THE
FOURTH
BULLET
A Novel By
Patrick Dakin
PROLOGUE
Los Angeles. Late on a sunny afternoon. Mid-summer.
A group of five young woman, all stunningly attractive, gather around a small table in a trendy little bar off Rodeo Drive. Any one of them could easily be mistaken for a fashion model fresh from a shoot. Their clothes are chic, expensive, and sexy. Cleavage-enhancing bras, off-the-shoulder blouses, and micro-skirts reveal enough silky-smooth skin to garner the attention of any heterosexual human male not cursed with blindness.
The talk is of work, clothes, and men … mostly men. One of the women, a tall, shapely, olive-skinned beauty with a copious mane of chocolate-colored hair, laments a break-up with her latest boyfriend. Her friends exude sympathy, expound on the immaturity and unreliability of all members of the opposite sex.
At the bar, watching the little tableau being played out before him, sits a poised, handsome man of perhaps forty. A hint of a smile on his full lips. Thick, shiny black hair with a trace of gray at the temples, combed straight back from his forehead. An expensive suit - probably Armani - rich silk tie, tasseled Guccis. His one imperfection: an intriguing one-inch scar that curves under his right eye.
Every once in a while he makes eye contact with the lovelorn brunette - Carlotta by name - and lets a cautiously suggestive smile speak of his possible interest.
An hour goes by. Several of the women gather up their purses, tug down the hems on their too-short skirts, and take their leave. Carlotta glances over at the man at the bar. She lowers her eyes demurely and checks her watch.
The man takes an expensive gold pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, writes something on a napkin, and signals a passing waiter. A twenty dollar bill gets the note delivered to the lovely Carlotta.
She reads the note quickly, deposits it into her purse with a trace of smugness. She says goodbye to her two friends still at the table and leaves the bar.
The man takes a final sip of his drink - glass held in a napkin - and slides off his barstool.
An hour later Carlotta is naked, spread-eagled on the king-sized bed she was until recently routinely sharing with her investment banker boyfriend. Her hands and feet are tied securely to the bedposts. A dishtowel, wrapped tightly around her head, holds in place the wadded piece of cloth stuffed painfully into her mouth.
Wide-eyed and frightened beyond words, she struggles vainly against her restraints.
The man from the bar stands just out of sight, at the very edge of her peripheral vision, doing God knows what.
Carlotta labors feverishly to avoid imagining what might be about to happen. Maybe it won’t be so bad, she tries to convince herself. He’ll have his fun and leave me alone - raped, maybe even bruised but … alive. Surely he won’t …
Her mind cannot even complete the thought.
After what seems an eternity he appears before her. He is every bit as naked as she. One of his hands is behind his back as he approaches her and kneels on the bed between her legs.
A whimper of despair escapes her as he puts his lips on the soft, downy skin of her tummy, kisses it lovingly - then moves lower, using his tongue to caress her.
The moan this elicits is rooted in terror, not rapture, but the man is oblivious to all but his own pleasure.
He moves higher. Kisses each of her breasts. Fondles them tenderly.
Penetration is painful but she does not struggle, strives to avoid doing anything that might anger him.
For awhile there is an element of what might almost be taken for sensitivity in his actions, but this soon changes and he becomes increasingly aggressive.
When at last it ends, he is muttering words she does not comprehend. A foreign language. French, she realizes.
There is a moment of relief as she feels him withdraw but then, immediately after, she is subjected to an intense swell of pain, followed by the sensation of warm liquid flowing along her side. Then she sees the paring knife - one of a set given to her by her parents - in his hand, stained a deep scarlet, and realizes with a sudden horrifying dread that what she feels is her own vital fluids flowing from her. She tries to scream but the effort is viciously interrupted by another plunge of the knife, this time into the pulsing vein in her neck.
A bloody torrent erupts from her, soaking the bed sheets, spewing unbelievably.
Her body goes rigid.
In shock, she feels nothing for the three minutes it takes for death to release her from the nightmare her life has become.
Mercifully, she is spared awareness of the insanity that follows.
Some time later, sated and free from all anxiety, the man rises slowly from the sodden bed. He enters the bathroom, adjusts the shower to a near scalding temperature, and steps into it. Methodically, fastidiously he cleanses himself.
Once scoured, he retrieves his clothes, left neatly folded in another room, and dresses with care. The scar under his eye is gone, there is no gray at the temples. His hair is now parted neatly and combed to the side; eyes no longer brown, but blue. He dons a pair of black-rimmed spectacles, a wide, bushy mustache.
Then begins the tedious process of removing any sign of his fingerprints from the premises.
He is unconcerned with the sperm or other trace evidence he will leave behind. There is no record anywhere of his d.n.a. and he knows that his fingerprints are the only thing that can result in his demise. Case in point: he gets careless and leaves a print at one of his crime scenes; maybe years later, he’s arrested for impaired driving, finger-printed. The game is up. Hence, his obsession with fingerprints. But as long as he is never arrested for a sexual assault, he will not be required to provide a sample of his d.n.a. And if he knows anything for certain it is that he is far too clever to ever get caught.
