True Detectives

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Not that we’ve found,” said Moe. “They used to live in the Hollywood Hills, but someone’s renting the place.”

  Silva’s eyes wandered. Bored, now that his job was done. “Maybe they went on vacation.” Eyeing the Humvee. “Okay to transfer Porky to your vehicle?”

  Raul Biro said, “Want to use mine? It’s got a cage.”

  Moe said, “Sounds good ... guess we’d better clear those.” Pointing to the cabins. “After that I’m calling in the coroner’s guys and a couple of K-9s.”

  Silva said, “Sounds like a plan.”

  Removing his helmet, he ran a hand over short black hair. All confidence and poise, another mission accomplished.

  That changed seconds later, when gunshots cracked the night.

  CHAPTER

  44

  Three firecracker snaps.

  Seconds of dead air.

  Three more shots.

  By the time Juan Silva, the three Homicide D’s, and four other fugitive cops assumed new positions closer to the cabins, lights had gone on in two front windows of the centermost outbuilding.

  Everyone thinking the same thing: Weird. Why advertise?

  Nothing but yellow light could be seen behind lace curtains.

  Snick snick snick, as pistols and rifles put the windows in their sights.

  Aaron Fox hung back a few feet. Close enough to see and hear, but well away from anyone’s nervous trigger finger.

  The target was slope-roofed and log-sided, with a full-length covered porch. Mini-me of the main house.

  Silva handed his rifle to one of his squad members, cupped his hands. “Police, come out now! Walk backward with your hands on your head now! You are surrounded now! Come out now!”

  Nothing.

  Silva repeated the warning, motioned two of his men to circle to the back of the cabin.

  Before they got going, a woman’s voice said, “I’m safe ... thank you. Come in. Please.”

  “You come out, ma’am.”

  “I... can’t move ... too scared. Please.”

  Juan Silva re-conferred with his men. “Go back there and see if you can breach safely. If it’s righteous, exit out the front.”

  Gemma Dement sat on a peach-colored rocking chair next to a molded plastic bed shaped like a race car. She wore a heavy, oversized plaid shirt and pink sweatpants. The bed sported realistic-looking plastic tires, headlights, bumpers. The automotive theme extended to a thick wildly colored comforter printed with Ferraris and Lamborghinis and other shovel-nosed monsters. Matching throw pillows, lots of them. From the height and bulk of the comforter, additional bedding below.

  Lots of cold nights in the Malibu hills; no sign of heating in the cabin.

  Gemma’s pale hair was loose, frizzed by the distant ocean. The peach of the chair was good for her complexion. She’d pleaded with Silva, then used smiles and eye-flutters, claiming she’d wet herself, was still too scared to move. No obvious sign of bladder problems on her sweatpants but no one was asking her to budge.

  Petra said, “Raul, please get a camera.”

  Biro left.

  Gemma Dement’s mouth puckered. “I was so scared,” she recited, woodenly. “He tried to hit me. Again.”

  To her right lay a small, square, chrome handgun, its magazine now in the custody of Moses Reed.

  To her left was Lem Dement. Flat on his back, one meaty leg bent, the other straight. A monumental hillock of belly aimed at the ceiling. A gelatinous face grizzled with white stubble dipped past the neckline of his T-shirt.

  Dement’s mouth had flopped open. A dental appliance—a partial upper bridge—dangled from slack lips. His hands were thick, hirsute, outstretched. The left palm was pierced by a ruby-fringed hole.

  The shirt was a Saul to Paul souvenir, once white, now pretty much scarlet. The blood deepened in hue when viewed on the absorbent brown velour of Dement’s white-piped sweatpants. The director’s blue-veined feet remained encased in black suede slippers with little gold wolves on the toes.

  Two feet from Dement’s head sat a gray hat, grubby, battered, studded with bass lures.

  Aaron thought: No water in sight, who’s he been trying to kid?

  For no particular reason, he began counting bulletholes.

  In addition to the defensive wound in Dement’s hand, he spotted two in the right upper thigh, two in the torso, one of which looked like a nice clean heart-shot.

  Messy one in the groin. All kinds of leakage pooling on the pine-plank floor.

