by Rain, J. R.
Just Numi.
“I’m fine. I just needed a moment. Please, Numi, go back out there. Talk to him.”
My friend studies me some more, and I realize again how much of my life is in his hands. Should he decide that I’d had enough excitement for one day, he would usher the detective out, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. But Numi knows this is important to me. More important than anything I have left in this life. Even Mary.
“Please,” I whisper.
He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like any of this. But he finally nods and eases off from the doorjamb. Soon, I hear quiet conversation in the living room.
I breathe and envision my lungs healthy and working fine. I make sure my shirt is tucked in properly and then rejoin them.
“Sorry about that,” I say lightly to Dobbs. I ease myself into my chair, propping myself up. “Small side effects from my new regimen.” This is somewhat true.
Dobbs regards me for a moment. I do not smile as I pick up the file again and pretend to study it. It’s a copy of the original, and I know Dobbs will leave the file with me, as well. All I have to do is maintain a healthy appearance until he leaves.
Just a few more minutes, goddammit.
I motion to the gruesome pictures. “Was he murdered prior to being left in Laurel Canyon?”
“We think so.”
“Like the others,” I say.
“Yes. Murdered elsewhere, dumped in Laurel Canyon.”
“But not quite dumped,” I say. “Carefully arranged.”
The detective nods, and then shakes his head all over again.
I say, “But unlike the others, this one isn’t marked.”
I could have said carved or inscribed, but that seemed too horrible to say aloud.
Dobbs glances at me and I see the confusion on his face. He’s at a total loss. And there’s a lot riding on this case, on him. A serial killer loose in L.A. doesn’t reflect well on the city. He needs me. Hell, he needs anyone who will help.
“I was hoping you’d have some insight about that, Booker.” Dobbs reaches into his shirt pocket and removes a packet of cigarettes. “You mind?”
“Yes,” says Numi. “We do mind.”
My friend, who has been sitting back on the couch with his eyes half-closed hasn’t opened them any wider, hasn’t given any indication that he has seen what Dobbs has been referring to. But the force of his word is unmistakable and unshakeable.
Dobbs, a man who hunts down the scum of the earth for a living, swallows and puts the box back into his pocket. Numi never moves.
After Dobbs collects himself, he continues, “As I said, I was hoping you might have some insight. Between me and you and your bodyguard—”
“Friend,” I say.
“Whatever. Look, between me and you, you’re the best private dick I’ve ever worked with. If anyone can help me with this, it’s you.”
“Takes a big man to admit it,” I say.
“You noticed I emphasized dick,” he says.
“I noticed,” I say. “Tell me more about the boy.”
Dobbs nods. “He was a special kid. His mother told us he’d been bullied in school about his weight. He’d gotten together some other overweight kids, and some others who’d been bullied in other ways, and established an after-school program for latchkey youths. Not a month ago, he was interviewed for his fund-raising and educational efforts. The day of his death, he’d lost a little over thirty-one pounds. Said he had another forty-two to go. He was happy for the first time since kindergarten, his mother said.”
I make my own noncommittal sound, mostly because my broken heart has broken all over again. Jesus, who could do this to such a sweet boy? I also notice I have started shaking and perspiring again. I wipe my forehead with the paper napkin I’d brought along with the drinks.
“Let’s start with the similarities,” I say. I don’t have the strength to list the similarities, but the healthy detective certainly does.
He leans back, an indication that he doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. “We have the obvious ones: all three found near the same clearing in Laurel Canyon. Two of the three marked. All had been killed prior to placement. All three posed like dolls, including their expressions.”
I think about that, and then add, “What about fast food? Olivia had a pepperoni in her hand. This kid had cheesecake stuffed in his mouth.”
Dobbs nods. “That, too. Except your brother.”
My brother, who had only the number “8” carved into his chest. Dobbs seems reluctant to point that out. He knows that I know the circumstances of Matt’s case all too well.
“None are related,” I say.
“No. Neither did they appear to know each other.” He glances at me. “Do you recognize the boy?”
“No.”
“Is anything else standing out?”
I hear the desperation in his voice.
“Where was the boy last seen?”
“Brentwood. Walking home from school.”
I think of the O.J. Simpson case in the same Brentwood neighborhood for no reason other than my brain is free-associating right now. “Did anyone see anything?”
“No. He didn’t arrive home. He was last seen saying good-bye to some friends.”
I study the crime scene pictures and remove my emotion. Something wants to click inside me, but it’s not there yet. Perhaps not even close. But it’s there… waiting to snap open.
“I need time, Detective,” I say.
He nods, disappointed.
Numi takes this as a cue and sits forward smoothly. “Thank you for your time, Detective.”
Dobbs gets the hint, although he doesn’t like it. No homicide cop ever wants to be shown the door. He stands. I stand, too. On shaky legs, of course. I should be in a hospital bed. Not discussing the most important case of my career.
At the door, Dobbs pauses and stares ahead, his back to me. “Let’s find this fucker,” he says without turning.
“We will.”
He continues standing there, staring ahead, and then he moves off, without looking back.
And without shaking my hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It is the next day.
