Good To The Last Kiss: Crimes of the Depraved Mind Series

by Ronald Tierney

  Why would someone be using her name on the radio?

  ‘Can you hear me, Ms Bateman?’

  The tombstone was bathed in a soft and eerie luminescence. The light became more intense. The stone, the name, the dates – all disappeared in bright light much like an over-exposed photograph.

  There was only one voice now. And it was near. In the same room. What room?

  ‘Ms Bateman, there are some people here who would like to ask you some questions.’

  Julia Bateman heard that. For a moment she was able to distinguish between the two worlds. She tried to open her eyes. It hurt.

  ‘Ms Bateman?’

  She tried to speak. It hurt. Too much. There were forms in the white light now. Dark, shadowy figures around her. For a moment she thought she might be in a casket.

  ‘I think we’d better wait until tomorrow, Inspector,’ a voice said.

  ‘Maybe later this evening?’ another voice said, this one deep and gravelly.

  ‘Tomorrow maybe. Call us first.’

  Julia heard the same gravelly voice, now at a distance. ‘Does she have tomorrow?’ She couldn’t hear the answer. Sudden quiet. The light dimmed. There was a moment of darkness, then, as if someone flipped the switch in her brain, the inside of her head lit up.

  On the highway now. Highway One. Up the coast from San Francisco. The ocean on her left. Salt smells in the air. Happy. The sun was out, the breeze was cool. She was relaxed, on the highway now, the top down on her cobalt blue Miata. Adrift on the highway.

  Outside the door men were talking. She couldn’t hear them above the sound of the wind and the purr of the engine.

  ‘She might be ready tomorrow, Inspector Gratelli,’ the doctor said, wanting to keep discussions of this kind out of Julia Bateman’s earshot. ‘She may appear unconscious, but the heavy hit of morphine doesn’t necessarily prevent her from hearing the conversation. Do you understand?’

  Gratelli nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘She’s strong,’ the doctor continued. ‘You can talk to her tomorrow, I think.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Gratelli said, a voice so deep yet so strained, it sounded as if it was painful to speak. ‘She’s all we’ve got.’

  ‘On second thought, make it Monday. Give her the weekend.’

  Gratelli wore a black raincoat over a black suit over hunched shoulders. Everything about him seemed carelessly put together. His hair was long, but not stylishly so. He needed a hair cut. His bushy eyebrows were black and there were enough bags under his eyes to check into the St Francis. Wild hairs sprouted from his elephantine ears. His hands, too, were huge and the hair on his wrists curled over his watch.

  Gratelli was thinking. He was thinking about the girl, wired, tubed, tied, drugged – and that was part of her recovery. Who would want to do this kind of thing to anyone? You could find just about whatever you want in this world. Problem is that something you don’t want can find you.

  ‘Number what?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How many so far?’

  ‘Not sure it’s connected. Eight if we count this as one. Two in the last couple of days.’ Gratelli shook his head to acknowledge the futility of keeping it a secret.

  Outside, in the morning Inspector Vincente Gratelli appeared to be a gargoyle – escaping from the imposing but not quite Gothic San Francisco General, near Potrero Hill.

  Two men approached him. An Asian man in his late twenties, probably, and an athletic-looking, dark-haired executive type pushing forty-five. They looked at Gratelli, expecting an answer to a question they hadn’t yet asked.

  ‘What do we know about Julia?’ the guy in the suit asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Gratelli said, shrugging.

  They walked on without further comment. Gratelli headed for his car. The Asian, he didn’t know. The one with the expensive suit was an assistant D.A., David Seidman.

  Gratelli was glad there was no press. This one had been quiet, happening up in the woods as it did. Because the details had been withheld, no one had yet publicly connected Julia Bateman to the others.

  Gratelli had already talked to the house appraiser who found her. They talked by phone. Apparently, Julia was considering putting the cabin on the market and wanted to know its value. The front door had been left open. After knocking and calling out and not getting a response, the woman ventured in. Without the appointment, Julia would likely be dead.

