JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps

by phuc

  But he wanted to tell her all this stuff, wanted to bare his soul, wanted her to know him completely. The only problem was that he didn't know how.

  The Butcher case might be the first step down that long, rocky road. If he could tell her about the case, his frustrations dealing with it, the daily anecdotes that involved his day, which always involved the Butcher case, then he could feel more at ease with opening up to her. Because he would have to tell her all this stuff on the condition that she not use any of the information he told her for any newspaper piece. He felt that if he asked her this that she would be agreeable to it; after all, she had agreed that they not even talk about the case and that had been fine up till now. Daryl wanted to talk about the case now; he just didn't want her to construe their private conversations as carte blanche material for something she could write about.

  “Rachael, can I ask you something?"

  “Sure, love,” Rachael murmured.

  He asked her. It was awkward, but he spit it out. And while his stomach was fluttering with butterflies as he asked her, afraid that she would be mad at him, she hadn't been in the least bit. She had been more than agreeable. “Oh, Daryl, of course! I can never do that to you! Never! It's against my ethics as a journalist to write about something that I know is off the record. And besides,” she added, turning his face towards hers with her fingers. “I not only respect the hell out of you, but I am crazy about you and don't want to do something that would hurt you."

  Heart swelling, Daryl took her into his arms and kissed her.

  They remained in each other's embrace for a moment. Then, Rachael got out of bed. “Want a drink?"

  “Yeah. I could use a beer."

  “Me, too. Be right back."

  He watched as she strode naked out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen.

  When she came back with two bottles of Corona he started telling her about his latest frustrations with the Butcher case. Rachael remained silent, listening to the story, letting him vent. It was just what Daryl felt he needed. Somebody to talk to, somebody who would listen.

  Chrissy Melendez had been positively identified seven days ago, but the coroner hadn't released the information to the press until yesterday. The identification was pretty positive, despite the fact that all that they were able to find was the lower portion of the torso at Newport Beach. The Butcher Task force, in conjunction with the Newport Beach P.D. and the Orange County Sheriff, had combed the beach from Long Beach to San Diego to find the rest of the murdered girl, but no trace of her was found. Daryl and Steve, along with five other investigators had searched the area along the beach, as well as a canal in Long Beach that fed into the ocean. Daryl had even crawled through a small portion of the canal that Steve had been unable to venture into—Steve was extremely claustrophobic—and while the adventure had left Daryl muddy and scratched up, it hadn't turned up any further clues.

  Likewise, his investigation into the whereabouts of Chrissy Melendez prior to her disappearance had run into a dead end. He had questioned the parents of the girl, who pointed the finger at the girl's boyfriend, twenty-year-old Rick Medina, a known drug dealer and Devil's Army Motorcycle gang member. Rick, they said, had a history of violence against Chrissy; he had something to do with her death. But Rick's story had checked out. He had an airtight alibi. Daryl and Steve had not only questioned the gang associates Rick had hung out with that day in Hollywood, but they had also interviewed the merchants at various shops they had visited on Hollywood Boulevard, all who vouched that Rick had been on Hollywood Boulevard the night Chrissy disappeared.

  They had paid a visit to Maria Chavez, who ran the escort service, and despite the fact that Hollywood Vice had busted her and her girls on various prostitution charges, Maria had been more than willing to cooperate. She had provided Daryl and Steve with a list of the clients that had visited her escort service that day and they had interviewed all of them. They had even managed to question the first out-call client Chrissy had visited, but gained no further clues as to where she was going after she finished with him. All they heard was the same story: she had taken a phone call at the massage parlor of a customer requesting out-call service and Chrissy had not only volunteered to do the job, she had taken the address with her when she left. Phone records had failed to pinpoint where the call had been made from.