My living room now looks like a CSI investigator’s office. At my request, Numi has bought four easels and now they stand next to each other so I can study them from my chair. The first three are reserved for each murder, consecutively.
My brother is up first. Notes down the left side, photos on the right. Next is Olivia’s, set up in the same fashion. Then the latest victim, the fourteen-year-old boy. Each disturbing, heartbreaking, and fucked up beyond reason.
The far right easel is for my notes. I have two columns on this one as well. The left side contains official evidence the police have gathered. Times of death, locations, statements from witnesses. All condensed in my shaking, scribbled notes. I have documented the bodies’ positions, their conditions. I have included anything else that I think might have some meaning.
As I scan the notes, I’m mildly surprised there are neither footprints nor fingerprints found in any of the cases.
Clever son of a bitch, I think, and sip from the hot tea Numi has made me. I know it will take a lot of forethought and, quite frankly, luck to leave neither type of evidence.
He’s strong, I suddenly think. I nod to myself. Yes, this much was obvious. Would take a damned strong man to maneuver the bodies without messing up the crime scene.
Also among my notes, I have laid out what I consider the most important clues left by the killer. I focus on these clues: the position of the bodies, the cleared ground, the markings, even the cheesecake, crazy as that seems.
I continue sipping the green tea. Numi has left for the time being, but I know he will return in a couple of hours to check on me. Before leaving, along with the tea, he makes me a natural liver cleanser, frappéed from the blender with God knows what. It is green in color and looks awful. Welcome to my world. I can sti
ll taste what I assume is ginger, kale, cayenne pepper, and blackberries. He insists I drink it before he leaves and although I have to choke down the last quarter, I am grateful for his effort. But I don’t tell him I am grateful. I put up a mild fight. I resist. I make his job harder than it has to be. I am a dick to him sometimes. Okay, often. I hate that about myself.
But still he comes back. Still he helps. Still he cares for me. Still he loves me. Why, I don’t know. He just does.
I have my cell phone next to me, my hand ready to pick up if and when it rings. Mary finally called last night and I tried in vain to sound energetic and upbeat, but I could tell she detected this farce. What she thought of the farce, I didn’t know. But Mary, better than most, knew the full extent of my situation. She also knew what she was getting into. I would have loved to have seen her last night. I would also love to not be dying. Anyway, I kick myself for not doing a better job of feigning improved health; perhaps she would have come to me. Instead, she’d promised to call me today.
Better than nothing, I think.
And so I keep my phone next to me and I focus for the hundredth time on my clues. A figure “8.” A circle and a square. Fast food: pepperoni and cheesecake. What do they all have in common? I cannot for the life of me, no pun intended, see the connections.
My mind is slipping now, and I think Mary will not call. Why should she? I’m dying. Perhaps she wanted to give me some sense that I am still alive, still human. A gift for the dying. If so, it was a kind and thoughtful gift and I have no hard feelings towards her if she doesn’t want to see me again. At least this is what I try to convince myself of.
With these photos in front of me, photos of the dead, I jump at the sudden knock on the door. For an instant, I think it is the killer come to destroy what life I have left on this earth, and I instantly move my hand to the gun I have stashed in a nearby drawer. I used to not be so jumpy. I used to be calm and collected, trusting my instincts and street smarts to get me through any case. Now, I operate on a fear-based level, and I hate that about myself.
No fear, I think to myself as I stand on weak legs.
Who would come here now? Numi would let himself in. Mary promised to call. Detective Dobbs is waiting for my professional opinions and conclusions. There’s no one else in my life. No one, at least, who gives a damn.
I realize it is getting dark and I have not turned on any lights. I take a sip of the green tea, which is, incidentally, refreshing after all the caffeine and alcohol I’ve ingested lately. After a few sips—and after I wonder if this will be my last cup of green tea on this earth—I get up slowly. I switch on a nearby lamp, and then head over to the front door where I look through the peephole.
Eddie, Olivia’s husband, is standing outside my door rocking back and forth, impatient. Eddie has always been a little impatient. He’s glancing over his shoulder at something I can’t see, and as he reaches up to knock again, I open the door.
“Eddie,” I say, but my voice trails off. I wasn’t expecting to see my onetime friend standing outside my door. My onetime friend who’d just discovered his wife had been brutally murdered. I’ve dealt with grieving families before, yes. But rarely someone so close to me.
He nods sadly.
“Come in,” I say.
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
“How you holding up?” I say lamely as I shut the door behind him, my brain not quite firing right. Then again, what the hell else am I supposed to say?
Eddie is running his fingers through hair that seems a bit greasy. In fact, he looks like a royal mess. No surprise there. His wife had been found murdered just a few days earlier, her throat slit. Jesus, it is amazing he is even cognizant.
“I’m okay, I guess,” he says. He seems to lose his train of thought, blinks once, twice, looks at me again, and then says, “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
I’m touched. Eddie seems to have done a complete one-eighty with me, from ignoring me to checking in on my health. Then again, my health has a direct bearing to me being able to work on this case.