  Julia was taken to the hospital in Santa Rosa, where she lay unconscious for three days, then transferred down in the morning. Gratelli guessed this one had slipped by the dozens of reporters who had been covering the string of victims over the last dozen or so weeks as if it were World War Three. The newspaper folks were probably still feeding on the body on the hill.

  It made Gratelli’s life easier if reporters weren’t shadowing him every step of the way. This one was the odd pearl on the strand. For one thing, she was alive. Or nearly so. And she had been beaten. None of the others had. And he damned well didn’t know what to make of it.

  There were other differences: Julia Bateman was older. She was found inside. Alive. And beaten. Nothing that the reporters knew would lead them to believe Bateman was another victim. Nothing that would lead the police to connect them either – except for the mark.

  The Doc had promised to be quiet. It was bound to leak sooner or later, but later was definitely better than sooner.

  ‘You got a live one,’ the medical examiner said looking at the photographs laying on his desk.

  ‘Looks that way for now,’ Inspector Mickey McClellan was always surprised at the old man’s cheery nature. To the paunchy inspector having a constant smile on your face and a lilt in your voice was too weird in light of his job description which, among other things, included the cutting of flesh and the sawing of bone. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think the mark is the same, roughly the same place.’

  McClellan looked at the photo again. The lights were brighter there than in his office – sterile, light and bright. He could see the picture more clearly. There was a mark on the inside and upper part of the thigh. A crudely carved rosebud, two, maybe three inches long.

  ‘A movie fan, you think?’ the examiner said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rosebud,’ he said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the examiner said, joke gone unnoticed. ‘That makes it like the others.’

  ‘Exactly?’

  ‘The guy’s no artist. They all vary a little; but I’d say it’s the same guy.’

  ‘The doctor in Santa Rosa said no semen,’ McClellan said.

  ‘Like the others. You find anything?’

  ‘Nothing. No pubic hair. No hair, period. No threads. No prints. That’s all we know until we get up there and talk with the locals.’

  ‘The immaculate deception,’ the examiner said. ‘How old this time?’

  ‘Mid to late thirties.’

  ‘Why the hell is that, I wonder.’

  ‘That’s what Gratelli wants to know. Me, I think our little engraver just wanted a real woman for a change.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the examiner said more to bring the conversation to a close than to agree.

  ‘Busy day?’ McClellan asked.

  ‘They’re all busy.’

  The heat, the sun, both went away. Julia felt cool as her little convertible swept inland. Darker, too, was the highway, as the sky was suddenly hidden by giant pines interspersed with equally tall deciduous trees. The scent of the ocean gave way to the scent of eucalyptus.

  ‘Julia? It’s Paul. David’s here with me too.’

  She heard the voices and she tried to form the word ‘Paul,’ but her lips wouldn’t cooperate. She tasted metal. It was the same taste, she remembered, when she was little and wore braces.

  God, it was colder. It was darker. Julia couldn’t see the road. Lost.

  ‘Nurse! Something’s wrong!’

  Julia heard that. She thought she recognize
d the voice. It was Paul’s voice. She remembered Paul, thought she did, thought she should. The sound seemed so far away, far away in the future. The inside of her brain exploded in light. She was eleven. She was in the hallway of a strange house. She called for her mother. The hall went on forever. There were no doors. She turned back. Darkness in front of her, darkness behind her. Was she going in the right direction?

  Now there were voices. One voice in particular, one she didn’t recognize.

  ‘V-fib. Code blue.’

  Indistinct voices, scurrying sounds now.

  ‘Another line of saline. Epi. Now!’

  Julia wasn’t sure where she was anymore. There seemed to be some commotion about her in the hollow darkness.

  ‘Now!’ someone shouted.

  Something struck her. Jolted her. The pain. The hallway came back. ‘Oh God, not again,’ she said somewhere inside of her head and now the hallway went away and there were only harsh splashes of light – like lightning – inside her. She wanted it to stop. She would gladly die if it would stop the pain.

  ‘What happened?’ Paul Chang, the young Asian man asked the doctor.

