Good Morning, Killer

by April Smith

  “He’s alive and well and testifying against me.”

  “So”—the suspect wasn’t stupid, he could put two and two together—“what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been after you, sir, for a long time.”

  He liked that.

  “I didn’t know I was so important to the FBI.”

  “You have created a lot of interest in our office, sir.”

  I did not want to feed his grandiosity even more by letting him know that the whole world was there—the suits from Culver City, LAPD and Santa Monica, as well as our SWAT team chief and the highest-ranking supervisors in the Los Angeles field, all gathered in a makeshift command center, all focused entirely on him.

  And soon we would hear the helicopters from the local news.

  I smiled at Ray Brennan, genuinely, and don’t know why. Perhaps because I saw his desperation, in the skittering tiptoe strut between the front windows and back, checking here, checking there, like a rat constantly smelling the air. Perhaps because, beyond whatever happened to me, I knew the way it would end for him: what SWAT guys call a “head shot,” quick and sweet.

  I also knew the psychology of the bond between assailant and victim and so discarded what I was feeling for him, which was compassion. How could that really be? The naked house was unnerving—opposite to what a house should hold—and it was clear he had grown up exactly in this cold-wall emptiness, mother with a wooden tit. It was more than passing strange—Ray Brennan in his phantasmic tank top and camis, and I in black T-shirt and nail-torn jeans, standing almost casually together like strangers at a cocktail party who have just hit on a connection: I shot my boyfriend. He kills girls. What now?

  We were not completely strangers. Over the long pursuit and struggle, had we not come to know each other well—both outsiders, way beyond the norm? Would those civilians in the crowded apartment buildings all around us, spooning mush into the mouths of babies, counting dollars from their minimum wages, ever breathe the pure oxygen of risk, of going over the edge, knowing superhuman power over other human beings, dancing easily across enemy lines because they were smart, smart, smart?

  Ray Brennan smiled genuinely back, as if this were true and complete, and we were man and woman of a different race.

  Like strangers at a cocktail party, we were lying to each other and ourselves. The difference was that I knew this, and he did not.

  “Inadequate personalities,” a New York City police negotiator once told me, “need to be told what to do.”

  “Show me the other girl.”

  He indicated with the knife that I should go ahead down the hall.

  “On the left,” I said for the folks I hoped were listening. “That would be the north side of the house. Is that your studio? I bet I know why. Because of the light. Artists’ studios will generally face north,” I reiterated as clearly as possible, but the babble halted as we entered the studio and my breath caught in my throat: “You’re quite an artist, sir.”

  For the next five and a half hours I sat on a metal chair, hands bound behind my back with flex cuffs, in a room white and clean as an operating theater. It was an ordered sanctuary where time made sense because time had been turned into action that was repetitive and understandable; you could contemplate the passing of the weeks in the razor-straight rows and rows of photographs of sexual assaults. The dates were right there, printed with bold precision, in the right lower corner of each shot.

  Bridget, the girl from photo day, had apparently fallen off a chair and hit a rack of lights, which crashed while we were in the living room. She had been lying unconscious on her side in a mess of broken glass when we entered. She was still fully dressed, in cowgirl garb identical to her sister’s—denim jacket, tight jeans and red high heels—dark hair half covering her face. She had been bound wrists to ankles and gagged with her own red kerchief. Small rivulets of blood from superficial cuts made by the broken glass crisscrossed her forehead and ran down the side of her nose. A black Stetson hat and a small leopard purse stood on a counter beside a six-pack of Coke. One can had been removed. I saw the cooler Juliana had described on the sanded and finished floor.

  Brennan crossed his arms and fingered his elbow skin and gave an appraisal of the quarry: “This one is an eight. Maybe an eight and a half. My preferred type has fuller lips. But she was trusting, the most innocent creature,” he said thoughtfully, gazing down at the sleeping girl.

  “I’m concerned about her. Are you?”

  “What for?”

  “Well, is she all right? She’s bleeding, and she looks like she was drugged.”

  “She’s happy.”

  “You think she’s happy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It makes you happy to look at her like that?”

  “Not really.”

  “Should we do something to make her look better, sir?”

  “I’ll take care of that,” he said.

  “You know, if you’re hungry, the folks outside will get you something. Pizza. Anything you want. All you have to do is pick up the phone.”

  “That’s okay, I brought my lunch.”

  “Is it in the cooler?”

  “Yeah.”

  And so it went, a hiccupping conversation, alternately dreary, charged, flat and hostile. They talk about “seeing the face of training” during situations of high alert, and I did. I saw the smooth kind face of the singer Harry Belafonte, who resembled our hostage negotiation training officer, whose name I had forgotten, and heard the trainer’s gently ironic voice—“Don’t forget to ask the guy to come out”—and it was a secret refuge to remember the time he admonished our class to set fitness goals: “Here is my challenge to you: If I don’t lose twenty pounds in six months, I’ll shave my head.”

