The Kill Clause

by Gregg Hurwitz

“You what?”

  Dobbins jerked at the sharpness of the detective’s tone. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Strawberry, mocha almond fu—”

  “You what, Mick? You what?”

  “I, uh, uh, I sometimes pet them when they’re upset.”

  “You pet them, and they get upset?”

  Dobbins scratched his head above one ear, then smelled his fingers. “Yeah.”

  “That what happened with Peggie Knoll? Is it?”

  Dobbins cowered from the voice. “I think so. Yeah.”

  After double-checking the file, Rayner paused the video. “That’s really the essential segment.”

  “That’s no confession,” Tim said.

  “Pretty weak,” Mitchell agreed. “I’ll grant you it wasn’t a confession, but I don’t think we need a confession here. I think the other evidence holds.”

  “What other evidence?” Ananberg asked. “Seven impressionable children regurgitating implanted memories? A girl who died of an infection that was never conclusively linked to a molestation that was never proven to have occurred?”

  “So let me get this straight,” Robert said. “We have seven little girls who testify individually that they’ve been molested by a retard groundskeeper, we have each of them acting out with puppets the sick shit the freak perpetrated on them, we have them each saying he molested their friend who’s now dead from a resulting infection, we have him on tape saying he likes to pet and hug little girls, and you don’t think this is an open-and-shut?”

  Tim pictured Harrison outside Kindell’s, arms crossed. It’s an open-and-shut.

  “No,” Tim said. “I don’t.”

  Robert directed his scowl down the table. “Stork?”

  The Stork’s rounded shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t really care.”

  “If you’re gonna sit in this room,” Tim said, “you’d better care.”

  “Fine,” the Stork said. “I think he probably did it.”

  “Franklin?” Rayner asked.

  Dumone shrugged. “We’re thin on physical evidence, especially with no indication of vaginal or rectal damage on any of the girls and nothing concrete linking the bladder infection and the molest.”

  “Dobbins has got no criminal history,” Ananberg said. “No felonies, no misdemeanors.”

  “That don’t mean shit,” Robert said. “A puke can start anytime.”

  “It just means he’s never been caught for anything before.” Mitchell exhaled hard through his nose, irritated. “Sounds like you’ve made up your minds already. Why don’t we take a nonbinding preliminary vote to see if we’re just wasting our time in continuing our assessment here?”

  Ananberg looked to Rayner with an arched eyebrow, and he nodded.

  The vote went down four to three, not guilty.

  The Stork looked typically indifferent, but Robert and Mitchell were having difficulty keeping their frustration out of their faces.

  “We’re here to pick up the slack when the courts screw up,” Mitchell said. “When we fail to act, there’s no other recourse.”

  “Acting is not always the right decision,” Tim said.

  Robert’s eyes remained locked on the photograph of his deceased sister. “Tell that to the seven little girls who were molested and the dead girl’s parents.”

  “The seven little girls who said they were molested,” Ananberg said.

  “Listen, bitch—”

  Dumone rocked forward in his chair. “Rob—”

  “You might think you have the answers in here, with your studies and your Freudian bullshit, but you haven’t so much as set high heel on the real streets, so don’t you fucking tell me you know shit about who’s done what.”

  “Robert!”

  “Until you spend some time with these pieces of shit, you don’t know how they tick.” Robert jerked his head toward the TV. “That fucker just smells guilty.”

  Dumone was standing now in a half crouch above his chair, hands on the table, arms elbow-locked, bearing his weight. “Believe it or not, your sense of smell isn’t the criterion for our voting. You can argue the merits, argue the cases, or you can hop a Greyhound back to Detroit and stop wasting our time.”

  The room froze—Rayner’s glass halfway to his mouth, Ananberg midturn in her chair.

  Dumone’s eyes burned with an uncharacteristic fury. “Do you understand me?”

  Mitchell’s face was drawn. “Listen, Franklin, I don’t think—”

  Dumone’s hand shot up, a crossing guard’s signal aimed in Mitchell’s direction, and Mitchell stopped cold.

  Robert’s expression softened, his head ducking slightly under the heat of Dumone’s glare. “Shit, I didn’t mean it.”