  The doctor didn’t seem to be worried. ‘Ventricular fibrillation. A little shock, epiniphrine. We have her back.’ He seemed distracted for a moment. ‘She’s been through a lot.’

  ‘A little statement of the obvious,’ David Seidman said, his anger barely contained. ‘Is she going to make it?’

  ‘I was much surer about that an hour ago,’ the doctor said almost whispering. ‘I don’t know the extent of brain damage if any. Without going into details, her body suffered immense trauma.’

  ‘I’m going to want the details,’ Chang said to the doctor.

  ‘No, you’re not, Paul,’ David said, putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Look, I understand how you feel. I feel the same way. But let the doctors handle it here and let the police handle the rest of it. You guys aren’t equipped for this kind of thing. I’ll have my eyes on the case every step of the way. And I’ll keep you informed. No criminal experience. Don’t mess things up for the professionals.’

  Paul glared.

  ‘Listen, I promise, Paul. They’ll find the bastard, I’ll see to that.’

  Paul just stared at the assistant district attorney. David removed his hand. The doctor left.

  Earl Falwell had the bass up so loud the car shook. His fingers tapped the steering wheel of his black ’88 Camaro more out of impatience than trying to keep the beat. The traffic was snarled on the interstate between Daly City and San Francisco. And he was steamed.

  It was his day off. He’d had his morning workout at the gym and sometimes, even after getting juiced, he’d be a little calmer after a bout with the weights. All through the workout, he hadn’t had those thoughts, that feeling. But he knew when it was coming and it was coming now. It was like that kid in grade school who knew when he was going to have a seizure and he could tell the teacher and they’d know what to do. But this wasn’t exactly like that and there was nothing to do about this. There was no one to tell. No one to lock him in a room or tie him to a bed until the sensation went away.

  The traffic snarl was getting to him. Maybe he’d swing off this pike and hit the mall. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do it today. Yeah, right. It would take him over by evening. It was all so predictable. He’d do it. He’d feel better. He’d get depressed. He’d kind of go down, like a submarine, into some other part of him. Then there was nothing he could do about it. Then he’d feel good. Then he’d feel terrible and it would start all over again.

  He probably should have worked. Earl didn’t mind loading the trucks. He wasn’t too fond of his coworkers, but most of the time he could just tune in on himself and work up a decent sweat, eventually tiring out his body. The boxes were filled with paper products, computer paper mostly, and they were heavy. He did more work than the others. They didn’t mind. Neither did he. The time passed faster. He put more strain on his body and that was good. Sometimes his mind would follow and he could resist the urges.

  He should have worked. If he were stuck in traffic much longer, the day would be a waste anyway.

  The car ahead of him, a silver Honda Prelude, moved a few feet and Earl pushed the Camaro almost close enough to nudge this immediate barrier to speed. His left foot on the clutch, he revved the engine threateningly a few times, looked up, caught the reflection of his eyes in the rearview mirror.

  He pulled the mirror down so that it showed his face. Zits. At twenty-two, Earl Falwell still had zits. Maybe it was the steroids. He inched the mirror down so that it gave him a look at his chest. The pecs were starting to look real good. Somebody at the gym told him he looked like Eminem. Was it at the gym or somewhere else? Someone else? Eminem. That wasn’t too bad. But he wanted to look mean and Earl didn’t think the rapper looked all that tough wearing those loose jeans and showing his shorts and all that.

  Earl weighed one hundred ninety pounds. Six months ago, he was at one hundred forty-five. Six foot, two inches, and a lousy, puny one hundred forty-five pounds. Not any more. He was on his way to two hundred and twenty-five.

  Nobody would fuck with him anymore. Not like they did in the Army. Not like they did in Leavenworth. He’d already put the scare of God into his stepdad. No more messin’ around from him.

  Earl pushed the mirror back up, noticed the Honda had advanced a few feet. This time Earl let the Camaro tap the fender as he closed the gap. The Honda driver turned and scowled. Earl gave him the finger.

