Southside (9781608090563)

by Krikorian, Michael

  “He’s gone. The guy who shot the judge. He’s gone. He tore out going toward Beverly,” said a timid country club employee from near the pro shop. By now, the parking attendant was back, and he told the officers the car was a Taurus, silver or light blue and the “driver was a black guy, forty or fifty, something like that.”

  Three minutes later, after Chief Miller, Commander Kuwahara, and the detectives got the news, all doubt was gone. An all-points bulletin to be on the lookout—a BOLO—for Edward Sims driving a Ford Taurus was issued. Minutes later, the car was found by passing cops, suspicious of a tired Taurus on a street of ten-million-dollar mansions.

  Sims got off the bus at Alvarado Street and checked into a fifty-two-dollar room at the Royal Viking, paying for two nights up front. The motel, across the street from the Royal Thai Massage, Viva Bargain Center, and Tango Room cocktail lounge, had seen better times as evidenced by the razor wire atop its chain-link fence. Sims wondered if he had ever seen razor wire protecting a motel from the streets. Then again, he thought, maybe it was to protect the neighborhood from the motel.

  Upon entering room 41, he turned on the television. Before he had two sweaters off, “Breaking News” was showing helicopter views of the Wilshire Country Club with an inset of Sims’s driver’s license photo. He glanced at a mirror and back at the photo. The shaved head helped.

  He could hear the faint sound of scattered, soft rain against the window. He thought of Leslie Harrington and her rain. He craved a cognac, but he stayed inside till darkness fell.

  Sims left his room that cloudy, drizzly night at ten thirty, to get a loaf of Weber’s white sandwich bread, a jar of Skippy’s creamy peanut butter, a liter bottle and a 200-milliliter bottle—what many still called a half pint—of Hennessy, and a non-Major League Baseball-sanctioned L.A. Dodgers cap at Crest Jr. Liquors three blocks west on 3rd Street just past St. Vincent Medical Center. The Korean owner and Mexican American helper barely noticed him, paying rapt attention to the Lakers-Suns game at Staples that had gone into double overtime. Outside, he grabbed an L.A. Weekly.

  By the time he made it back to his room at the Royal Viking, half the half pint was warming his guts. He watched television. More on the shooting of the judge, but no breaking news. He laughed at that. He knew the next time there was breaking news on his case it would be “live” on 89th Street, right in front of Mr. and Mrs. Desmond’s house.

  All night, he lay awake on a hard, queen-size bed, tossed and turned like a an old, out-of-balance washing machine in a North Compton coin laundry, and drank from the upended Hennessy liter as if it were mother’s milk. It was L.A. cold outside and the heater inside didn’t work. Still, Sims was sweating. He threw off the sheets and toxins oozed out of him. He thumbed though the Weekly. He read a feel-good piece about a woman who had been wounded in Hyde Park by a stray gang bullet, but had recovered enough to start her dream job of driving a bus. It didn’t make him feel good. He missed a piece by Michael Lyons about a serial killer.

  He laughed when he thought about King Funeral. On his way to Pelican Bay, he had dropped off the tape, which he had taken from Terminal, to the homies at 74th and Hoover with instructions to watch it. He knew where to drop it because on the video, the announcer—actually the deputy Boylston—introduced Funeral as “The King of 74th and Hoover.” Sims relished having the power of death.

  Sims actually looked forward to death after he completed the Revenge and it was a peaceful thought. Nothing but sleep lay ahead for him. That sounded nice. An eternity of peaceful, ultimate slumber. Lay me down next to Payton in the cold Inglewood Park dirt.

  That next morning was a dazzling Los Angeles day, like the day Lyons had been shot on 2nd Street. The gray sky had turned cerulean blue strewn with three gigantic, billowy clouds, the kind you want to take a nap on. From Sims’s second-floor room at the Royal Viking, even Alvarado Street looked clean.

  That afternoon, Lyons went to a joint press conference the mayor and chief of police gave on the steps of City Hall, across the street from a former heroin mart now awash in bougainvillea. He stayed way back, away from TV reporters and their cameramen. Both the mayor and the chief admitted that a serial killer, dubbed the Evil Killer, was loose in the city. Lyons felt a tinge of not quite pride, but satisfaction when he heard that. They took turns answering questions. Lyons had no questions, he never did near a TV camera.