Done with his scrupulously thorough final routine, he walks calmly out the door of Carlotta Fuentes’ Beverly Hills townhouse.
He skips lightly down the walkway, exits the gate, and sets off in the direction of his vehicle, parked a block and a half away.
He hums a tune to himself as he strolls along. A contented young man out for a walk.
He attracts the attention of no one.
1
Detective Jake Foley emerges from the City of Los Angeles County Coroner’s office on North Mission Road having just witnessed the dissection of a human body during autopsy. He quickly descends the concrete steps of the red brick building and is accosted by no less than six television news crews. Their shouted questions differ in minor ways but the gist of their enquiries is the same: can he confirm that the death of Miss Fuentes is attributable to the same monster that has killed fourteen other women in Los Angeles over the past eighteen months? He would normally mumble ‘no comment’ and keep walking but today he feels the need to vent. He knows it’s not the proper place to do it but sometimes logic takes second place to the human need to unload. He comes to a stop three steps up from the sidewalk level. Reporters crowd around him, microphones extended.
“I only have this to say,” he announces as he looks directly into one of the cameras. “I hope the fiend responsible for this tragedy and all the others before it is listening. Whoever you are you are a sick excuse for a human being. And mark my words: we will get you. You think you’re smart but you’re not. You’re simply taking advantage of a segment of society that is weaker than you. The fact that you’ve been able to avoid detection until now does not speak well of you – it only magnifies the fact that you are the worst form of coward imaginable.”
One month later …
Cutting across the sprawling city of Los Angele
s, Highway 101 is a conveyor belt of movement set against a static sea of shimmering lights. Six lanes of eastbound traffic oppose an equal number of westbound lanes. Impatient, hot-headed drivers swerve without warning, change lanes at will - often forcing their way across multiple lines of traffic - to the peal of honking horns and brazen one-fingered salutes.
Surrounded by this nightmare of Friday night congestion, LAPD Detective Gus ‘Tank’ Bleeker and Detective Sergeant Jake Foley wend their way across the city. Their journey, perilous enough at the best of times, is made more so by a driving rain that slickens the road’s surface and multiplies the glare from vehicle and roadside lights tenfold. Bleeker, his nickname a less than original reference to his portly physique, guides the ghost car adeptly through and around traffic, his way made only slightly easier by the use of a flashing roof light and undulating siren. Beside him, Foley pops antacid tablets and chews with purpose.
“Don’t worry, Jake,” Bleeker says, “this time we got this mother. I can feel it.”
Foley does not respond. Amid the din of screaming tires and wailing siren he sits, quietly ruminating. This is, after all, not the first time they have expected to put a wrap on the sadistic puke that has made their lives a living hell for the last sixteen months. Fifteen confirmed victims to date, all women under thirty, all of them dark-haired and very beautiful. The most recent, a month earlier: Carlotta Fuentes, daughter of Hollywood icon, Daniel Fuentes, the immensely successful director of at least a half dozen blockbuster movies. As if there wasn’t already enough pressure being brought to bear on the case, with the influence Fuentes wields the stress level has become unbearable.
The press have dubbed the killer the Goddess Slayer. His single-minded determination to become California’s most notorious serial murderer is well on the way to fruition.
His m.o. varies. He’s been known to lure women to his vehicle under the pretext of needing help; he has picked up hitchhikers, women in bars; he has broken into homes and apartments. In short, he stops at nothing to get access to his chosen prey.
He rapes, murders, and slices his victims - not necessarily in that order.
Detailed descriptions of the man believed responsible for these atrocities are plentiful. If the descriptions are to be believed the Goddess Slayer is a master at disguising his appearance. From the abundance of d.n.a evidence police have been able to gather they know the perpetrator is the same individual in each case, but descriptions of him vary from a bald, bearded Hispanic in his fifties to a blond, California surfer-type in his twenties. He is alternatively fat, thin, and of medium weight. He is bearded, clean-shaven, bald, and long-haired. Although witness descriptions are historically unreliable, with such widely varying portrayals no one in police circles doubts the disguise theory.
With the abundance of evidence left behind at each killing site the perception would be that the killer is careless and therefore easily apprehended. Nothing could be further from the truth. The Goddess Slayer is far from careless and has an almost uncanny ability to evade arrest. The fact that he makes no effort to avoid leaving behind incriminating d.n.a., and even enjoys letting the law get close to him, is clear testimony that he mocks the incompetence of those charged with his capture. The failure of Bleeker and Foley and the countless others working to nail him is, therefore, all the harder to accept. Time and again tips about the killer’s location are provided. Police arrive only to find him gone, tantalizingly few minutes earlier. It is frustrating that, despite being in possession of the killer’s d.n.a., police have never found a finger print to assist in his identification. Whatever he’s done in the past - and most law enforcement officials believe he most likely has a long criminal past as a sexual deviant - he has never before been arrested for a sex crime. This speaks volumes.
Foley prays to whatever gods there may be that this time they will get lucky. Although he strives constantly for it not to happen, he has let this get personal. He can’t help but be reminded of his own daughter, a twenty-two- year old, dark-haired, college senior with the looks of a movie starlet, who, but for the grace of God, could be one of this asshole’s victims.
