“What’s up?” I asked.
“Dude, it’s the pigs, masses of them.” He pointed down the street and, due to the angle of the building, I could see the cop cars racing towards Venice and had a bad feeling. “They must’ve heard about our, er, harvest: they’re coming for us.”
I watched them get closer: they were less than a couple of minutes away. “Unfortunately, I think they’re coming for me.”
He looked pleased and went to high-five, then remembered my plight and looked suitably sorrowful for a fraction of a second and then clambered back up the rope ladder.
My cellphone rang. It was Ferdy. “Spooky, they’re on their way, they’ve got a warrant for your arrest.”
“Based on what?”
“I’ve got to go.” He clicked off.
I sneaked out onto my balcony and saw the cop cars block in my car and others squeezed down the alley between my building and the one opposite, physically trapping me in.
I watched them swarm into the entrance of my building below, coming in heavy-handed. I watched the last one in. Within moments and without warning they blasted down my door with their battering ram. They poured in, making a racket, hoping to confuse and stun. However, I was completely unperturbed and, as the first guy came near to me, I ran to my balcony and jumped. I could only imagine their faces thinking that I was leaping to my death. I caught hold of the rope ladder halfway down and it swung furiously. I let go again and caught it again near the bottom then dropped into the alley where I fell in a heap. I yanked the rope ladder three times in a prearranged signal and the dudes pulled the ladder up out of sight. I smirked, thinking of the cops staring in awe from the balcony, wondering how I’d dropped thirty feet unharmed and escaped. I limped towards the beach when a jeep tore down the Boardwalk and screeched up beside me. . .
CHAPTER 42
Thank God, it was Perry. “Hop in,” he said. I wasn’t about to argue.
“Thanks, man, how did you know to come?”
“I heard it on the police scanner.” He pointed to it fixed under the dash.
“Ya do know that’s illegal – aw, screw it, thanks, man. I need somewhere to hide out.”
“What about me nanny?”
‘The Bristol City’, a forty-foot yacht, Marina del Rey, CA 90295 – 23:15.
“Onyx?” said Sheldon, yet again.
“You’ve gotta let it go, man,” I said.
I climbed down into the cabin of Perry’s yacht, christened The Bristol City: he told me once it meant breasts, I forget how. More cockney rhyming slang. Something to do with cities rhyming with titties. Londoners, ya gotta love ’em. Like his ‘nanny’ meant boat in slang: nanny goat equals boat. It was a sailboat, or as Perry referred to it, a yacht – who was I to argue? Anyhow, what rhymes with yacht? I’d only been there a couple of times before and was always surprised how spacious it was. There was storage everywhere and every square inch had a purpose and lots doubled-up, the dining table was also the ironing board, it was only two-berth, but the couches in the cabin doubled up as beds. Not that I was going to stay the night. I’d planned all along to take on the Hangman during nightfall, hoping that the darkness would give me an edge. I expected the Hangman’s call any moment. His plan wouldn’t work if I wasn’t present. Perry lifted a mattress from the bed and moved some storage boxes underneath, then fiddled with a catch and revealed a secret hiding area where he had several guns and tossed them to me plus the ammunition. One was a Sig Sauer 1911 Nitron, and the other a Smith & Wesson 10-6 revolver. I liked them both; they’d do what I wanted them to – take down the Hangman.
Perry popped open a couple of beers and we sat on the deck where we had a clear view of everyone entering the marina. Perry had done well; I could only hazard a guess at the berthing costs at Marina del Rey, a very exclusive, upmarket area south of LA. We were waiting for Ferdy, he was going to slip away when he could and, soon enough, we saw him on his moped scooter – electric – what else for the science nerd? He inched it into the parking lot and we waved him over and he rushed to the yacht. He had trouble clambering up onto the vessel and clumsily boarded.
“Shoes!” yelled Perry. “I’ve just waxed the floor. Here, put these on.” He handed him a pair of deck shoes. They were several sizes too big for him and he had difficulty walking.