  “Chief Miller has assured me everything possible is being done to track this deranged man down and bring him to justice,” the mayor said. He rambled on for a few more minutes before the chief took over.

  “Yes, there is a serial killer on a rampage. However—and I cannot stress this enough—” the chief said, “the people he is targeting, all of his victims, have a direct connection with an incarcerated gang leader named Cleamon Desmond, better known as Big Evil. The suspect’s son was ordered killed by Cleamon Desmond years ago. The suspect, Edward Sims, is seeking revenge in his own sick way. At this point, we believe both Judge Harold Reese and Deputy District Attorney Leslie Harrington were killed because they did not go for the death penalty against Cleamon Desmond who is serving a sentence of life without the possibility of parole in Northern California. He will never get out of prison, but, apparently, that was not enough for Edward Sims. We now believe that reporter Michael Lyons may have been also a victim of this sick individual.”

  Lyons walked away content as Miller continued. “Mr. Sims, if you can hear me, please turn yourself in before you and other people are harmed. I know and you know your good son would not want this.”

  Sims could hear him loud and clear at the Royal Viking. “Okay, Chief. Whatever you say. I’ll turn myself in tomorrow. Right after I kill Big Evil’s mother.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Desmond had been alerted that the Evil Killer had struck again. Still, they refused an offer by the LAPD to be put up at a hotel near the airport. They were proud people and they were not going to run. LaBarbera and Hart had made a special appeal to Mrs. Desmond personally, but she was unfazed. “If the good Lord feels it is my time, then it is my time. Thank you, Sal, and thank you, Johnny, but this has been my home for forty-one years, and I am not being forced out of it by anyone except Jesus Christ himself.”

  In Orange County, sheriff’s deputies had tracked down Evil’s white girlfriend Helen Truman, who was delighted to be put up at a hotel room until the killer was caught. She had hit a stretch of bad road and was back living with her mother in Santa Ana. She hoped Sims wouldn’t be caught anytime soon.

  CHAPTER 30

  Sims wanted to get as close as possible to the Desmond household. He knew there would be, if not a straight-out stakeout, at least a near constant patrol in the area. Maybe even a cop planted inside the house, though he doubted that, knowing the Desmonds.

  That day, the subject of a massive manhunt ate peanut butter sandwiches washed down with Hennessy. He even watched old sitcoms: Happy Days, Good Times, The Jeffersons. He spent another sweaty night at the Royal Viking, and he finalized his plan.

  The next day, wearing the Dodgers cap, sunglasses, and two sweaters over a brown shirt and pants, he boarded a southbound RTD bus on Alvarado. At Washington Boulevard he transferred to a westbound bus to Western Avenue where he caught a southbound bus heading for Gardena. No one had noticed him. Fellow passengers paid him no mind. They had their own problems.

  An idea had come to him when a UPS truck passed him the other day on the big, sweeping transition from the Harbor Freeway to the Santa Monica Freeway. He knew there were always a lot of “Big Brown” trucks coming and going around Western and Artesia since they had a major facility two blocks away.

  He headed that way and made his headquarters in what was becoming an urban dinosaur, a public pay phone booth, on the edge of an Arco station. He lifted the receiver and pretended to talk while he scanned for a UPS truck. There was a Del Taco right across the street and a Wendy’s twenty feet from the phone booth.

  After more than a hour, Sims saw what he was looking
for. A UPS truck pulled into the parking lot behind Wendy’s. The driver did not use the drive-through, either because the truck couldn’t fit or maybe he just wanted to sit inside, enjoying that rare sit-down meal for a UPS driver who usually are on the run. Must’ve finished his route early.

  Sims caught a break when he saw the driver was a woman, a small one at that. When she was done, she headed back to her UPS truck. About thirty seconds later, she was tied up in the back, her mouth wrapped in tape, being quietly assured she would not be hurt. “Just please don’t try to jump out. I will not hurt you. Just sit still for twenty minutes, and this will all be over. Do you know who I am?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, then. Then you know I am only dealing with people associated with Big Evil. So you can relax—unless you’re a friend of Big Evil?”

  She shook her head so violently she nearly pulled a neck muscle.