I lead him into my living room and for some reason, I wish he didn’t have to look at my easels. My puzzle. My case. But he does see everything as he takes a seat. From the couch, he can’t quite see everything, but he understands that I am working.
I stand in front of the easel with Olivia’s details. I am not aware if Eddie has seen his wife’s photos or not. They’re not a pretty sight and certainly no way to remember a loved one. I see the tears in his eyes. Too late. He’s seen them. He finally looks away, collects himself.
“You are working on the case,” he says.
“Hard as I can,” I say.
He nods, fighting the tears. The tears aren’t for me. They are for the woman he had created a life with, a woman he struggled with, a woman he often fought with. A woman whose murdered body is presently on display behind me.
“I hope I didn’t come at a bad time.”
“Probably never going to be a good time, Eddie. Not anymore.”
He looks at me for a long time. “It’s good to see you, Jimmy.”
“What’s left of me.”
“You look, um, good.”
I laugh. Why I find my failing health funny, I don’t know. But I know Eddie’s sense of humor and it gets to me. With the exception of Numi, Eddie probably knows me best. At least he did back when I was healthy. Back when I didn’t know who my true friends were. Now I do, and Eddie isn’t one of them. Not anymore.
“I look like shit, but thanks for sparing my feelings.”
Eddie smiles weakly, not really hearing me. He’s lost in his own grief. His lower jaw suddenly quivers. “I don’t know how to go on, Jimmy.”
I nod. I don’t know what to say to him.
“I don’t know how to recover from this. I feel broken. I feel helpless. I don’t know what to do.”
“Finding this asshole is a start,” I say.
He nods, waits, and then nods again. “Yes, I suppose so. Then what?”
“We’ll take it one step at a time.”
“One step,” he says. He then looks around me at the pictures of his slaughtered wife. “Where do you think she went, Jimmy?”
“What do you mean?”
“That part of her that’s Olivia. Not this… this physical husk.”
I’d never heard of a human body referred to as a physical husk, but I play along. “Somewhere better than here, let’s hope.”
“Is that what you hope for when your time comes, Jimmy?”
The question is more personal than I am prepared for. But I am game. I have thought long and hard about where I might go, if anywhere. “Yes,” I answer. “That’s what I hope.”
“Somewhere better than here?”
“Yes.”
“Is here so bad?”
I think about his question as I feel my body losing strength. I finally sit next to him, stepping away from the easels. “It’s not so bad, Eddie. But it could be better.”
He nods, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Better, yes.”
“Where do you think she’s gone, Eddie?”
He snaps his head up and says almost immediately, “Infinity.”
“Infinity?”
I’ve never heard of the Great Beyond referred to as Infinity, but who is to say he is wrong? Infinity is as good an answer as any.
I say, “Either way, she is at peace now. No one can hurt her anymore.”
Eddie nods at this. I can see he’s trying to stay calm, to keep it together, to hold back the tears. He doesn’t need to hold back the tears. I get the tears. I’ve seen the tears. Hell, I’ve cried them enough for myself.
Finally, he says, “I never got to say ‘sorry’ to her. I think that’s what hurts more than anything.”
I knew they fought often. She had left him because of such a fight. Eddie is like most men. Neither good nor bad, just a guy doing his best with the psychological makeup he’d developed over the years. His pe
rsonality was a bit of a hothead. A bit of a dick. But a big heart. Yes, I knew he had been infatuated with Jewel, perhaps in love with her, too. But the sorrow on his face convinces me he loved his wife as well. Two women he cared about. Both dead.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“And please don’t say she can hear me, that she’s near. She’s not near,” he says bitingly.
According to Eddie, she’s in Infinity, wherever the fuck that is. I say nothing and wait. I haven’t planned on telling him she was near, but if my dreams and visions have anything to do with it, she is damn near. Closer than he might think.
That thought comforts me.
Infinity… not so much. I do not want to think that when I die, my soul will be scattered into Infinity, to be swept away in the great ethereal tide, to never return.
“Are you close, Jimmy?”
I know what Eddie is referring to. I hear it all the time.
“Hard to say.”
“Please help me find the bastard.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“Your best is better than most.”
“Not anymore,” I say. “Not these days.”
Eddie suddenly frowns. He’s been studying the pictures behind me. “Do you mind if I have a look?”
“Are you sure, Eddie?”
“I’ll be okay.”
Eddie looks at my display of easels, scanning them as I have already done a hundred times. “What connection do you see?” he inquires, without taking his eyes off my masterpieces.
For some reason, and without hesitation, I return the question. “That,” I say, “remains to be seen.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I am sitting alone on my balcony.
What would have been a spectacular view of the Los Feliz area was rendered into a mediocre view, thanks to my neighbor and his damned eucalyptus trees. Had they been properly trimmed, my view would have been endless. A sea of lights that stretched from the Hollywood Hills to downtown Los Angeles, and everywhere in between.
Lots of humanity between those two landmarks. Lots of crime, too. And one killer. A child killer, no less.
But I’m not thinking about the damn trees, although every time I do I feel mild irritation. No, at the moment, I’m relaxing in a cushioned chaise longue and feeling the wind on my face… trying to get the most out of a body that would soon be dead.