Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail!

by Gary Phillips

  We’d been looking for this kind of vehicle ever since, made a few stops of vans that fit the description, but nothing came of these. The other bodies are found similar to the first one, beaten, dead, dumped. We have a serial killer on our hands. And this shifts the department into full gear. I’m now part of a citywide task force to get to the bottom of these killings.

  Meanwhile, the media is headlong into the fray. They come up with their own stories, their own “witnesses,” their own facts, or bullshit, as far as I can tell. People now accuse family members, neighbors, old boyfriends, and we have to check into every one of these. But something’s missing. A major piece of the puzzle. That’s my goal—to see what others aren’t seeing.

  Bob Meredith is my new partner on the task force, quiet, efficient. He came from the Wilshire Division well recommended, worked on a few high-profile cases. Tanned, built, he strikes me as cold and aloof. I try to act as if these deaths don’t get to me, but they’re crawling under my skin, causing me sleepless nights, longer hours at the bars.

  The next victim was where I thought a body would eventually end up—in Skid Row. They found her wrapped up in blankets next to a pile of cardboards. Somebody made their way to an isolated section of the Row, now that we drove a lot of the homeless outside of the area. She ended up near a slew of tagged-up metal door enclosures for clothing outlets. She got placed there during a time of darkness when nobody could see, in the shadows made by faulty street lamps.

  Bob and I are the first detectives called in. When we arrive, the rosy-fingered dawn is creeping up the decrepit buildings and sidewalks. Several officers are in and around a yellow caution-taped section of the street, a car unit with flashing lights nearby. Radio dispatches emanating from the unit. A few vagrants are standing around, talking to themselves, with steam curling up from paper coffee cups.

  Bob and I stroll up to the yellow tape, pull ourselves under, than step gently into the area where the body is lying still, like a broken doll, like a porcelain vase with face, like a manikin with cuts and bruises all over. She’s barely got clothes on, similar to the others. This one is what they’d call “dirty blonde.” Cheerleader type. Perhaps sixteen, seventeen. Although there are bloodstains around her head and arms, on the torn blouse and remains of skirt she has on, she’s bled out somewhere else.

  None of the previously murdered girls have been sexually assaulted, despite the ripping of clothes all of them exhibited, and this one is probably no exception. This is interesting, considering the violent nature of the killings, their youth and beauty, the tendency of most male serial killers. The latest one is remarkably different than that first girl, the one with piercings and tattoos. This one looks proper, innocent perhaps—not from the wild side of the good life like the first victim.

  “She may be one of our string of murders,” Bob deduces, standing up from squatting next to the body.

  We had to make sure we weren’t looking at a copycat crime, which happens now and then. But I can tell she’s official victim number five.

  “She’s got that mark,” I say, still standing—I see better when I’m looking at the overall scene.

  Bob squints as he turns toward the body, squats back down, then with gloved hand moves the victim slightly. A faint burn is there just below the collarbone.

  “Damn,” he mutters as he gets up and takes notes.

  Later I wander into the Top Hat, a hole-in-the-wall on the outskirts of downtown, off the Metro line near the southern warehouse district. Not known for cops, but that’s what I need right now—a place where I’m not looking at the worn faces of worn-out detectives. I’ve already placed my shield into my pocket and buttoned my coat. I thought I’d have a couple of beers and go home. Not many people in here except for a few warehouse workers and dishwashers—Mexicans, a couple of stubble-faced whites, no blacks. Oh, except for the older black dude I notice sitting alone at the far end of the joint, nursing a high ball. Just then I recognize him and almost walk out the door, but decide to man up and talk to the dude.

  “Hey, Captain, what’s up?”

  Tate looks up at me, surprised as hell, but he wears this well, followed by a cool smirk.

  “Mind if I sit … I’m just here for a few cold ones.”

