by Andrew Mayne
I’m starting to feel had when I hear the sound of footsteps on grass behind me. When I look over my shoulder, I see Detective Corman striding toward me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MISSING CONNECTIONS
“I hear you’re thinking about moving your family out here,” he says sarcastically as he takes a seat next to me.
“I would, but you have a reputation for losing track of children,” I reply.
“The problem is that when people find whoever was missing, they don’t always tell us.”
“Is that the problem?” I ask. “Or is it that when someone goes missing they don’t tell you?”
“Can’t help them if they don’t ask.”
“What about Latroy Edmunds?”
“Who’s that?”
“A lady at the after-care program says he went missing.”
“If we had to file a report for every kid that left with their parents back to Juárez or off to Nevada without telling anyone, I could build a border wall with the paperwork.”
“What about Ryan Perkins? Are his parents heading back to Mexico?”
Corman shrugs. “Probably not. Maybe Atlanta. Maybe Houston. Who knows? Hard to keep track. People want a police state without the police. So what brings you out here? Looking for a place to take your kid?”
“I had a look at those files you gave me.”
“I was hoping you’d read those on the plane back to Texas.”
“I’m more of a field researcher. Anyway, I have a theory. But I suspect I’m not the first one to have it.”
“And what’s that?” asks Corman.
“That there’s an active serial killer in the Los Angeles area.”
“Well there’s a shocker,” he says drily.
“More specifically, one that targets at-risk children. Someone who moves around, not a lot, but maybe a few miles away every couple of years to break up a localized pattern. Maybe changes the demographic of his victims a little, but not by much. He seems to focus on young boys.”
He folds his arms and tilts his head. “Intriguing. You picked all this up from the files?”
“Well, it wasn’t explicitly in there. But I could see how an LAPD detective with little more than this would be in a bind. Of course, the problem is that even he doesn’t want to see what’s out there. Maybe he hastily draws some conclusions on a few cases, writing them off, and then a few years later has some regret.”
“Well, that sure as hell isn’t me,” says Corman. “I gave you those files because there might be something in some of those cases. But I assure you, the vast majority have very boring explanations or tragic ones we already know the answer to.”
“Maybe so. But there’s one connection that might link them.” I hand him a printout of Ryan Perkins’s and Rico’s drawings. “Our missing kid made this. And a classmate of Latroy’s drew the other.”
Corman takes the pictures and stares at them for a moment, then chuckles. “The Toy Man.”
“You know the story?”
“Yes. He’s Compton’s Freddy Krueger—or what is it my sons talk about? Slenderman.” He hands them back to me. “I’ve heard the stories. Is that why you’re here? You’re staking out an urban legend? Should we get the Mythbusters guys out of retirement?”
I put the drawings back into my pocket. “I know. Pretty silly. But here’s the thing: I did an Internet search for the Toy Man. I’ve got some pretty useful tools that let me do deep searches into social media and that kind of thing.”
“What did you find?”
“Basically nothing. There’s only a handful of mentions.”
He waves to the park. “And yet you’re out here trying to get the drop on an imaginary character.”
“While this stakeout may be a bust, my research turned up one very interesting bit of data. The mention of the Toy Man only came up in this area. All those files you gave me are within the range of the meme. Which strikes me as kind of odd. If it’s just a story and nothing more, it seems like we’d also be hearing about it in places without missing children.”
“Have you asked Bostrom if his son saw the Toy Man?” asks Corman.
“Not yet. I wanted to see if it was more than a neighborhood legend.”
“Does it even go back that far?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, there’s hardly any online footprint. Plus the fact that it’s an elementary-school story, and they’re not the most prolific tweeters. Especially these kids.”
Corman gets up and checks his watch. “Well, good luck on that. It’s something to think about on your flight home.”
“Is the sheriff kicking me out of town?” I reply as I stand as well.
“I don’t know about the sheriff, but this cop says that if I find out you’ve been on school property again under false pretenses, you’ll be able to talk to some suspects firsthand at the LA County jail.”
“You’re not bothered by the Toy Man connection?”
“Two kids, maybe one is really missing, make a drawing of a boogeyman? No. I’m not bothered. That’s less than circumstantial.”
“Ever hear of John Butkovich? His parents called the cops over one hundred times asking them to look into a man they suspected killed their son.”
“Let me guess, that man killed him.”
“Yep. And at least thirty or forty others that we know about. But even John Wayne Gacy lost track.”
He groans. “Well, I promise you, if someone calls me about a killer clown on the loose, I’ll take it seriously.”
“Would you?” I take out the drawings and hold them up. “What if these kids are calling?”
“Good night, Dr. Cray. Have a nice trip home. I’ll let you know if the Toy Man says hello.”
I stare past him as a car’s headlights illuminate something I hadn’t noticed before. I was too busy staring into the park to see what was right there.
“You okay there?”