  Three shell casings in plain sight, the others had probably rolled under furniture or were embedded in the wall—oh yeah, there was one behind the bed, five feet above the comforter.

  Six shots, six hits.

  No scorch or powder rings around any of the wounds that Aaron could see, but too much blood to be sure.

  Gemma Dement said, “I’m starting to breathe again.” She demonstrated.

  A muffled sound came from under the race-car comforter. Movement jostled a Ferrari. Fabric rolled.

  Gemma snapped, “Quiet, you!”

  Petra and Juan Silva took hold of her arms, stood her up, guided her away from the bed.

  Moe Reed lifted the covers. A child—a boy—a toddler—button-nosed, chubby-cheeked, ruddy-bronze with black hair, huddled on a urine-soaked sheet, teeth chattering.

  He wore blue p.j.’s with built-in feet. Diapers bulked the rear flap. To Moe’s eye, he looked to be two or so.

  Gemma Dement’s eyes said the child was shit on satin.

  Aaron thought: She’s been with him longer than his mother ever was and hates him. Feeling his gut tighten, he stepped forward so Gemma could see him.

  She mouthed Oh, but didn’t utter the word. Softened her features. Mechanically—weirdly—she smiled.

  Aaron said, “Guilt and atonement.”

  Expecting some sort of explosive reaction.

  Gemma Dement winked. Nothing sexual. Sly and all-knowing. Smug.

  Enjoying a private joke that Aaron didn’t want to understand.

  He watched Moe pick up the little boy. The kid clung to Moe like one of those orphaned monkeys at the zoo who’ll love anything warm.

  His brother looked uncomfortable with the contact and Aaron suppressed a smile. Smiling right now, all this blood and death and misery, would brand him as an asshole.

  As if something had passed from the boy’s body through Moe’s, Moe suddenly cradled the kid tenderly, tousled his hair. “Gabriel?”

  Gemma Dement laughed.

  Petra said, “Something funny, ma’am?”

  “He’s not Gab-riel, he’s Adra-el.” Another wink—comical and all the creepier for that.

  “Adrael who, ma’am?”

  “Oh, please,” said Gemma Dement, as if the question was beyond absurd. “Study your scriptures. Study your Jew scriptures because those people know.”

  The boy burrowed his face deeper, not minding the roughness of the Kevlar.

  He’s been with her longer than his mother but he knows ...

  Gemma Dement’s shoulders stiffened as Petra and the fugitive cop tightened their grip.

  Moe said, “Mrs. Dement—”

  “I’ve got nothing to worry about. But you do.” Cocking her head at the child. “You’re touching him and he’s a messenger of trouble.”

  The kid couldn’t see her, but maybe he’d sensed the contempt; he began to whimper, tiny frame bouncing against Moe’s massive chest.

  Moe patted his back. “It’s okay, little buddy. Get her out of here.”

  Petra and the fugitive cop eased Gemma toward the door. Gemma didn’t resist, but she strained to keep her eyes fixed on the tiny body.

  No interest in the other body. Blood spreading, slowly, steadily. Cops having to shift their position to keep out of the expanding pool.

  Aaron thought: Obsessed with the kid. It’s all about the kid...

  The boy began crying.

  “Silence, you!” Sparkling white teeth didn’t prettify Gemma Dement�
�s snarl.

  Suddenly she fought to break free, was held fast. Spit flew. Some of it landed on the fugitive cop’s vest. He remained impassive.

  The boy was sobbing, gulping air, and Moe was comforting him.

  As Gemma Dement was dragged through the door, she said, “Curse you, Adrael.”

  Not screaming. Chanting—incanting. In a flat, detached, crazily rhythmic voice that mocked music.

  As metallic as the gun on the floor.

  “Curse be you, curse be you, curse be you, Adrael. Blessed damned blessed damned angel of death.”

  CHAPTER

  45

  Good news, bad news.

  Which way the joke went depended on your perspective.

  Good news for Gemma Dement and bad news for the D.A.’s office was her having the money to hire Maureen Wolkowicz, arguably the most effective, ruthless, amoral defense attorney west of the Mississippi.

  Wolkowicz lost no time sealing her client’s trap shut, bringing in a score of hired-gun shrinks, and holding a well-attended press conference during which she announced that the death of Lem Dement had resulted from “the clearest case of self-defense in the face of chronic, brutal, repeated domestic violence I’ve ever seen.”

