by Sam Ripley
The reporter never got the chance to finish her sentence.
‘What did you say?’ asked Kate, staring into a pair of cold blue eyes.
‘Your friend here was just telling me that she was waiting for you to come out of the clinic. And that you were expecting.’
Kate couldn’t be angry with Cassie.
‘You solicited that information without identifying yourself as a journalist.’
‘So?’
‘You took advantage of a blind woman and gained her confidence – for what? Some juicy titbit about my private life? Have you ever thought you’re working for the wrong newspaper, Ms Ross?’
‘I’m just doing my job, give me a break here.’
At that moment, Kate wanted to punch her in the face. But she resisted. Only just.
Perhaps there was another way forwards.
‘What’s your number?’ she said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, give me your cell phone number.’
‘Okay,’ she said, looking puzzled. ‘Does that mean you’re going to talk to me?’
‘Look, Ms Ross. Frankly, I don’t like you. But I’m prepared to put that to one side. If – and at this moment it is still a big if – I agree to ‘talk’ as you put it, I will do so not to help you out, but to try and find the fucker playing these sick games. But let’s get this straight. If I see any mention of my pregnancy in the paper then the deal – the “story” – is off. No argument. Do you understand?’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Great.’
‘I’ll call you,’ said Kate, helping Cassie into the car. ‘And remember? I don’t want to see you hanging around either Cassie or me until I’ve decided. I’ll give you my answer in 24 hours.’
16
Harper slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator and overtook a truck on the 110. He’d just been sent the first address of the men on his hit list and wanted to question Charles Garrison in person. He asked Jennifer Curtis to accompany him to see if she could pick up any signs of psychopathology beyond what one would normally expect from a brutal wife beater.
‘It’s the next exit,’ said Jennifer. ‘Here.’
He quickly swerved into the right lane and took the exit that led into South Central; nobody he knew called it by its new name of South LA. He drove down East Slauson Avenue and then took a left onto South Main Street, past a row of fast food outlets, a pawn shop, and a run-down liquor store. The area was famous for the violence of its rival Latino and black gangs, but although they were brutal at least their objective was clear – race hatred and territorial protection. What he was looking for was much more unnerving – a murderer with a motive yet unknown, someone whose crimes linked him to a dead serial killer.
‘Nice neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘Quite a come down for Garrison. He was living in Inglewood before his arrest. Worked as a high end information technologist at Ernst and Cable. Earnt in the high two hundreds. Must be hard for him.’
‘Yeah, like we should feel sorry for him,’ said Jennifer sharply.
‘Do you think it could be him, from what you’ve read about his case?’
‘Difficult to say,’ said Jennifer, sighing. ‘I suppose the motivation is there. Feels angry and bitter at the justice system for the way he has been treated, the way he has slipped down the social scale. Possibly still believes himself to be innocent and that he was just giving his wife what he thought she deserved. Maybe Gleason promised him certain things – money, drugs, information, contacts, who knows – when he was in prison and now he’s fulfilling his side of the bargain.’
‘But he hasn’t committed any other crimes since he came out of San Quentin.’
‘No. He’s kept to the injunction not to go near his wife and son and it seems like he’s been trying to get his life back together. He’s done a bit of work at a local cyber cafe, but that was just a one-off freelance job. Obviously it’s been harder than he thought.’
Harper turned into a street of single storey buildings, most of which were pre-fabricated. Faded newspaper blew down the walkway; a discarded TV set lay abandoned by the roadside and a soiled mattress had been propped up by a low-lying wall. He slowed down and checked the numbers of the houses.
‘Here it is,’ said Jennifer. ‘Just on the left.’
‘Okay. Let’s pay Garrison a friendly call.’
They stopped outside a building that looked more like a shack than a house. Flesh coloured paint peeled off the front wall, revealing blotches of dark red beneath. The roof – nothing more than lengths of corrugated metal fixed together by old nails – leached a rust-coloured discharge down the outside walls. The two windows that faced the front lot looked as if they had been covered over from the inside with squares of black plastic.
Harper and Curtis walked up the weed-lined front path to the front door, automatically feeling for the guns that were concealed beneath their jackets. Harper knocked twice on the flimsy wooden door. There was no answer.
‘Did we get a cell phone number for him?’ asked Josh.
‘There’s nothing registered in his name. Too broke, I guess.’