“Love the yacht,” Ferdy said, suitably impressed, as we descended into the cabin.
“Yeah, I found it.”
This confused Ferdy. “How . . . how do you find a boat?”
I signaled that it was best not to ask; he still acted baffled when I saw Snyder’s face on the giant flat-screen TV. “Turn it up.”
We watched enthralled as the news anchor said, “. . . Today in a bizarre twist, veteran Officer Conrad Snyder of the LAPD’s Internal Affairs Group, those are the guys who police the police, was himself arrested in the murder of ‘Mr. Show Business’ Bruce Matherson. He was also found to have in his possession an antique cigarette lighter, allegedly stolen during the bungled robbery/homicide of attorney to the stars Marcus Eglin –”
Perry looked at me questioningly. “Was that anythin’ to do with you?”
I smiled feigned innocence and lit a cigarette.
Perry then asked me, “Do yer vouch for the ginger in the snide whistle?”
As I went to translate, Ferdy surprised me by saying, “Leave it out,” in perfect cockney. “My suit’s genuine, not a knock-off and Spooky can trust me with his life. And FYI I am not a homosexual.”
I must’ve looked surprised because Ferdy explained, “Ginger. Ginger beer – queer.” Perry nodded that Ferdy was correct and I looked at him impressed. “One of the many languages I have studied,” he said. “It’s interesting because –”
I cut him off before he bored me to death on its history. “I would’ve thought maybe Klingon was more up your street.”
He gave a Klingon salute and said, “NuqneH. Blplv’a?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Loosely, ‘hello, how are you?’ Literally, ‘what do you want – are you healthy?’”
“Is there nothing ya don’t know?” I said.
He preened smugly. “I like to pride myself of being all-knowing, all-seeing.” He plugged a memory stick into his iPad. “However, someone’s doing a number on you,” Ferdy said. “The files have been doctored; someone’s placed your fingerprints at Candy’s and at Mia’s.” He shook his head sympathetically.
“Well, that’d be right, I visited both women.”
“Oh!” he said in surprise.
Maybe he didn’t know everything, I thought, as he continued. “They planted semen evidence at both locations as well.” He shook his head at their audacity.
“No, that’d be mine, too,” I said uncomfortably.
He peered over his glasses at me. “Is there something I need to know here?”
“I dated Candy and have been seeing Mia on the hush-hush.”
“Mia?” he queried, clearly impressed. “I knew there was something going on between you two! Swe-et.” He drew it out to two syllables, trying to sound hip and cool, but failing on both counts.
“Oh, they found a substantial amount of your semen at the doctor’s home.”
“Ah, now, that has been planted.”
“Substantial?” Perry repeated.
“Er, yes, on the drapes, they’re figuring that Spooky was hiding behind them, spying on the doctor and, er, masturbating.”
“Oh, great,” I said. “Just my luck. Who’s doing this?”
“I don’t know, but they believe it back at the precinct. They believe it because they want to believe it. You’re their first suspect, their only suspect, they’re going to make the evidence stick.”
“It’s bull.”
“They’re citing you’re always first at the scene and the fact that the Hangman has always gotten away each time from an impossible location.”
“We were all there for the cliff: he didn’t vanish, he’s not a ghost.”
“They desperately need an arrest and you are shaping up to fit the evidence. They also have damning video evidence of you giving money to a prostitute.”
Someone had followed me to Tera’s. “She’s an old friend, she needed money.” I could see him trying to believe me.
“You were also seen giving money to a very young girl at the train station.”
I wasn’t being paranoid: somebody was following me. Why? “That was so she could get home to her parents,” I said, then added, “Mia was with me.”
“She’s not showing in the footage.”
“Do they know who’s doing the videoing? They must be the ones setting me up,” I said.
“Can you not track who’s doctoring the files?” asked Perry.
“No can do. Whoever it is, is doing it without leaving a trace, that’s what makes it so perfect.”
“I was with other cops most times the homicides occurred,” I mentioned in my defense.