  He took Artesia onto the 91 East and exited at Central. He headed north on Central, through and past West Compton, under the 105 Freeway, to the stretch of road Detective Waxman had taken to visit him. He passed the Nickerson Gardens, passed his bank, passed the park. At 94th and Central, Sims dialed 911 on the UPS driver’s cell phone. “I just saw the Evil Killer get out of a car on 94th and Central and go into that market there. I am sure it is him.”

  “What is your name, sir?”

  “Do I have to give it? I’m afraid. I am sure it is him.” He hung up and tossed the phone out.

  Though 911 had received more than three dozen such leads, this call was sent out on a special frequency set up yesterday solely for Evil Killer information. Patrol cars in the area, even those parked near the Desmond house, sped toward 94th Street. As Sims continued north on Central, he saw three cruisers zooming south. Sims turned left onto 89th Street.

  A UPS truck was not a familiar sight in the Eighty-Nine Family ’hood, but it wasn’t as if a spaceship had landed when Sims pulled the “Big Brown” P-600 UPS truck to a stop in front of Cleveland and Betty Desmond’s house. Dodgers cap pulled low over his forehead, sweaters off, he quickly got out and knocked hard three times on the heavy metal security door.

  Fifteen seconds later he heard a “Who is it?” He knew the voice. He tried to disguise his. “UPS delivery for Cleveland Desmond.”

  “Just leave it,” Betty Desmond said.

  “That’s fine.” Sims left a box he had grabbed from the UPS truck on the porch and began slowly walking back to the front gate. When he heard the door open, he did not look back. When he heard the security door open he did not look back. By the time Betty Desmond had bent over to pick up the box, Sims was at the gate, but, suddenly, he spun and dashed back to the front door. Before she could scream, Sims had Big Evil’s mother back in the house with a gun pointed at her chest.

  “Pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Desmond. So sorry about Terminal.”

  “Bobby.”

  “Let’s compromise and just call him dead boy with the mashed-in face. Just to let you know, in his last moments he suffered very much, but not like I have.” He walked her through the house. No one else was there. He pushed her hard down onto a couch. “Sit down. I have some calls to make. I will kill you in an instant if you move or yell. I think you know I’m capable.”

  “What do you want? You’re sick. What did I do to you?”

  “Your son killed my son, and now he is paying the price.” He pulled out a piece of paper and began dialing. After five phone calls—to police divisions at Southeast and 77th Street, the Times city desk, Channel 7 Eyewitness News, and his estranged wife, a call that didn’t go though, Sims was ready for the Revenge’s last act.

  In fifteen minutes, the circus came to town. The SWAT team was there. Hostage negotiators. At least thirty cruisers. The media throngs had been pushed back more than a block. The square of Central, Manchester, 92nd and Wadsworth was cordoned off. But LaBarbera and Hart let me in. It was rare, but not unheard of, to let a reporter inside the crime tape. I had been inside several times, but never on such a dramatic scene. My friend and old pod mate, sexy Carly Engstrom, wearing knee-high white leather boots, was on scene, too, and yelling at Johnny Hart. Apparently, cop reporter Morty Goldstein, who never left the office, had told her to get down here, and the city editor agreed. Hart, eager to score points with Carly, walked over, took her by the hand, and led her under the crime tape to where Sal and I were with the others.

  “Mikey, this is so exciting,” she said and squeezed my hand.

  “It is now that you’re here,” I said.

  “You’re right about that, Lyons,” said Hart. “But, keep your pretty head low. You hear me. Do not, under any circumstances, act like Lyons.”

  Carly laughed.

  The lead hostage negotiator decided he would have LaBarbera take first crack at Sims since he was so familiar with the case. LaBarbera was handed a small megaphone. “Mr. Sims, this is Detective LaBarbera. You want to get at Evil, but you are not getting at him from there. Give up and go to Pelican Bay.”

  “Shuddup. Don’t lie to me. I’ll go to San Quentin and you know that. Killing a judge and D.A. I’m not stupid. If you speak again, she’s dead.”

  LaBarbera, not wanting to push a maniac, gave up the megaphone. Hart shook his head. “Great job, Sal. Whaddya get in hostage negotiating class? A D minus?” I had to muffle a laugh. To me, a D minus is the worst of all grades. It indicates that you tried and sucked.