  I gesture toward the bar with an index finger then maneuver myself onto a thick leather seat without any outward invitation from the captain. But he’s not protesting. In the office, I talk smack all the time, but right now I’m not sure what to say, or if I should say anything.

  It’s the captain who breaks down the wall.

  “Ever lost somebody you love more than anything, more than life itself?” Tate slowly asks, not looking at me, but clearly directed in my general vicinity. I strain to listen as a Levi-jean-wearing Chicana, busting at the seams with a few extra pounds, brings me a beer.

  “You may not know, but I had a daughter, eighteen-year-old, beautiful, smart, name was Renee … oh, what a great girl she turned out to be,” Tate continues. “She had a whole future ahead of her. Entering college the following semester. The best grades. Friends everywhere … ”

  He pauses, takes another gulp then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Starts up again.

  “When they found her, dead, thrown into a ditch, clothes torn, I just about died.”

  This explains the pictures in his office. I also realize why he’s so adamant about the dumped bodies. Man, what a terrible reminder this must be for the captain.

  “They never found the killer, you understand me?” Tate now glares at me. “Renee never had any justice, never had her day in court. We couldn’t get anybody. Oh, we talked to every Tom, Dick, and Harry we could find. But whoever did this just vanished. Gone. Never any justice … never.”

  After this the captain stops talking. The minutes drip in slow motion. I down the brew in front of me and decide to mosey on out of the place, giving the captain my condolences and goodbyes.

  The next lead turns out to be another witness without traction—so-called witnesses like these have been popping up during the whole investigation. This time an old crack whore, living in the third floor of a dingy welfare hotel, claims she saw two dark-skinned hooded men push what looked like a body wrapped in something onto the Skid Row sidewalk. There was the perennial van—again a hazy description—no dents, no primer spots, no year, nothing detailed except that it was dark green. Although the woman didn’t call police or anybody at the time—she was apparently working the pipe. Days later she steps forward.

  She only has vague info, a general outline, similar to the first drunk and others who have come out of the woodwork. Yet no reports are filed on these witnesses. No beat cops I talk to know about them. Their names get turned in somehow and the captain sends us to track them down. And this never leads to anything tangible, something we could hang on to—that could become a real suspect. I’ve been a cop long enough to know when BS is cooking, and this stuff is heating up the kitchen big time.

  At the end of the shift, I walk into the office and see Timothy next to his desk. He’s standing away from me, staring out a window. I notice a set of keys next to a cell phone on his desk. There’s something strange on his key ring.

  “Hey, bro, did you get Bob’s report … uh, about there being maybe two perps involved?”

  Tim turns around, startled. I was going to ask him something else, but this thing about the two dudes came to me instead.

  “No, I haven’t read it yet … do we have any descriptions?”

  “No, which is why I need you to keep this development away from the media,” I ask. “This may prove important, but we can’t let others in on this yet.”

  Just then a bleak-looking Captain steps out of his office and starts moving toward my desk—most days he seems to be holed up there, blinds drawn. He looks beat, like he’s been losing sleep or spending too many nights at the Top Hat.

  “Been burning the midnight oil, eh, Captain?”

  Captain Tate throws me a stone Marine staff serg
eant look—like he’s finally had it with my jibes.

  “How come you’re not out there following up on those leads we’ve been getting?” he demands.

  “Alright, Captain, calm down … you know I have. I’m just trying to give Tim here some stuff for his press reports.”

  “Like what?” Tate asks, cutting through me with steely eyes.

  “Oh, he just wanted me to … ” Timothy interjects, but I cut him short.

  “Nothing you don’t know about, Captain, more about that van—you know, from that last witness who claimed to see something.”

  Tate just stares, pausing for what seems like a long time.

  “Don’t slack on me, Sammy” he finally states.

  He then turns toward the men’s restroom.

  “Why didn’t you want me to tell the captain about two possible suspects?” Timothy asks with Tate out of earshot.