I point to something past his shoulder. “The little fuckers weren’t lying to me after all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TAGGED
I press my face up to the metal bars blocking the back side of an air-conditioning repair shop that doesn’t look like it’s seen any business since the start of the last ice age. A collage of graffiti with a thousand different cocreators stretches across the wall. But in the middle of them, seemingly given a certain amount of reverence for the artistry displayed, is a figure of a man with a dark suit and a void with red eyes and a sinister smile where a face would be. At his feet are the severed limbs of children scattered among bloody dolls and action figures.
He looks almost as if he’s stepping through the wall into reality. A caption above his head says THE TOY MAN IS WATCHING.
It’s a sinister nightmare that clearly means something to the artist. I take several photos while Corman looks on, unimpressed.
“Do you think a nine-year-old made this?” I ask.
“I think that was made about ten years ago. Have you considered the notion that maybe this little nightmare is what started all the other kids talking?”
“Maybe.” I take my phone out and call William.
“Hey, Theo. How are things going?”
“A quick question.” I try to play it nonchalantly. “Did Chris ever mention anything about an urban legend involving someone called the Toy Man?”
“No. I don’t think so. Why?”
I feel a sinking feeling as a lead slips through my fingers. “Nothing. Just curious.”
“Sorry. I never saw the movie. So I wouldn’t know.”
“The movie?” I reply.
“Yeah, wasn’t the Toy Man a movie or something, maybe a TV show?”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t think Chris said anything about an urban legend, but I think he mentioned something about seeing the Toy Man. I thought maybe his auntie took him.”
Seeing the Toy Man . . . “And what did he say about the movie?”
“I guess he
was some kind of black Santa Claus. He drove a white Cadillac and gave presents to good kids. You know how kids get obsessed with a movie and start thinking it’s real.”
Jesus. Christ. I have to take a deep breath to collect my thoughts. I don’t even know where to begin with telling him that the Toy Man wasn’t a movie, but an actual man his son may have spoken to—who may have killed him.
“Let’s talk later. I got to check on something.”
Corman is leaning against the fence, watching the exchange. He can read my reaction on my face.
“So I guess Chris Bostrom heard about the Toy Man, too?”
I nod. “He told his father something about seeing him.”
“Well, Dad never told me,” Corman replies a bit defensively.
“His father thought it was a movie.”
Corman shakes his head and stares at the ground. “Do you know why his dad took so long to tell me Chris was missing?”
“You’ve given me a lot of reasons.”
“When I met with him, his eyes were bloodshot and he was coming down from something. I don’t know if he has any idea what his son was up to or what he thinks he saw or who he knew.”
I hold up three fingers. “Three kids. Three Toy Man sightings.”
“I’m sure they all know who Magneto is, too. That’s not even a correlation. It’s a local folk story the drug dealers tell their little brothers and sisters to keep them in line.” Corman waves off the idea. “If you find him, let me know. I’ve gone down every alley, every side street. There’s no Toy Man waiting around the corner.”
After he leaves, I take a seat on the bench facing the mural and zoom in to the image of it on my phone.
There’s so much detail in the blood and the way the eyes gaze into you. It’s not the kind of thing a teenager spray paints because it’s fun—it’s the kind of thing they do to cope with something that’s haunting them.
I don’t get the feeling that the artist heard about the Toy Man. I sense that he encountered him, the artist’s graffiti almost a kind of therapy.
I zoom in on the lower right-hand corner of the image and notice a signature: D. Rez.
I’ll bet anything he has a story to tell. Maybe it’s how he and his buddies made up this crazy urban legend ten years ago. Maybe it’s what my gut is telling me.
My gut . . . I can’t ignore it. I have to either disprove or confirm it.
I call Corman’s cell phone even though I can see him from here as he gets into his car.
“Yeah?”
“Can you give me the number of someone in the gang unit? Whoever works on graffiti?”
I can hear him groan. “If it will make you go away. You want to talk to Marcus Grenier. Just call LAPD direct.”
“Thank you.”
“And do me a favor? Don’t tell him I told you to call him.”
Ten minutes later a rather laconic-sounding man answers the phone. “Grenier speaking.”
“I was told you were the one that I could call and ask about graffiti.”
“You want OCS, Operation Clean Sweep. They’ll help you clean it up.”
“No. I’m trying to find out the identity of a tagger,” I reply.
“If you tell me you’re from an art gallery, I’m going to punch you through this fucking phone. We don’t need to encourage the little fuckers.”
“What if I was a rival and wanted to give him a beatdown for tagging my art?”
“I’d say you’re full of shit, but I like your ideas anyway. Some asshole get your building?”
“Basically.”
“Well, I can give you a name if you want to contact a lawyer to sue him. Ha-ha. Or I can put you in touch with the prosecutor’s office if they’re making a case. What’s the tag?”
“D period R-E-Z.”
“One second.” I can hear typing coming from his end of the phone.
“You want the good news or the bad news? Actually, it’s all good news. Artice Isaacs is currently in county lockup awaiting trial for armed robbery. Now I feel good. This story had a happy ending.”