“They’re saying you used time delays or keep the bodies in deep freezes to muddle the time frame of the actual slayings.”
I threw my hands in the air. “So, it’s up to me to find the real killer.”
“You should leave it to the police,” Ferdy said.
“Not an option, they think I did it. Nope, I’m gonna have to do this single-handedly. The Hangman’s due to phone shortly.”
“Yer know it’ll be a trap?” said Perry.
Ferdy clicked his fingers and said excitedly, “Bruce could have warned him between you leaving and him taking his own life.”
A look passed between Perry and me. Ferdy spotted it and then the penny dropped. “Oh. . .” he said, disappointed at first and then impressed, “Oh!”
My cellphone rang. It was the Hangman. “Yah?”
I put it on speakerphone so the others could hear. Hi distorted voice boomed, “Come alone or she dies.”
“Got it.”
“Tell no one or she dies.”
“Yah.”
“Don’t phone the cops or –”
“She dies. I get it,” I said, trying to sound bored by him. The Hangman gave me an address and then hung up.
Ferdy warned, “He’s not the sort of person to tangle with alone. He’s a psychopath with a brilliantly devious mind, a cold-hearted killer with a repertoire of tortures. Not someone that you should antagonize.”
I stood up and Ferdy asked, “Where are you going?”
“To antagonize him.”
MF Movie Props Storage Facility, Wilshire Boulevard, CA 90010 – 23:55.
I slowed my battered Camaro and shook my head in disgust as I recognized the location. It was the Hangman’s little joke and it had a certain irony. The completing of the circle. Being right back where we started. I realized that I was no further along with my investigation of the Hangman. Not only that, but to save my girlfriend’s life I had to sacrifice my own. I felt a pang in my stomach as I thought of her. The fact that she’d been a porn star didn’t bother me. Well, not much. I’d figured she’d had a tragic past and it added to her sadness. I figured that the Hangman knew that I had arrived. I assumed that the surveillance cameras were watching my every move. I approached the front door of the building, drew my gun, and held it down by my leg. I went through the front door, as I knew he would be watching on camera and as I was almost certainly walking into a trap, I might as well get it over with. As a strategy for apprehending the most devious of serial killers, it wasn’t a great plan. I would have to play it by ear and hope to outwit him. As I neared, the heavy door clicked open automatically, as if I was expected. I took a deep breath and entered. The wide corridor was in darkness: there was a sliver of light from beneath a door as the far end and I aimed for that. I approached stealthily when the familiar metallic voice boomed over the speaker system, “Welcome, Detective Jackson. Welcome to the last day of your life.”
Dramatic to the end. This guy was really getting on my nerves. No doubt had a big production number to lay on me. I entered the cavernous, abandoned sound studio. Remnants of a previous movie production filled the area. It was of a medieval castle, with stone walls, portcullis, and a town square. Front and center were gallows complete with a fresh noose, very apt, adding to the sense of drama. Spotlights slowly rose to show the Hangman up on the scaffolding by the gallows with both hands on the lever of the trapdoor, looking every bit like a medieval torturer, dressed from head to foot in black, including the fearsome hood. He was trembling badly, as if he was having an epileptic fit. I suddenly thought it was for the benefit of the watching audience and that I was going to be the headline act, and gulped down my fear. I had to remain focused and professional. At least with both his hands on the lever, it meant he was unarmed. One point in my favor, a very big point in my favor.
He must be slipping, I thought, when he said, “Drop your weapon.”
“Yah, like I’m gonna do that,” I said sarcastically.
“Drop your weapon if you wish to save your girlfriend.”
Damn, he hadn’t slipped. Another spotlight brightened to show Mia with her head in the noose. “Mia!”
Her head was down and I couldn’t tell if she was conscious or not. “Drop your weapon,” the Hangman boomed.