  “Well, don’t pull that crap in here. Do you understand me? Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.” Robert raised his head but could barely meet Dumone’s eyes. “Like I said, it was nothing. I was just pissed off.”

  “‘Pissed off’ has no place in our proceedings. Apologize to Ms. Ananberg.”

  “Look,” Ananberg said, “I don’t think that’s really necessary.”

  “I do.” Dumone kept his glare leveled at Robert.

  Robert finally turned to face Ananberg. The emotion had burned itself out of his face, leaving behind an eerie calm. “I apologize.”

  She laughed nervously, a single note. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Silence descended over the table.

  “Why don’t we take a little break before we tackle the next case?” Rayner said.

  •Tim stood on the half circle of Rayner’s back patio, gazing out at the elaborate back gardens. A few motion-sensor lights had kicked on when he’d stepped from the house, shining golden cylinders into the night and illuminating flurries of winged insects.

  He heard the screen door rattle open and then close, and he smelled Ananberg’s perfume—light and citrusy—when she was still a few steps behind him.

  “Got a light?”

  Her hand hooked around his side and slid into the front pocket of his jacket. He grabbed her wrist, withdrew her hand, and turned. Their faces were inches apart. “I don’t smoke.”

  She smirked. “Relax, Rackley. Cops aren’t my type.”

  “That’s right. Teacher’s pet.”

  She seemed genuinely pleased. “A sense of humor. Who’da thunk it?”

  Her hair, fine and dark, looked as though it would be silken. Ananberg was Dray’s opposite—petite, brunette, flirtatious—and she evoked in Tim a distinct discomfort. He turned back to the dark sprawl of the gardens. Rows of box shrubs zigzagged before fading into darkness.

  Ananberg pulled a cigarette from her pack, stuck it into her mouth, and patted her pockets fruitlessly. “What are you looking at?”

  “Just the darkness.”

  “You like playing Mr. Mysterious, don’t you? The brooding routine, the strong, silent thing. I think it gives you distance, comfort.”

  “You got me all figured out.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” She set her hands on her hips, studying him. Her curt amusement was gone. “Thanks for sticking up for me in there.”

  “You don’t need sticking up for. I was just speaking my mind.”

  “Robert can be pretty aggressive.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Does that concern you?”

  “Absolutely.” Tim gave a glance back at the lit windows of the house. Dumone, the Stork, and Robert were waiting at the conference-room table. He scanned the side of the house, spotting Rayner in the kitchen pulling a bottled water from the fridge. Mitchell stepped into view, near his side, and Rayner drew him near, hand resting on his shoulder, whispering something in his ear. Tim glanced back over at Dumone and wondered if he knew that Rayner and Mitchell were swapping secrets two rooms over. Tim had assumed the two disliked each other—the egghead and the redneck enduring each other only as necessary instruments to help attain their respective aims.

  “Dumone can keep him in line. Him and Mitchell.”r />
  Tim chewed the inside of his cheek. “Your acuity threatens him. And your consistency.”

  “Does it threaten you?”

  “I think it’s exactly what we need.”

  “Maybe so. But it feels petty, somehow. Even to me.”

  “How so?”

  “You see”—her eyes got shy, darted away—“I think it’s great that you’re seeking an idea of justice that you can hold in your hands. It’s courageous, almost. But for me that’s like believing in God. I think it would be fun. It would certainly be reassuring. But I stick with my statistics and little dogmatic regurgitations because I know the rules of that game.”

  A thoughtful noise escaped Tim, but he didn’t respond. He worked his cheek, studied the dark shapes of the bushes.

  She stood by his side, gazing at the garden as if trying to figure out what he was looking at. “That was something else you pulled off. The Lane hit.”

  “Team effort.”

  “Well, you had to front the lion’s share of the nerve.” She shook her head, and again he smelled her fragrance, thought about her hair. “Robert’s right on one count—I’m about as far from the street as you can get. I’m glad I’m on this side of things. Discussing, reviewing, analyzing. I could never do what you do. The risk, the danger, the courage under pressure.” She slapped him lightly on the arm. “Are you smiling at me? Why?”

  “It’s not about courage. Or the thrill.”