Harper knocked again, but the force of his hand caused one of the thin wood panels to splinter. Curtis give him a look of warning, but he just shook his head. As he pushed with his shoulder a piece of wood that seemed to hold the door together fissured and, after another blow, the lock – a single bar of metal – broke.
‘We really should have a warrant,’ Jennifer whispered.
‘To hell with that,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got time to be polite, I’m afraid. And anyway, it looks as though the lock’s been tampered with.’
‘I can’t imagine there’d be anything to steal.’
He reached around the door to feel for the light switch. He found it on the wall and flipped it. Nothing happened. He kicked open the door, letting some light into the darkened space.
‘Garrison?’ he called out. ‘LAPD!’
There was no sound from within the house except the creaking of the roof and the buzz of an ancient icebox in the kitchen at the back. The lounge consisted of an old, stained sofa, part of its insides spilling out onto the floor, and a TV on a low table. The walls were mottled with patches of damp and the air smelt old and foul.
They could sense no one was in the house, but they had to be sure. Harper and Curtis moved through the building quickly but carefully, guarding each other with their weapons as they checked each room. Then they walked around the house, stepping over pieces of garbage that had accumulated over the years, and back inside.
Harper tried the lights again but there was no spark.
‘Looks like Garrison’s supply has been cut,’ he said.
‘I guess he can’t’ afford to the pay the bills.’
‘Guess so.’
Curtis walked into the small, dank kitchen. The stench from the drains – a putrid mix of decaying vegetable matter and decomposing sewage - turned her stomach. For a moment, standing in the dark, smelly kitchen, she felt sorry for the way Garrison’s life had downspiralled. But then she recalled the pictures in the police file of his wife after that last beating. Her face had looked like a gigantic, mutated mushroom, swollen out of all proportion and covered with abrasions, bruises and open wounds.
‘The bastard,’ she said under her breath, as anger burnt away
‘Over here – look,’ said Harper, calling from the lounge.
Josh squatted down by the TV set. He was looking at something on the floor, his black eyes intent, concentrated.
‘What is it?’ asked Curtis.
‘A map. Of New Mexico.’
She came behind him, bending down and moving her head closer towards his shoulder. Josh felt her breath on his neck.
‘It’s open on the page that -’
‘Is that where -?’
‘Yep – where Garrison’s former wife lives, with their son.’
Josh took out his cell and called Helen Holt, back at the investigation room in downtown LA
. He asked her to get him a number for the chief detective at the New Mexico Police Department and the current address for Garrison’s former wife. Three minutes later Helen called back with the information.
‘You need to speak to Francisco Ruben on 877 865 454,’ she said. ‘And Garrison’s former wife, Karen, has changed her name. She’s now Yvonne Kimber.’
‘Okay. Anything else?’
‘Yep. I don’t know whether this is important but tomorrow is Garrison’s son’s 13th birthday.’
‘Oh, shit.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Garrison has disappeared. And we found a map open on the page for New Mexico.’
The line went quiet.
‘Helen?’
He could tell that she was angry with him for not sharing the information earlier.
‘We’re still waiting on the rest of those addresses to come through.’ Her voice was formal, icily polite. ‘But it should be any time now.’
‘Great.’
‘And Lansing has arrived at the prison. He’s going to call in at the end of the day.’
‘Fine. Let’s talk later.’ He paused. ‘And thanks Helen. I know how much you would like to be out there, but you know what you are doing is invaluable. I just want you to know you’re doing a great job. That piece of information about Garrison’s son could be really important.’
‘Thanks, sir.’
He cut the line and immediately dialled Ruben’s number in New Mexico. Harper went through the protocol to securely identify himself before outlining the situation.
‘Garrison could not only be a danger to his former wife and son,’ said Harper, ‘but he’s also a potential suspect in an ongoing case here in LA.’
‘What kind of thing?’ said Ruben.
‘Threatening parcels. The murder of a small child. And ripping the tongue out of a homeless man. Oh, and the amputation of some fingertips that have yet to be identified.’
‘Nice.’
‘So if you could put out a call for him to be arrested then –‘
‘I’m afraid that won’t be -.’ Interference on the line reduced his voice to a series of crackles.
‘I’m sorry?’ Harper walked away from Curtis and moved further down the street in an effort to improve the reception.