I thought it through: if I relinquished my weapon, I was pretty much done for, but if I wanted to save Mia then this was part of the dance and I had expected to be unarmed when it came to the crunch. I went to drop the Smith & Wesson when I had a better idea. I raised my weapon and shot the Hangman. He growled and fell forward onto the lever which in turn opened the trapdoor and Mia fell through. I ran up the scaffolding taking the steps two at a time. Pulling out my switchblade, I lunged for the noose and cut through the rope. Mia dropped to the ground underneath: I hoped I was in time when we were plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER 43
The lights flickered back on, I glanced through the trapdoor and Mia had vanished. Huh? Weird or what? What was going on? I went over and removed the Hangman’s hood. See who this sonofabitch was. My mouth dropped open as I saw the face of my psychiatrist Doctor Clay.
I sure as hell wasn’t expecting that. I lifted back his head to see that he had tape across his mouth. Huh? Why would he do that to himself? Damnit, I’d been tricked. I pulled the tape from his mouth and he murmured, at least I hadn’t killed him. He slumped to the scaffolding but his hands stayed on the lever. I tried to pull them free so that I could get him into the recovery position but his hands were glued to the handle. I’d been well and truly had. I took out my cellphone to call for backup when we were plunged into darkness once more as I was bashed over the skull.
When I woke groggily, I saw the Hangman, who clapped slowly. “You walked into my trap,” boomed his mechanically distorted voice. “Doctor Clay is bleeding out nicely, another victim to add to your ever-growing list.” He pressed a button on a remote control and smoke billowed from the archway in the castle wall by the portcullis.
“Wow, the full Hollywood production,” I said.
“Save your smart remarks, they’re not going to help you.”
“Really? I was kinda hoping that they would.”
He ignored me and addressed the camera. “The charges against this so-called detective are long and plentiful. I’m going to concentrate on the most heinous of crimes, that of coercing innocent people into committing suicide.”
“No one that didn’t deserve it.”
He continued into the camera lens. “He considers himself a vigilante, a cowboy, a frontier sheriff, he is the law and therefore whatever he does is legal.”
“That sounds about right,” I said, then did a finger wave at the camera. “Hi sickos, back home. I hope you depraved perverts are enjoying yourselves.”
“Enough!” he bellowed, not wanting me to rain on his parade.
Touchy, that’s good, that’s something I can work on.
“You will do as I command!”
“Nah, I don’t think so, but why get me to shoot Doctor Clay?”
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br /> “He was onto me. I suspect he found Doctor Ruiz’s secret notes. Came to me with a proposal. He wanted me to agree to a book deal, he said he could retire on the proceeds, I was to vanish for my part of the deal. That was it, for him not to go to the authorities, was that I was to pretend to die, leave the country and he got sole ownership of my life story. So, I played along. He was such a fool: the greed got the better of him and he got careless and became another necessary by-product of my game, a mere extra in the final production.”
“So what happens now?”
“I’m going to torture you, then kill you.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“Then you’ll never see Mia again.”
“Fine. I’m thinking of dumping her anyway,” I said callously. “Do ya worst.”
The Hangman chuckled. “I know how you tick, Detective. You wouldn’t abandon a damsel in distress, it’s not in your make-up.” He motioned towards the camera. “And certainly not in front of a worldwide audience.”
He had a point. “What’s with the hood, why not show me who ya are?”
“All will be revealed,” he said theatrically. “It has all led to this, my total crushing of you, my complete belittling of you, my avoiding detection by you, the great dragon slayer of serial killers, completely clueless. But my slaughtering of you will be my pièce de résistance, you know what that means?”
“Sure, it means you’re pretentious.”
“Laugh it up, frat boy. In ten minutes you’ll be begging for mercy.”
“No, I’ll beg now, I’ve got no problem with begging.”
“You think you’re funny.”
I shrugged in a ‘aw shucks’ kinda way.
“You, Detective, are the worst sort of cop. You have your strong moral code and your principles. They make you think you are always right and that everyone else must be wrong.”
“I get results.”
“Results aren’t important.”
“Yah, they are.”
On The Edge Page 38