  “Why do you do it, then? Fight wars. Enforce the law. Risk your life.”

  “We don’t talk about it, really.”

  “But if you did?”

  Tim took a moment to consider. “I guess we do it because we’re worried no one else is willing to.”

  She pulled the unlit cigarette from her mouth and slid it back into the pack. “Not all of you.” She padded back to the house, head down, dodging snails on the patio.

  The wind picked up, bone-cold and wet, and Tim slid his hands into his pockets. His fingertips touched a scrap of paper, which he withdrew, puzzled. A phone number and an address, written in a woman’s hand.

  He turned, but Ananberg had already disappeared back into the house. After a moment he followed.

  •All six members of the Commission were seated, awaiting Tim’s return. Centered perfectly before Rayner, like an awaiting plate of dinner, was a black binder.

  The fourth, Tim thought. Then two more, then Kindell’s.

  Lost in a blissful contentedness, the Stork was folding blank sheets into paper airplanes and humming to himself—the theme from The Green Hornet. Dumone sat cocked back in his chair, a fresh-poured bourbon chilling the V of his crotch.

  Rayner leaned over, spreading a hand on the cover. “Buzani Debuffier.”

  Blank looks all around, except Dumone, who grimaced. “Debuffier’s a big, mean, Santero. Goes about six-six on a bad day.”

  Tim slid into his chair. “Santero?”

  “Voodoo priest. They’re Cuban mostly, but Debuffier’s a Haitian mix.”

  The Stork’s humming reached an annoying pitch.

  “Would you shut the hell up?” Robert said.

  The Stork stopped, his puffy little hands midfold. He rode his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with a knuckle, blinking apologetically. “Was I doing that out loud?”

  Tim reached for Debuffier’s booking photo. A displeased man with a shaved head stared back at him, the whites of his eyes pronounced against pitch-dark skin. He wore a flannel, ripped to expose his bare shoulders. His deltoids stood out, ridged and firm, as though he were straining against the cuffs. From the look of his build, he was probably making some pretty good headway. “What’s the case?”

  Dumone flipped open the binder and paged through the crime-scene report. “Ritual sacrifice of Aimee Kayes, a seventeen-year-old girl. Her body was found headless in an alley, draped in a multicolored cloth, raw salt, honey, and butter smeared on the bleeding neck stump. The top vertebra had been removed. LAPD’s ritual-crimes expert found these details to be consistent with Santería sacrificial rites.”

  “They sacrifice people? Regularly?” the Stork asked.

  “Only in James Bond movies,” Ananberg said, reaching for the medical examiner’s report. “The Santeros mostly kill birds and lambs. Even in Cuba. I did an anthropology study on them in college.”

  “So what gives?” Robert asked.

  “We’ve got a Froot Loop, that’s what gives.”

  Dumone’s chuckle turned into a racking cough. He lowered his fist from his face, then drained the last of his bourbon. “The ritual-crimes expert testified that, based on the specifics of the sacrifice, Debuffier probably believed that the victim was a threatening evil spirit.”

  “Stomach contents included sunflower leaves and coconut.” Ananberg looked up from the pages. “The meal before the slaughter. If she eats, it shows the gods approve of her for sacrifice.”

  “I’m sure she found that slender consolation,” Rayner said.

  The Stork waved a hand before his yawning mouth. “I’m sorry. Past my bedtime.”

  Robert slid a glossy crime-scene photo across the table. “This should wake you up.”

  “What links Debuffier to the body?” Tim asked. “Aside from the fact that he’s a voodoo priest?”

  Dumone tossed the eyewitness testimonies at Tim. “Two eyewitnesses. The first, Julie Pacetti, was Kayes’s best friend. The two girls were at the movies a few nights before Kayes’s abduction. After the show Pacetti went to the bathroom and Kayes waited for her in the lobby. When Pacetti came out, Kayes claimed Debuffier had just approached her and asked her to go for a ride with him. He’d frightened her, and she’d refused. When the girls went out in the parking lot, Debuffier was waiting in a black El Camino. He saw that Kayes was not alone and took off, but not before Pacetti got a good eyeful.”

  “A six-foot-six bald Haitian,” Mitchell said. “Not exactly inconspicuous.”