  They got a break three days ago when Rick's car was found in San Pedro, near the shipping docks. Rick told investigating officers that he had given Chrissy his car for the day while he'd hung out with friends that day in Hollywood. It had been found parked in an alley nestled between two garbage cans, and judging from the evidence it had most likely been dropped off there not long after Chrissy disappeared. The coroner was certain that Chrissy had been killed the night she disappeared and dumped in the canal the following night after dismemberment. If that was the case, was it possible that her killer transported her remains in her boyfriend's car and that after disposing of her the killer had disposed of the car as well? It seemed likely. Working within that twenty-four hour period, the killer would know that there wouldn't be that big an effort yet in attempting to find her, but he was still taking an incredible risk in driving the car. For all he knew, the car could have been stolen. It demonstrated many things about the killer's psyche, which was beginning to intrigue Daryl.

  “I've had some pretty interesting conversations with one of the FBI profilers,”

  Daryl went on. “A guy named Rexer, who makes his living profiling serial cases for the FBI, looked at what we have on the Butcher and has concluded that our perpetrator is a white male, between twenty-five and forty years old. He is employed, in what kind of profession we don't know yet, but he thinks the perpetrator may have a job that gives him a lot of down time. He probably also lives alone. He would need to in order to dismember some of the bodies."

  “I should think so,” Rachael quipped. “Imagine if he had a roommate. ‘Oh, don't worry, Bubba, wait until I finish cutting this girl's head off and then I'll clean the kitchen and you can cook your dinner.'” She laughed at her own little joke. Daryl chuckled along with her.

  “It would prove awkward, but Rexer has told me that there have been cases in which serial killers like the Butcher have had roommates and killed people right under their noses. In some cases the roommates had knowledge of the crimes and did nothing to report it."

  “What did they do?” Rachael asked, obviously stunned and sickened by the fact.

  “Go along as if nothing was happening? Christ, how could you when you know your roomy is a sicko cutting people up in your own living room?

  “I don't know, Rachael,” Daryl said, shaking his head. “But it has happened.

  Rexer is pretty sure this guy lives alone. The fact that four of the heads haven't been found makes Rexer believe he may be keeping them as souvenirs. Plus, there's the evidence that he kept the remains of some of the victims for a considerable amount of time before discarding them. He kept the Lady of the Ocean for three months, and he kept one of the other victims for a few weeks. I think a roommate would have complained about the smell after awhile."

  Rachael made a face. “I would think so."

  “Rexer also thinks this guy is smart,” Daryl said. “And not just your average serial killer smarts—Rexer said most serial killers possess above average IQ's—but genuine, honest to goodness smarts."

  “Like a college education?” Rachael asked.

  “Like that,” Daryl said. “Or maybe Medical School."

  Rachael raised an eyebrow. “This sounds interesting. The Butcher of East LA as a mad doctor."

  “Or an ex-doctor,” Daryl said. “Or veterinarian, or a medical student, or a chiropractor. Here's why: the anatomical evidence clearly points to a person who had a definite knowledge of human anatomy. The decapitations are a perfect example. In all cases the head was removed cleanly, with as little as a single-stroke through the fourth and fifth central cervical vertebrae. One stroke! Think about that for a
moment: a person unacquainted with basic anatomy, which includes most of us, would spend considerable time hacking away at the bones of the spinal column before the blade slipped between the discs and completed the job. But in all instances there were no nicks or cuts in the bone. It was as if the killer approached the victim from a clinical point of view."

  Rachael shuddered. “That's pretty creepy."

  “Of course we could be wrong,” Daryl continued. He took a swig of beer. “In fact, Rexer doesn't think the killer is a doctor, but he admits it is a possibility. A strong one. He seems to think the killer's knowledge of anatomy comes from one who has perhaps been a hunter or a butcher, one who has dressed animals out for slaughter. Or that perhaps he had committed similar murders elsewhere before coming to Los Angeles."

  “Like in Indiana,” Rachael said.

  “Exactly.” They sat in bed and drank silently. Daryl's thoughts were now running a mile a minute. There were so many possibilities, so many things to consider, that it was hard to pigeon-hole this killer into one category.

  “Assuming everything you've told me about the psychological profile is correct,”

  Rachael said, “what does Rexer think is the killer's motivation? Why gang members and their associates? Does he have a God complex, ridding society of what he feels to be vermin?"