  What that had to do with the murder of Adella Villareal and the abduction—and the year and a half of emotional abuse of baby Gabriel Villareal—Wolkowicz didn’t say.

  John Nguyen vowed to work the baby angle. If he didn’t get dumped from the case.

  For four days he’d been waiting to hear if his boss would take over. That would mean Nguyen still doing all the work, the boss singing the courtroom arias and garnering the glory.

  John was a far better prosecutor than the boss, an elected blowhard who, according to courtroom wags, couldn’t convict a fart out of a bean dinner.

  It was all about the odds.

  Likely conviction, it’s mine.

  Another O.J./Robert Blake/Phil Spector, it’s yours.

  Bad news for Gemma Dement and good news for public safety was that, unbeknownst to her or to Maureen Wolkowicz, Ahab “Ax” Dement despised his mother beyond her wildest imagination—hated both of his parents, really—and was ready to spill his guts even before the no-death-penalty deal was inked.

  Surprising fellow, Ax. Despite the greasy hair, the blunt face, the matted beard—the image of backwoods vulgarian that he’d calculated for years—the eldest Dement spawn was an intelligent, articulate young man who’d earned honors in English and chemistry at Harvard-Westlake and spent a year at Stanford as a foreign relations major before dropping out to pursue a music career that never took off.

  “In place of fame, he settled for the side effects,” said Aaron, watching through the glass as Moe and John Nguyen and Ax and Ax’s lawyer, an aptly named sharpie named Charles Toothy, danced around fine points of law.

  Dr. Alex Delaware nodded. The psychologist was here at Moe’s request, to offer his impression of the accused double murderer. Delaware had also agreed to evaluate Gabriel Villareal and to oversee the child’s psychosocial progress after he left for Arizona to live with his maternal grandparents. He’d just arrived from a visit at Western Pediatric Hospital where Gabriel was under observation. Answered Aaron’s inquiry with, “As well as can be expected.”

  Aaron returned his attention to the interview.

  Charles Toothy, wearing a bad suit but a good shirt and tie, said, “Then it’s agreed.”

  “If,” said John Nguyen.

  “If will be when,” said Toothy. “To keep things crisp and accurate, rather than go over the details orally and possibly miss something, my client has prepared a written statement and would like to read it for the record.”

  Removing papers from his briefcase. The statement was a well-rehearsed collaboration between client and mouthpiece.

  Moe said, “He can read what he wants, but he also needs to answer any questions we have.”

  “Any questions,” said Toothy, “that I don’t object to.”

  Nguyen said, “If you object too much, no deal.”

  Toothy stroked his Hermès tie. “I’m sure there’ll be no problem.”

  “Remains to be seen.”

  Ax Dement cleared his throat. “May I please start? I’d like to get this over with.”

  My name is Ahab Petrarch Dement. I’m known by my friends as Ax. I’m a musician, specifically a rock guitarist and electric bassist. My primary residence is at 20 Solar Canyon, Malibu, California 90265

  Approximately three years ago, I became acquainted with a woman named Adella Villareal, through a mutual acquaintance named Raymond Wohr. Mr. Wohr was employed as a bartender and, apparently, Ms. Villareal had worked as a cocktail waitress at a poker club in Gardena, California. I say apparently because I do not have firsthand knowledge of those facts and rely upon the report of Raymond Wohr.

  I met Mr. Wohr through my interest in illicit drugs, specifically methamphetamine, cocaine, marijuana, hashish, and prescription tranquilizers, all of which Mr. Wohr sold at various times. I believe I first met Mr. Wohr outside a club called Bang Hole, in East Hollywood, a now defunct place of business. But I am not certain of that, as much of my memory of that time period has been erased by drug abuse.

  At some point, Mr. Wohr informed me that he also had access to professional prostitutes and would be happy to set up dates between myself and professional prostitutes. I was not an habitual user of prostitutes but did occasionally indulge in their services and I agreed Subsequently, Mr. Wohr did introduce me to several prostitutes, including a woman he was living with named Alicia Eiger. I cannot recall the exact number of dates with her or with any other women arranged by Mr Wohr but there were several. Well into my relationship with Mr. Wohr, he informed me that he now had “higher-quality goods” but that such goods would “cost a shitload more.” I expressed interest and a few days later, Mr Wohr introduced me to Adella Villareal, who was noticeably younger, more attractive, and, according to Mr. Wohr, “major-league fresh.”