  I was huddled safely behind the stolen UPS truck with LaBarbera, Hart, Kuwahara, Engstrom, several SWAT unit members, and the lead hostage negotiator. I could tell Kuwahara was pissed at his detectives for allowing me to get in close, but was too busy to deal with that now—until I opened my mouth.

  “Maybe I should tell him I’ll trade places with her,” I told the group.

  “Shut the fuck up, Lyons, or so help me—” said Kuwahara. “No, no, just get out of here now. Go. Back away. Now!” Having no option, I obeyed, taking a couple of crouched steps away.

  The SWAT unit snipers did not have a good shot. There was no good angle into the house. Back in the mid-1980s, the Desmonds, fearful of drive-bys into their kitchen, which faced the alley, had not only boarded up the kitchen windows, but had them cemented shut. This eliminated several angle shots.

  CHAPTER 31

  Sims was holding his pistol to the head of Betty Desmond, his forearm wrapped firmly around her throat, his mouth so close to her ear, she could hear the cognac sloshing. He yelled out that if they did anything, if he heard or saw anything like a “flash or bang or grenade, tear gas or any other tricks,” he would immediately “kill the lady.”

  Outside, Hart said, “This guy is so far gone.”

  “Do we have a shot?” LaBarbera asked the SWAT unit commander.

  “Not yet.”

  Inside, Sims said, “Say a prayer, Mrs. Desmond. One single woman created Evil and Terminal. You must be the mother of the year. I am the motherfucker of the year.”

  Betty Desmond looked around for something she could use to hit this deranged person.

  Outside, I moved back closer to Sal and asked, “Who is the SIC?”

  “What the fuck is the SIC?”

  “Sniper in charge.”

  “Where do you come up with this shit?” Still, he pointed to a man on a porch across 89th Street and two houses down. “Don’t do anything crazy now, Lyons.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” I said as I scampered away to the house with the snipers, two on the roof, two on the porch. The taller of the porch shooters was in charge.

  “Get outta here.”

  “I’m with Sal.”

  “I know who you are. You’re a distraction, goddamnit. Get the hell out.”

  “One question. Just one. Do you know who Zaistev was?”

  “The greatest sniper of all time. Not counting me. Now go!”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Inside the house, Sims spotted Mr. Desmond’s prized cognac, the bottle o
f Rémy Martin XO that Terminal had bought for him years ago. “Look, the Desmond family has the fancy cognac. All my life, I wanted to try some of that XO.”

  “Help yourself,” said Betty Desmond, praying for any distraction.

  Sims dragged her to the cabinet where the Rémy glowed. “Open it and pour me a glass, a snifter. Let’s do this right.”

  She reached for the curvy bottle, but then suddenly he tightened his grip on her neck and yanked her away.

  “No, no. Not a good idea. You might try and hurt me with that bottle. Any woman that raised Big Evil must know how to go on the attack.” He released his grip on her, but not his stare, not his aim. Without looking away from her, he thumb opened the Rémy Martin and lifted it. He considered pouring the amber into a snifter, but instead, eyes like a laser on Betty Desmond, brought the bottle to his lips and poured the cognac into his mouth. He put the bottle down, resumed his vise grip on her neck, and only then did he slowly swallow. He savored it as much as a man can with a SWAT unit waiting outside to kill him.

  “Do you think it’s a shame to drink this fine stuff from the bottle?”

  “You’re worried about shame now? Mister, you shamed yourself a long time ago. You shamed the memory of your son.”

  Sims ratcheted her neck even tighter.

  • • •

  Outside, I crouch-jogged back near Hart, who was now safely behind a patrol car with Carly Engstrom and two other cops, next to the UPS truck.

  For some unknown reason, my mind clicked to a concert I recently saw at the Sports Arena before I was shot. It was Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.

  In the midst of the chaos on 89th Street, I thought about that concert, and it gave me strength. The same strength I had when I saw Springsteen that night. When I heard him sing “Land of Hope and Dreams,” a song about dreams not thwarted, and faith rewarded. It was so uplifting, so rousing, more than a church sermon, more than any speech. And I felt invincible. I was on my feet most of the concert. And now, here on the Southside, I stood up.