  So the face of “Harry” was with me in the photo studio, where the studs had been drywalled and painted over, and on the drywall was pinned Ray Brennan’s collection of photographs, some from magazines, some glossy and fresh, some downloaded from the Internet, of female suffering inflicted by the mutilation of female anatomy or, in close-up, of Brennan himself in the act of anal or vaginal penetration, or demonstrating his famous strangulation techniques. There were rows of chains and belts neatly hung on the same portable rack I had seen in the Bureau darkroom that Hugh Akron used for strips of negatives.

  If your hands were tied and you had run out of tactic options, “Be a good witness,” Harry had said.

  Two cameras were set on tripods trained on the chair from which Bridget had fallen.

  I could not look closely at the pictures because if I had seen what he had done to Juliana (it was documented, on the south wall), I would have gone into my own mindless homicidal rage. I had noticed—and narrated into my purse—that the back entrance to the cottage was barricaded on the inside by a security gate. He had foreseen the possibility of escape. The mission, I repeated to myself, was to keep him calm until SWAT could make the shot.

  So I asked endless questions about photography, digging around in the brainpan for scraps of photographic factoids. The name Walker Evans bubbled up. Which did Brennan prefer, digital or film? Film, we agreed, was for the serious professional. Did he know crime scene examiners still went for the old four-by-five-inch cameras? You got the best detail. Brennan’s work, I observed without looking at it, was “Impressive.”

  “You mean I’m a sick fuck.”

  “Is that how you see yourself?”

  He scoffed and shook his head. “What would any normal person think?”

  “They’d think you care about your collection.”

  “You know how much money these shots are worth?”

  “You tell me.”

  He whistled, as if the sum were too shocking to say. “A lot of sick fucks out there.”

  “But this is your stuff. It’s special to you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The next time they call, maybe you should answer the phone.”

  “What for?”


  “So they don’t bust in here and torch it.”

  He considered this, as I considered whipping the remaining rack of hot explosive lights into his smug, clean-shaven face.

  “When you shot your boyfriend, Ana, was it a turn-on? Did you get aroused?”

  “No.”

  “Sure you did. Let’s face it, you’re a little girl. You brought down a buck. Don’t tell me it wasn’t a thrill.”

  “It wasn’t a thrill.”

  “Can I share something?” Brennan was sitting against the wall again, with the lug soles in my face. “Big hair is out.”

  “You think this is big hair? I don’t have big hair, it’s just wavy.”

  “I prefer a ponytail, with the ears showing, and tiny studs. What did your boyfriend like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know! That’s the problem, right there! And you say you two were in looove?” he crooned mockingly, flipping the knife between his legs.

  “I cared about him.”

  “Of course you did, you’re a good person, you have exuberance for life, I can tell that.”

  “Can you?”

  Talking about Andrew made me sweat; a couple of dozen cops and FBI people listening.

  “Did you like it when he made love to you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Did you tell him that you liked it?”

  A voice jumped out of my throat. “Shut up!” I screamed. “It’s none of your business!”

  He startled, on his feet and going to the pistol in his belt.

  “Shut up? You’re telling me to shut up, lowly bitch?”

  “You know what I would like?” I said fiercely. “I would like my boyfriend to come in here and beat the crap out of you.”

  Wrong, all wrong, you are totally off the track—

  “That’s not about to happen, is it?” Brennan replied, and now he was pissed.

  Wrong, to get him all worked up with a male challenge. What are you doing? That is exactly wrong—

  The phone rang.

  As if they knew! As if they were listening on 911 and heard it escalate and tried to cut it off.

  “Answer it,” I whispered. “Your collection.”

  He ticked the barrel of the gun back and forth at my face and went into the living room and picked up the phone.

  “How are you?” the negotiator said on the tape.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I’m just curious to know, how is everybody in the house?”

  “Everybody’s fine.”

  “How is Ana Grey?”

  “Ana?” he smirked. “Ana is not in a position to talk right now.”

  “Besides you and Ana, how is everybody else in the house?”

  “I’ve got two!”

  “You’ve got two ladies?”

  “Yeah, that’s right!”

  “Why don’t you let one of them go?”

  “No way!” said Brennan. “No way ever. You’re going to have to come in and get me.”

  It was night by then, and the grinding roar of helicopters vibrated the bones in my head. Outside, beyond the perimeter, the media waited with turned-off lights; they’d flood the place when there was action. SWAT could see Brennan now with night vision, and I was tormented at why they did not take the shot while he was in the living room, edging the metal chair closer to where my bag lay on the floor, trying to poke it open with my feet. Brennan was back before I could see if there was glow on the blue faceplate, if it still held charge, or if I were talking to the dark.

  “Did you tell them what you want?” I asked tiredly. From the booming headache that had begun even before the helicopters, I was certain that I had a concussion.

  He did not answer. He was crouched between the painted-over windows, sunk into some inner negative space, features gone flaccid and eyes dull.

  “I want everyone to go away.”

  When a suspect wants something he will say it over and over. Brennan had wanted nothing, over and over. They would have noted on the situation board, NO DEMANDS, and worried because that was not good. Keeping us here—Bridget still knocked out on the floor—was not good, either. It meant he was going to finish.