  “Listen, I mean it when I say nobody else should know about this. Besides the captain looks like he’s under a lot of strain. I don’t want to bother him with too many details—let’s see if this info amounts to anything.”

  I leave one of my regular dives like I often do, soused, pissed, alone. Who knows what time it is, although it’s still dark. Most everything’s a blur. Somehow I’m inside my car. I start her up and as I take off you can hear screeching out of the alleyway parking lot toward the street. There are hardly any cars out this side of east Sunset in Echo Park. I’m thinking, just thinking, about the bodies, the newspaper headlines, the captain …

  I get to a stop sign. I turn my head to the right and see no cars coming. But I forget about my left. I step on the gas and go through the intersection when suddenly a car barrels through from the other side, probably thinking I’d stay behind the stop sign like I’m supposed to. The car strikes the left backseat area of my car, pushing it up the street a ways before we both stop. It takes me a while to realize what’s happened. I’m able to get out of my car. I feel fine, or so it seems. I look back and see that the side of my car is totally crumpled. The other car’s front end is steaming, parts of grill and headlights are on the asphalt, radiator fluid and water dripping.

  I check in on the driver. A twenty-something woman is in the driver’s seat. There’s a bloodline on her forehead. Nobody else is in the car. Luckily she had on her seatbelt. She’s awake, conscious, but dazed. I call this in, and wait for an ambulance and my fellow officers to arrive. This is when it hits me. The woman is so young. I could have killed her. The thought makes my blood run cold. What an idiot I am. I know I’m fucked. Thoroughly fucked. I should have looked both ways. Now there’s nothing to do but sober up and face the music.

  I’m having coffee in Little Tokyo, at the Starbucks on Central Avenue. I don’t drink anymore. I’d been drinking myself to death until I had the accident with the young woman. She had minor cuts and bruises but turned out okay. She ended up suing, though. The department took me off my cases. They kept me from facing criminal charges, but now I’m suspended until I come back sober—that is, with a few miles of recovery behind me.

  This morning, after several days of not drinking, I call Bob. I need to find out something, to ask him a favor, and I am not going into the station to deal with this. Everybody drinks, but once you’re labeled as an alkie, people look at you as if you were a leper or something. Yeah, right. They’re all one drink away from ending up like me.

  Still today my obsession comes back. The dead girls. Unfortunately, the department pulled me out of the investigation just when I thought I’d hit on something. But it was nothing I could share with the world at the time. Now, sober, suspended, babysitting this espresso coffee, I know what I have to do. And I need Bob to help.

  “Hey, Tim, we have ourselves a couple of suspects,” Bob says excitedly as he barges into Timothy’s media office. “Those guys somebody called in … you know, Hispanics, in their late twenties, both with rap sheets. One kinda loony. Well, they’re in separate interrogation rooms right now. You want to watch from the two-way glass as we deal with one of ’em?”

  “Of course, it’s about time we nailed those punks,” Tim responds with a smile. “I’ll be right there.”

  In a few minutes, Timothy enters the adjoining room to where one of the suspects is supposedly being detained. Captain Tate and members of the department’s internal affairs are already standing there along with Bob and myself, which Bob arranged despite some opposition. Tim gawks at the chief and the IA guys, at Bob, then me. But as he takes this all in, you can see a wave of acceptance cross his face, a kind of relief, resignation. Uniformed officers walk in, in case Tim tries to make a run for it. But he doesn’t. He sits down, expressionless, while the captain reads him his Miranda rights.

  “You ought to feel good, Sammy,” Bob suggests one day at the Little Tokyo Starbucks, now my favorite hangout. “The way we cornered Tim—who’d have thought?”

  Bob is writing down what I say for an upcoming press conference he’s doing with the captain, now that Tim’s been removed from the job. It took a whole day of hankering, but Bob’s finally been given permission to speak with me before they tweak the final statement.

  “It was a good idea to pull Tim out of his office without him knowing,” Bob ruminates. “I really thought he’d find a way out of the building if he knew what was up. You don’t ever think one of yours would do something like this … man, I still can’t believe it.”