  “It's possible,” Daryl murmured. “People think Jack the Ripper may have killed prostitutes to rid London of the whores that were responsible for spreading syphilis. Other serial killers have certainly chosen victims on the basis of their own prejudices and hatred. It could very well be the case with this guy."

  “Either way, the fact that he is killing gang members and is doing it so well leads me to believe something,” Rachael said.

  “And what's that?"

  “He lives in the area. He's very familiar with it. So familiar with it that he feels totally at ease."

  Daryl nodded, sipping his beer. “I agree, and so does Rexer. His disposal of Javier Perez is a perfect example. He would have to have known that the area he dumped Perez in would have been uninhabited between the hours of two am and seven or so. Which means he is not only familiar with the area, he is well tapped into the criminal community. He could be a drug dealer or buyer, a gang member, hell he could even be a—"

  “A cop?” Rachael asked.

  A pit of ice dropped in Daryl's stomach. He looked at Rachael and her eyes grew wide at the sight of his face. “I didn't mean it that way,” she blurted, looking as if she was ashamed of saying the wrong thing. “It's just that..."

  “What's the matter?” He asked, his heart starting to beat faster at the look on her face.

  “Nothing.” She turned away from him and took a swig of beer.

  “No, really.” He grabbed her arm gently, trying to get her to look at him. “What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

  She took a deep breath, then turned back to him. Her features were more composed now, and she attempted a smile. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I guess I just spooked myself out."

  “About what?"

  “By thinking out loud that the Butcher might be a cop."

  The observation had scared Daryl as well. What scared him more now was her reaction to her comment shortly after she made it; how she had looked alarmed at him, as if she were looking at the devil himself rather than the man she had been dating for the past three months. “You don't think I—” he began.

  She laughed. It was a half-hearted attempt at breaking the ice and relieving some of the tension that had built up. “Don't be silly,” she said, grasping his hand and locking his fingers in hers. “I don't think you're the Eastside Butcher."

  “But for a moment you did,” he said, staring directly into her eyes.

  She smiled at him, as if to say that the thought hadn't even entered her pretty head.

  But her eyes strayed from his, riveting back to his by sheer force of will. “Not once,” she said, softly.

  Daryl set his Corona down on the end table on his side of the bed, and put his arms around her. “Oh, baby, you don't have to fib to me."

  “I'm not fibbing!"

  “It's okay to be scared."

  “But I'm not scared..."

  “Rachael!” He looked at her, sternly.

  Her gaze met his and this time she did a better job of meeting his. “Okay, well maybe a little."

  “A little?"

  She nodded, her features darkening. “God, I know it sounds awful, but..."

  “But what?"

  “Please don't be mad at me."

  He laughed. “What could I possibly be mad at you about?"

  She put her bottle down on the end table on her side of the bed. “For thinking that you could be capable of killing those people."

  Daryl looked down at her, feeling such a strong emotion of love surge through him that he didn't know what to do. Part of him wanted to sweep her up in his arms and hug her, kiss her, tell her that everything would be okay. Another part of him wanted to shake her for even being so foolish. But the rational part of him told him that she wasn't being foolish. She's only known you for three months, this voice whispered in the back of his mind. Give the woman a break. She's just reacting to her strongest gut instinct. She shouldn't be ridiculed for it.

  “I'm not mad at you,” he murmured.

  “Are you sure?"

  “God, of course, Rachael,” he said, drawing her into his arms. She went to him, head resting against his chest as he held her. He stroked her head, her shoulders. “I don't blame you for thinking what you did; it's natural. It's human to cast such suspicion. It illustrates what we're dealing with here; that the person responsible for these murders is as outwardly normal as you or I and not some slobbering, insane looking Charles Manson look-a-like. He could be the guy next door, the guy who bags your groceries or who does the tune-up on your car.” He looked out past her, over her head and into the wall. “Or like you said, even a cop."