“Can you give me a case number?”
“What? You’re still not happy? This is his third felony. He’ll probably actually do real time this go-around. Fine, have at him. Got a pen?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CONFABULATION
A day later I’m sitting on a tiny metal stool bolted to the floor, designed for minimal comfort. Adjacent to me on the other side of the glass, a white guy—with an expletive neck tattoo that will probably make running for future public office difficult—is covering the mouthpiece of his phone as he yells at his girlfriend over some domestic issue while trying not to raise the ire of the guards. He seems like a real classy guy.
I have no idea what to expect with Artice. His rap sheet isn’t exactly encouraging. Although his juvenile records are sealed, the fact that his first adult charge was at sixteen tells me that filing cabinet was full.
A foster kid whose mother was in and out of jail and apparently bouncing from pimp to pimp, Artice never had a real good go at life. He did his first county jail time as an adult for intent to sell. His latest endeavor was trying to rob an Uber driver after using a stolen phone to call him.
I take some solace that, according to his sheet, he never actually hurt anyone—but all that means is they never charged him for it. The cold, hard truth about career criminals is that they get charged for less than 10 percent of the crimes they commit. I keep that in mind whenever I read an “All this guy did was . . .” headline on a blog. On the other hand, our justice system is based on what we can prove and not what we suspect, and I’m not sure if there’s a better alternative unless we want to be a police state.
I requested a meeting with Artice, telling him I was a reporter and making sure to put fifty bucks in his account at the jail so he can buy snacks and other things we take for granted on the outside.
When he’s escorted in, the first thing I notice is a pair of gray, almost silver, eyes spotting me from the far side of the room. He lifts his chin slightly and flashes a grin.
A guard points him to the seat opposite me. Artice drops down and picks up the phone.
“My new favorite person! Your donation to the Artice Rehabilitation Fund is much appreciated.”
“Happy to help,” I reply. “Do I get to deduct that from my taxes along with the three hours I spent in the waiting room?”
“Sorry about that. I’ll have my people get you through faster next time.”
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the happy-go-lucky young man sitting in front of me.
“Thanks.” I’m not sure how much small talk to make. I’m bad at it even when I’m not talking to guys waiting to find out if they’re going to be spending the next several Christmases behind bars.
“So are you here to find out my side of the story?”
He thinks I’m here about the Uber thing. “Nope.”
Ready to launch into some rehearsed alibi, his expression changes as soon as he realizes I said I wasn’t interested.
“Wait, aren’t you the reporter that wanted to get my side on that?”
“That was a lie,” I reply.
“Then what the fuck are you here for? If you’re the prosecutor, I can have this case thrown out.”
“I’m not a lawyer.” I take the photo of his mural out of my folder. “I wanted to ask you about this.”
He glances at it for a second, then turns his eyes on me. “I don’t know who D. Rez is. He’s obviously a very talented young man. If you’re interested in an exhibition of his work, I might be able to put you in contact with him.”
“Well, I’ll put fifty bucks into D. Rez’s canteen account if he can answer some questions for me.”
Artice thinks this over. “You know what, D. Rez might be available. Hold on.” He makes a motion of getting up and sitting back down. “How might I help you?”
Artice loves to play the clown. It’s prob
ably a skill he had to develop as he got bounced around from home to home and, later, facility to facility.
“Well, Mr. D. Rez, let’s talk about the Toy Man.”
His expression goes cold. The perpetual smile on his cheekbones fades away. For a moment I see a scared kid.
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
I point to the words Toy Man at the top of the mural. “It says it right here. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s the same paint you used for the rest of the painting.”
He’s trying to figure me out, wondering why I’m really here.
“I want to know the story,” I explain.
“I don’t know anything about it. It’s just something kids used to talk about. That’s all.” His reply is almost robotic.
“Did you ever meet him?”
He takes way too long to give me an answer to convince me otherwise.
“Meet him? He’s not real. He’s like Freddy Krueger. How do you meet him? Unless it’s the actor or some shit like that.”
“You hear about the killer in Montana? The one that might set the new record for kills?”
He nods slowly. “I may have seen something on the news. Big, scary redneck dude.”
“That’s the one. I met him.”
“How did that go?”
“He almost killed me. I don’t like talking about it.”
“Did people believe you?”
Here we go . . . I think I understand his reticence. “Eventually. The problem at first was nobody believed he was real. I had to dig up bodies. Lots of bodies.” I can still see the pale faces of the young women I found rotting in shallow graves. “I know what it’s like when nobody believes you.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I got sliced up by some gang kids.”
Shit. There’s something I wasn’t expecting. “Is that what you remember? Or is that what you were told by the therapists?”
“Therapists. Fuck them. They get in your head and tell you what’s real and what’s not. They don’t know shit.”
I hold up the photo of his mural again. “Who is he? What did he do to you?”
“He’s a fucking ghost.”
“What’s that mean?”