  “Well, I actually thought the old captain was the guy,” I recount between sips of a steamed latte. “The captain once told me how he’d lost a teenage daughter when he was with the police department in Indiana. That the girl was beaten, cut, tossed about like she was nothing. No suspects. Tate apparently went nuts for a while. Then, after a long rest, he returned, renewed, organized. He seemed the right guy for the captain’s job, but I felt he was still crazy, maybe with pain, resentment, who knows?”

  “That’s why you can’t have preconceived notions in this job.”

  “You ain’t kidding,” I continue. “I also had to look elsewhere than where all those so-called leads were taking us, false information that Tim paid winos and junkies to call in. The kicker was that heart-shaped locket I noticed one day on Tim’s keychain. I thought this odd, didn’t seem to fit a cop. But I let it pass. Men have been known to carry photos of their loved ones in lockets.”

  “Although that still strikes me as weird.”

  “After we confronted Tim with DNA evidence linked to him, the dude had to fess up. Although his ramblings didn’t exactly explain anything—something about corrupt police getting away with shit and how the heart-shaped burns were a dare to the force to look at our own. I really don’t know what he was talking about.”

  “Well, you did a hell of a job,” Bob adds, placing his pencil down, grabbing a large cup of joe on the table.

  I glimpse beyond Bob’s head to the nearby skyscrapers, a few glaring in the afternoon sun, many of them recently constructed. After the riots I heard people complain that not much has changed in the city. I guess if you’re still poor, this is true. But the LAPD has changed. So has the city council—now run with a handful of black and brown members. Today we have a mayor and school board president of Mexican descent. Big things have come our way, although I agree—more has to happen. Yet some things never change. People die. Some people kill. And good police work often revolves around the most mundane of facts, one small twist, sometimes when you’re looking the other way.

  Contributors

  Summer Brenner was raised in Georgia and migrated west, first to New Mexico and eventually to Northern California where she has been a longtime resident. She has published a dozen books of poetry, fiction, and novels for youth including Ivy: Homeless in San Francisco. She is the author of the critically acclaimed noir thriller I-5: A Novel of Crime, Transport, and Sex. Gallimard’s Serie Noire published Brenner’s crime novel, Presque nulle part, which PM Press will release by its English title, Nearly Nowhere.

  Cory Doctorow (craphound
.com) is a science fiction author, activist, journalist and blogger—the co-editor of Boing Boing (boingboing.net) and the author of Tor Teens/HarperCollins UK novels like For the Win and the bestselling Little Brother. He is the former European director of the Electronic Frontier Foundation and co-founded the UK Open Rights Group. Born in Toronto, Canada, he now lives in London.

  Rick Dakan is the author of the Geek Mafia trilogy, published by PM Press, as well as Cthulhu Cult: A Novel of Obsession from Arcane Wisdom. He writes books and video games and angry comments on the Internet. More at RickDakan.com.

  Larry Fondation is the author of the novels Angry Nights and Fish, Soap and Bonds, and of Common Criminals and Unintended Consequences, both collections of short stories. His fiction focuses on the Los Angeles underbelly. His two most recent books feature collaborations with London-based artist Kate Ruth. Fondation has lived in L.A. since the 1980s, and has worked for nearly twenty years as an organizer in South Los Angeles, Compton, and East L.A. He is a recipient of a Christopher Isherwood Fellowship in Fiction Writing. He can be contacted at lfondation@aol.com.

  Barry Graham is an author, journalist and blogger whose novels have received international acclaim and whose reporting has helped more than one corrupt politician leave office. Born and dragged up in Glasgow, Scotland, he has traveled widely and is currently based in the U.S. His previous occupations include boxing and grave-digging. He is also a Zen monk, and serves as the Abbot of the Sitting Frog Zen Center. He has witnessed two executions, invited by the inmates, not the state.