  “I only said it because I was trying to come up with the kind of people who could feel at ease in those neighborhoods,” she said against his chest. “And I thought, why not a cop? They would have a reason to do it—they think gang members and criminals like them are scum—and they could move around in those areas undetected. And they would know the daily routine of those neighborhoods. They would know that the area under the Eighty-first Street bridge is empty after two in the morning."

  Rachael was right. As they sat on the bed holding each other, Daryl was suddenly aware of this one important fact: whoever killed these people had not only done what most serial killers have done in the past, but he had accomplished this with some very street savvy people. Granted, prostitutes were almost always easy prey, even the most street-wise of them, but gang members had a reputation for being killers themselves.

  Most people, even other criminals, normally gave gang members or people that dressed in the baggy clothes they preferred, a wide berth when they came across them. The fact that the Eastside Butcher was targeting a group of people often hated and feared in the community gave Daryl a new insight on the psyche of this killer. It had to be somebody who was very familiar with the community. A cop would be the perfect person. Or a probation officer. Somebody the gang members trusted and saw all the time.

  Daryl thought about the last time he had fucked up a gang member just for the sheer pleasure of it and winced.

  “I'm sorry if I scared you,” Rachael said.

  “It's okay,” Daryl said. “You got me thinking."

  “About what?"

  “About the kind of people who could be capable of being the Butcher.” He reached for his beer and took a sip. For the first time in his career as a detective, he was having misgivings about the way he had treated some of the gang members in the area he worked. “It would be almost poetic justice for our killer to act as a vigilante, ridding the world of society's vermin. Maybe some people think this killer is hearing the voice of God. It's certainly a thought that has come up with so
me of the detectives we're working with on this case. Every single victim has either been a gang member or has ties with the gangs. All with the exception of our unidentified victim from last July, and the Riverside victim whose criminal record came up filled with petty crimes. But I'll tell you one thing: he's much smarter than that. He's not targeting these people to rid the streets of crime like some vigilante.” His voice trailed as he took another sip of beer, staring out into the hall.

  “He's just like all other serial killers."

  “How?"

  “The killings are all sexually motivated. We're dealing with a man who is possibly bisexual, according to Rexer. And he could care less about ridding the streets of the lower strata of society as so many of us would like to think. You've seen some of the recent newspaper stories? The one's that reported that over seventy percent of the population of the city thinks the police should just let this guy keep at it because he's killing the gang members and their associates?"

  Rachael nodded. “I did read that. It was disgusting.” And it was. The poll created controversy among the Latino and African American population who claimed that it was another racist attempt by the city, and the press, to cast Latinos and African Americans as a bad element. More racist bullshit.

  “But accurate,” Daryl said. “Face it, Rachael, to many people this guy is doing the city a favor. Hell, even most of the cops I work with are secretly applauding this guy.

  They almost resent the fact that they have to track his ass down."

  “And you?” She asked, her gaze more direct and demanding now. “Do you feel the same way?"

  Daryl hesitated for a moment, images of putting a loaded gun to Rudy Montego's temple and forcing a murder confession out of him flitting briefly through his mind. “In a way, I do. I have my reasons for hating gang members as much as I do,” He struggled with what he wanted to say; part of him was now angry at Rachael for bringing this up.

  “But I also see the internal conflicts this guy is creating in the neighborhood. That is the reason why I want to stop him. It's the reason why I am so drawn to this case. Ever since this guy started killing, the gangs have been more tense. Gang homicides have shot up by almost thirty percent. The residents of the neighborhoods are more jumpy, have become more prone to violence themselves. Just last week a homeowner in Echo Park shot and killed a teenager because he thought the kid was the Butcher. The kid had slipped into the backyard and was hiding out from a rival gang. In the dark the homeowner just...” His voice trailed slightly and he took another sip of beer. “He just couldn't tell in the dark if it was a man or not. He was scared. He fired first, asked questions later.” He turned to Rachael, feeling more tired now than he had ever felt in his career. “In a way, the aftershocks the Butcher's murders have created are worse than the actual crimes themselves.