  “The second witness?” Tim asked.

  “A USC girl returning from a party saw a man fitting Debuffier’s description pull Kayes’s body from the bed of a black El Camino and drag it into the alley.”

  Ananberg whistled. “I’d say that’s pretty damning.”

  “She ran a few blocks, then phoned 911 at”—Dumone checked the report—“three-seventeen A.M. With a physical description of the suspect and the car, the cops got to Debuffier before daybreak. They found him outside his house, scouring the bed of his El Camino with bleach.”

  “Anything in the house?”

  “Altars and tureens and animal hides. There were bloodstains on the basement floor, later determined to be from animals.”

  “Crazy motherfucker,” Robert said.

  “Not so crazy he can’t resort to premeditated criminality to maintain his blood lust,” Rayner said.

  “Can I see the witnesses’ rap sheets?” Tim said.

  Rayner slid them down the table, and Tim reviewed them as the others spoke. Neither witness had any felonies or misdemeanors—nothing a DA could drive a wedge under to get leverage for embellished testimony.

  “…urged no bail, but knowing that Debuffier was broke, the judge just had him surrender his passport and set bail at one mil,” Dumone was saying. “The American Religious Protection Association came parading into town, claiming he was being harassed, and posted his bail. Within a day both witnesses were found murdered, stabbed in the jugular—another Santería sacrificial rite. Cops looked into it, got zip. Good clean hits this time around—evidently he’d learned his lesson. Since the witnesses are dead, their statements to police become hearsay, case dismissed. The ARPA reps left town a little more quietly than they came in.”

  A palpable sense of disgust circled the table.

  Rayner put on his best musing face. “It’s a sad, sad day when the system itself provides motivation to commit murder.”

  Tim thought Rayner’s assessment evinced a misplacement of accountability, but he elected to dig back into the file rather than comment.
An exhaustive review of the remaining documentation didn’t turn up any compelling evidence suggesting Debuffier’s innocence.

  The Commission’s vote went seven to zero.

  22

  TIM PARKED MORE than a mile away from the graveled drive leading to Kindell’s converted garage. The air out here was sharp and fresh, tinged with the scent of burned sap and ash from the long-ago fire that had claimed the accompanying house. Tim stayed off the gravel, his boots quiet on the dirt. He held his .357 low to his side, forefinger resting along the barrel outside the trigger guard. A slanted but still-standing mailbox loomed up out of a crumbled bank of earth. The night felt flat and oddly static, as if it were receding, airless; every sound and movement seemed dulled by its residency within the vastness.

  Tim was surprised to see no light up ahead. Maybe Kindell had moved away, scurried off after the trial to inhabit a new dark corner of a new town. If so, he’d taken with him his remembrance of that night—the snatch, the kill, the sawing, the man who had been with him before, planning, eager to partake of Tim’s daughter.

  The moon shone almost full, an imperfect orb visible through the skeletal branches of the eucalyptus. Tim approached the house silently, freezing when he heard a clattering inside. Someone had tripped, knocking a pan, a lamp to the floor. Tim’s first thought was of an intruder, another intruder, but then he heard Kindell cursing to himself. Tim stayed wolf-still, gun lowered, standing equidistant between two eucalyptus trunks.

  The garage door swung open with a bang. Kindell stumbled outside, tugging at an unzipped sleeping bag that he’d wrapped around his body like a toga, bobbling a dying flashlight that gave off the faintest yellow-eye glimmer.

  Tim stood in plain view less than twenty yards from Kindell, hidden only by the darkness and his own immobility, which matched that of the tree trunks rising around him and the dead weight of the night.

  Shivering violently, Kindell shoved open a rusting fuse box and tinkered inside. His other hand, clutching the ends of the sleeping bag at his waist, looked thin and impossibly pale, matching nothing in the night save the bone-whiteness of the moon.

  “Damnit, damnit, damnit.” Kindell slammed the fuse-box lid, slapped at it, then stood shaking and miserable and unmoving, as if paralyzed by hopelessness. Finally he trudged inside, one end of the sleeping bag trailing him like the train of a gown. Kindell’s suffering, however petty, evoked in Tim an immense gratification.