  “Sir, I’m curious to know what’s going on with you, and if there’s some way I can help.”

  He held up a hand. “Ana,” as if we were old pals, “stop. I know exactly what you’re doing.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “Trying to create a psychological profile of me.”

  “Give me a break,” I said, “I can’t even spell it.”

  He smiled. “I know I’m a freak.”

  Then, for some reason, he took off his shirt.

  I did not like that, at all.

  I did not like seeing the thin, hard physique and the pinched nipples. I didn’t know what that message was supposed to be.

  “So you and your friends in the FBI have been looking for me?”

  Did he need more strokes?

  “You’re a priority, sir.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t think it would go down like this.”

  I acknowledged my situation: “Fantasies are perfect. Life is not.”

  He smiled at that, too.

  “There’s my baby. Now she’s getting up.”

  Bridget’s eyes had opened to a dull stare. The blood on her face had flaked dry.

  When the phone rang again, he went to answer quickly.

  “Bridget!” I hissed. “Are you okay? The police are here. We’re going to get you out.”

  Then Brennan came back, pouting.

  “They said no.”

  “No to what?”

  “All I wanted was to see my sister.”

  “They wouldn’t let you see your sister?”

  He shook his head. Hard-asses. They had probably admonished him for breaking contact. Tried to reestablish the rules. I was hungry and my head was throbbing. In despair, I could only support the choices they had made.

  “That’s it, then. They’re not going anywhere. As long as we’re here, they’re here.”

  “You told me to tell them what I want.”

  “Yes, but you have to give them something in exchange.”

  “You see, it’s all a stupid game, like Russia and the United States.”

  “What’s going on with Bridget?”

  She was awake but not moving. Pink froth gathered at her mouth.

  “She’ll be paralyzed for a little bit longer,” he said, kicking her leg. “Then she’ll be fine.”

  “The difference between you playing their game or not,” I said quickly, to distract him, “is you on death row, or not.”

  Bridget had begun to moan.

  “I love my sister.”

  “Let me talk to them. I want to tell them what an exceptional job you’ve done in keeping everyone safe.”

  He looked up with sad eyes, meant to uncork my sympathy. If you had met Ray Brennan on the street, your heart would have been touched by his core loneliness.

  “My sister understands. She forgives my sins.”

  “Right,” I stuttered, imagining what role his sister had played—or been forced to play—in this tragic madness. “She knows who you are.” I tried to wet my lips. “You’re a good person who … who … I don’t know, sir, but something happened … Something really bad … But it happens to all of us, in some way. Did you know that?”

  Big fat tears of humiliation and exhaustion had escaped and were rolling down my face. If I could crawl over to where he was sitting in the other metal chair and embrace him, he would stab me in the heart.

  “—It happens to us all.”

  “Like you and your boyfriend?”

  “Me and Andrew,” I confessed.

  “Andrew.” His lips began to quiver as if I had held out a sweet. “You miss him?”

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t you who did it.”

  “No,” I said, and he agreed: it wasn’t him who did things, either.

 
He watched me, with bright and curious eyes.

  “Do you think,” he asked, after a moment, “God forgives everybody?”

  I sniffed and wiped my nose on my shoulder.

  “Yes,” I said, “yes I do, and I think, sir, that now we’re really friends, okay? Because you and I have been to places none of these other people are going to see … So let’s help each other out, as friends.”

  His eyes, behind the oval lenses, still held the question.

  “Yes,” I declared with all my soul, “God forgives you, but you have to ask. You have to show God you’re sorry. I know you’re sorry, so—let’s show him. Let’s walk out of here … like you know your sister would want you to do.”

  “I have work,” he said uncertainly.

  “Let’s help each other out. Let’s go now. God is listening.”

  “How long will I be in prison?”

  “Um, well, you’ll have to accept some responsibility for your actions, sir, but I know the judge is going to be lenient when he sees how serious you are about making this right.”

  Docile and repentant now, he freed my hands and helped me rise stiffly from the chair.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have done that to you. I’m sorry for my crimes.”

  “You’re doing the right thing, sir. I’m proud of you, I am. We’re all going to walk out of here. I’m going to call them on the phone and tell them. Then we’re going to walk out the door. There’ll be a couple of guys right outside who will tell us what to do and where to go. Okay? We just do what they tell us. Are you with me?”

  “Let’s do it,” he said with a lift of the chin.

  “Put your weapons down, sir. Place them down on the floor, over there, away from the girl.”

  Brennan squatted and laid the KA-BAR knife and pistol on the ground.

  “Thank you, sir. Now back away, please.”

  He did, and I snatched up the weapons, light-headed and delirious with a sudden total body rush.

  “They’ll shoot me.”

  “They won’t shoot you because we’re going to do everything slow and easy. How’re you feeling?”

  “Weird.”

  “That’s okay. It’s all pretty weird when you think about it.”

  I tried not to hurry as he shuffled ahead to the front room. When I picked up the heavy receiver of the old black phone the primary negotiator was right on the line.