  Over an approximate one-month period, I participated in three dates with Ms. Villareal and found myself extremely attracted to her. For that reason, rather than limit my contacts with her to her apartment, where one date took place, or to the Millennium Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles, where the other two dates took place, on her birthday, I met her at a bar on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica that I’d frequented in the past. The name of that establishment is Riptide.

  During her second visit to Riptide, Ms. Villareal, officially my date, met and became interested in another man. That individual was my father, Lemuel Dement, a film director. This surprised and chagrined me greatly because of my attraction to Ms. Villareal. However, since the man who supplanted me was my father, I found myself confused and unsure of how to respond. Lemuel Dement, taking advantage of my confusion, offered me ten thousand dollars to “feel better” about the situation, with the contingency that I’d harbor no ill will to him or to Adella Villareal and simply “go with the flow.”

  I accepted the money, though my inner emotions were not at peace with this arrangement. Sometimes, in fact, I felt as if I was going crazy. My drug use increased.

  Adding to my discomfort was that shortly after beginning a relationship with Lem Dement, Adella Villareal became pregnant with his child Neither Ms. Villareal nor Lem Dement seemed unhappy with that turn of events. In fact, both seemed quite pleased and my father, especially when he was intoxicated, began dropping hints of “life change,” which I took to mean that he planned on leaving my mother, Gemma Dement, and marrying Adella Villareal.

  This caused me considerable emotional pain and plunged me deeper into a morass of violent and aggressive thoughts. My use of illicit drugs increased further, as did my patronage of professional prostitutes. Often those activities were combined and both Raymond Wohr and Alicia Eiger were participants.

  Approximately twenty-four months ago, Adella Villareal gave birth to a baby boy that she and Lem Dement named Gabriel. I am of the opinion that it was L
em Dement who actually chose the name because, while intoxicated, he confided to me that the child was “my little angel—looks like an angel, acts like an angel, he deserves an angel name.” I took that to mean that Lem Dement was contrasting the baby’s sweet disposition to my personality and to my behavior, neither of which could be considered angelic. I was emotionally injured by the comparison, and angry.

  Despite Lem Dement’s talk about a new life, he did not leave my mother and marry Ms. Villareal. However, he did send Ms. Villareal money for child support in the sum of three thousand dollars a month. Those payments were made in cash and Lem Dement offered me a thousand dollars a month to deliver the cash to Adella Villareal at various restaurants and bars in the Hollywood area. In restrospect, I believe this to have been motivated by cruelty on my father’s part, but when someone is in the middle of something they sometimes cannot understand the full implication of what is happening to them. At that point in my life I was severely depressed, angry, confused, and otherwise rootless and I was willing to do anything to earn my father’s approval. Plus, the money my father paid me was useful in purchasing illicit drugs, which I was using regularly.

  I made four deliveries of three thousand dollars to Adella Villareal, all of which she accepted without comment. When I brought the fifth delivery to Ms Villareal, her demeanor was different. On that occasion, she expressed frustration with the inadequacy of the payment as well as with my father who, apparently, had stopped returning her calls. I say apparently because once Ms. Villareal supplanted me with my father, my father and never talked about the details of his relationship with Ms. Villareal, only that she was “hot in bed.” On the night that I delivered the fifth payment, Ms. Villareal threatened to “go public” with the fact that Lem Dement was the father of her child and to “bust open that hypocritical Bible-spouting cult you call a family.” Those may not be exact quotes, but they are close.

  I did not respond to Ms. Villareal’s tirade, nor did I report it to my father. I did, however, report it to my mother, Gemma Dement, a woman with a history of mental illness and alcohol abuse, possibly due to domestic violence abuse heaped on her by my father throughout the course of their marriage. My mother has also reported being allegedly abused by several men she knew prior to marrying my father. I say allegedly because my knowledge of those events is limited to what my mother has told me while she is intoxicated.