‘I said,’ Ruben’s voice came through clearer now. ‘I said, that won’t be necessary.’
‘Why?’
‘One of my men called in two hours ago with the information on a middle-aged white male who had been beaten to death next to his vehicle on the highway into New Mexico. He hasn’t been formally identified, but documents on his person show him to be a Charles Garrison, born May 13 1955. Whoever did it must have taken all his cash, but left everything else including his wallet.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Sorry?’
The line started to break up again.
‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this straight away?’
‘The reception is really bad –‘
‘Never mind. Thanks.’ He cut the line. ‘Fuck,’ he said to himself again, running his hand through his hair in frustration and leaning against his car.
‘Is there a problem?’ Jennifer said walking up to him.
‘Garrison is dead. Beaten to death in New Mexico.’
‘What is going on?’ she said, her voice tinged with a note of fear.
‘I haven’t got a fucking clue,’ he said. ‘But I do know one thing. We’re being fucked with. Whoever is doing this is having a fucking great time watching us fuck around. Shit.’ He banged his fist against the bonnet of the car, causing a slight indentation. He brought his knuckles up towards his mouth. ‘Fuck, that hurt.’
He remembered the lock on the door, the map on the floor by the TV. Had someone broken into Garrison’s house in an effort to find out where he had gone? His death was certainly no coincidence. But the events of the last three weeks just didn’t seem to hold together. He tried to separate each one in sequence so as to try and gain an overview.
First Kate discovers a dead child floating outside her beach house. Then she finds out she is pregnant. Cassie Verlinger, the blind girl, is sent a package of fingertips and then Jordan Weislander opens up his icebox to find a tongue nestling amongst some cuts of veal. Now Garrison, a criminal who served time in the same prison as Gleason, is murdered, beaten to death. And then what about those other cases that had been reported to his office – the murder of the child porn enthusiast, Raymond Cutler, and the weird overdose of that drug dealer in Silverlake?
What was happening to LA? Sure, it had always been a violent city. Now it seemed like it was fast mutating into the crime capital of the world. At particularly difficult or stressful times he had wondered whether it was all worth it. Certainly he’d had that argument with Kate many times. She felt like she couldn’t take it any more. At the time, he was pleased that she had made that decision to resign from her job. Although she didn’t have to experience some of the vileness he encountered during the course of his work, he could tell that at times it was too much for her. He always maintained that he wanted to carry on. He was doing a public duty. But now? He felt like he was drowning in a tide of evil, a filthy darkness filling up his lungs. He thought of Kate. Kate and the baby she was carrying. He couldn’t let her die. Even if they never really communicated again – and, shit, why should she want to talk to him after Jules – he vowed he would protect her. And his baby. He thought of that baby girl Kate had found in the sea and was surprised by a wave of emotion that was almost too much for him to bear.
‘Josh – are you okay?’ asked Jennifer, touching him lightly on his shoulder.
‘Sorry, yep, fine. Just a bit freaked out.’ He coughed.
He called Helen on his secure line and told her the news. He gave her Garrison’s address and asked her to send over a fingerprint and forensics team.
‘And what about the addresses of the remaining four men?’
‘I’m told they will be with us in the next thirty minutes.’
‘You may need to put some pressure on. We need that information now. Otherwise –‘
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I don’t know. But I’ve got a feeling there’s something else to this case besides Gleason.’
17
The sun was beginning to set over the mountains as Kate and Cassie drove towards Hollywood. The sky split into fissures of bright yellow, bruised purple and burnished orange, and the light cast upon the hills in the distance seemed to turn the rocks a blood red. By the interchange of Hollywood and Vine hordes of tourists meandered up and down the sidewalk, some hunting out the hand and foot prints of their favourite celebrities, others moving with an aimlessness approaching catatonia. Los Angeles had a lot to answer for, thought Kate to herself, selling as it did the empty promise of the American dream through the medium of motion pictures. Perhaps mass entertainment was just as bad as organised religion.
Certainly her father used to think so – it was one of the topics guaranteed to light up the dinner table. ‘Escapism turns folks’ brains into mush,’ Saul would say. ‘Oh, don’t be such a prig,’ her mother would reply. ‘What’s wrong with taking people out of their lives and giving them the chance to dream?’ Dad said he could list a dozen or so reasons, and so the argument would start.