his hands. “Excellent, Detective. And now the two of us can definitively say that Elvis has not left the house.”

  “How do you think the FBI is going to respond to your having purposely withheld information?”

  “I expect they’ll forgive and forget, especially when I intimate that their killer has struck again since Mrs. Prince. They were expecting an obvious play on the jack-five with the next homicide. They were thinking the killer was going to murder someone with the surname of Jackson. They should have remembered that the first victim wasn’t murdered because of his last name; his death was simply a statement. Besides, did they think they would always have clues so linear, so simple? Why should they expect something as easy as ABC?”

  He didn’t try and hide his gloating, or his clue.

  “The Jackson Five song ‘ABC,’” I said.

  “Follow the alphabet soup to the killing,” he said. “The police didn’t even recognize last week’s death of that elementary school teacher, directly under the classroom’s ABCs, as a homicide.”