Bleeker angles the ghost car off the freeway, taking an East L.A. exit, and overtakes two cars in a risky pass that leaves heads in both cars shaking.
“Kill the siren, Tank,” Foley says. “Let’s not take any chances.”
Four minutes later they coast by a rundown apartment building on a bleak, nearly deserted street in what was once a commercial district. Half a block past the building Bleeker pulls to the curb and cuts the engine. “You sure we shouldn’t call for backup, Jake?”
“I don’t think so,” Foley answers quietly. “Backup hasn’t done us much good so far.” Although he stops short of verbalizing his inner fear, the possibility that the killer is being tipped off by someone in the department has crossed his mind more than once.
“Whatever you say,” Bleeker says. He takes his weapon, a Glock 9 mm semi-automatic with a full load, from it’s holster on his right hip and checks the clip.
Foley pats his own weapon, a short barreled .44 Smith & Wesson, carried in a shoulder holster under his left arm. This weapon - not endorsed by the LAPD - is similar to the long-barreled version made famous by the Dirty Harry character played by Clint Eastwood years ago, and Foley has taken no end of kidding over that fact. Foley is no Dirty Harry but he is comforted by the fact that he is alive today because of the stopping power of this particular handgun. He has no need to check it. It is always ready.
They step from the vehicle and cross the rain-washed street, angling back to the apartment building. The deluge earlier in the evening has eased off now to a light mist. It is chilly by Los Angeles standards.
Foley is wearing faded Levi’s, scuffed New Balance sneakers, and a tan, lightweight Y.E.S. jacket over a dark blue Polo shirt. Bleeker’s outfit differs only in the details of color and brand. Foley is clean shaven with longish, brown and gray hair; Bleeker, head shaved bald, sports a closely cropped mustache and goatee. But they would fool no one in this neighborhood. Here they stand out like red on white as cops. They can only hope that, in the darkness, nobody has made them. Give us a break here, Foley prays to his gods.
At the apartment entrance, Bleeker tries the door to find it predictably unlocked. They enter a small vestibule with a bank of mail boxes along one wall and a set of worn steps leading to the second and third floors. The walls are festooned with a depressing array of graffiti, the floors with an even more dismal collection of litter.
The anonymous tipster says their man is on the third floor, apartment three-twelve.
Foley, five-eleven and one eighty - in reasonable shape for a guy about to turn forty-six - leads the way. Bleeker, seven years younger but a good fifty pounds too heavy, is sweating heavily by the time they reach the second floor. “Just once I’d like to get a first floor bust,” he moans under his breath.
Foley’s mind is occupied with weightier matters.
Both men have their weapons in their right hands now. Bleeker wipes perspiration from his brow with his jacket-sleeve and makes an effort to slow his breathing.
They arrive at the third floor to find apartment three-twelve is at the opposite end of the hallway, the last one on the left. Both men hug the left wall as they descend quietly on their target.
At 312 Foley leans his head to the door and listens. The subdued voices of two men can be heard in conversation. A television sitcom plays in the background - Foley hears canned laughter. He steps across to the other side of the doorway, then nods at Bleeker. There will be no knock identifying them as police officers, accompanied by a courteous demand that the occupants open up. Not this time.
Bleeker steps back, hit’s the door hard with his size twelve, and goes in low. Foley is right behind him.
Directly ahead of them, down a short hallway, two men lean over a glass-topped coffee table, snorting neatly arranged lines of white dust through straws. Both men are black. Neither of them is the Godde
ss Slayer. The one thing Foley and Bleeker know for certain is that their man is not African-American.
The detectives shout orders: “Put your hands on your heads! Down on the floor! Do it! Now!”
Both dopers comply. There is no panic in their actions; they have been through this before. Their attitudes are more of surprised resignation than dismay. Like ‘how do we rate all this attention?’
Bleeker covers them while Foley checks out the rest of the apartment. Who knows, maybe the tip was good - they’ll find their perp sitting on the can with nothing more dangerous than an electric razor within reach.
But, of course, they are not so fortunate. All Foley finds is a skinny, blond white girl with acne, wearing a pink thong and hoop earrings, passed out on a heavily stained, bare mattress in the bedroom. Foley puts her at sixteen or seventeen but the bags under her eyes are those of a woman decades older. He shakes her awake. She’s way too stoned to know what’s going down. He helps her to stand, drapes a man’s shirt over her shoulders, and steers her into the living room where he directs her to a chair. She says nothing, makes no effort to hide her scrawny chest and bare breasts. She is content to sit quietly and scowl drearily at the two cops.
Across the hall, watching the action through a peephole in the door of apartment 311, the home of his latest victim, stands Marius Dupree, aka the Goddess Slayer. He is gladdened by the realization that his inside intelligence has, once again, proven reliable. The detectives responding to the ‘anonymous tip’ are alone. No backup.
Dupree hesitates only momentarily before silently opening the door with a gloved hand and crossing the hall to stand at the doorway to apartment 312. An Uzi sub-machine pistol is cradled in his arm. “Hello, gentlemen,” he says casually, “Looking for me?”
THE FOURTH BULLET: A Novel of Suspense Page 1