  The little scene was played again as the guy ahead inched forward. Earl tapped harder this time. Earl couldn’t tell what the guy was screamin’ at him, the ugly face all wrenched around over the seat. Now, shit, the guy was putting the Honda in reverse. Banged back.

  It had been a game. Now it wasn’t. Suddenly, it wasn’t fun. Earl didn’t really know where the anger was coming from. It seemed as if it just welled up out of his chest and into his head, into his breathing or something and he was ready to explode.

  Earl put the Camaro in neutral, jerked on the hand brake and was out of his car in one movement. The guy in a gray suit was getting out of his car, but Earl helped him a bit by grabbing the suit and jerking him out. The kid had pummeled the guy’s head three times before the guy even knew what was going on.

  Earl slammed the guy back down on the hood of the Honda, his knuckles coming down hard on the guy’s forehead, right over the eyebrow. Blood was coming from somewhere. Now horns were honking. Earl and this guy were the only ones out of their cars. There were screams in the midst of the smell of auto exhaust.

  People were telling Earl to stop. The guy was trying to say something, but all he could manage was the gurgle of bloody spittle.

  Earl could see himself in the reflection of the hood of the Honda. He could see splatters of blood there too. And that just seemed to make him angrier.

  FIVE

  G ratelli, on his second visit, guessed the woman who left Julia Bateman’s room as he came in was a social worker, some kind of rape therapist. He couldn’t be sure. His dominion the last eight years was homicide and a lot of things had changed in the way the police handled sex crimes.

  When he saw Bateman, she was sitting up in bed staring down at her hands. Her head was still swollen. Hard to tell whether the condition was a result of the surgery or the beating. Beside her, in a chair pulled up close to the bed, was David Seidman, the assistant D.A.

  David was telling her that he didn’t know what to say. She didn’t offer to write his lines.

  Gratelli had seen Seidman in court. Seidman, in front of a judge, was a sharp, confident prosecutor. Jurors were impressed with his courtroom demeanor, his conservative good taste in clothes, and the handsome head of dark hair with gray temples almost too perfect to be anything other than hair salon magic.

  His prosecutions were flawless. Since Seidman often took the capital offenses, the big cases, Gratelli witnessed the smooth and simple way the young prosecutor laid out di
fficult and complex cases. Unlike many, he had a full grasp of every, intimate detail. He’d always done his homework. The police liked him. The media respected him. The public was beginning to hear of him. There were rumors he would be mayor, perhaps governor some day, despite his surprising lack of charisma.

  This was a different guy altogether, hunched over, embarrassed.

  ‘Professional visit?’ Gratelli asked, startling Seidman.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Miss Bateman,’ Gratelli said to Julia. She didn’t look up.

  ‘She’s been like this,’ Seidman said. He reached down and touched her hand.

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘I thought you were homicide, Inspector. This is sex crimes or General Works, right?’

  Gratelli shrugged noncommittally. He wasn’t in the mood to explain anything – let alone the serial homicide connection – to Seidman. He’d know sooner or later. But like the press, it was better later.

  ‘I want to talk with her,’ he said to Seidman in a tone that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but official.

  There was an awkward moment when it appeared Seidman would insist on staying for the conversation. But Gratelli’s disapproving look must have changed the lawyer’s mind. Seidman got up slowly and went to the door.

  ‘If there’s anything I can help you with, let me know.’

  ‘You and I probably need to have a little chat too,’ Gratelli said.

  ‘Inspector Gratelli?’ Seidman said at the door.

  Gratelli turned.

  ‘She didn’t know, I think.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘What happened to her. The woman told her.’

  ‘What did happen to her?’ Gratelli asked, wanting to know what the assistant D.A. knew.

  ‘That she’d been raped,’ Seidman said, a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘Was she?’ Gratelli asked.

  ‘Wasn’t she?’

  Gratelli shrugged.

  ‘What in the hell do you mean?’ Earl said, staring across the table at the little red-headed lawyer who unburdened his tattered briefcase of a half dozen manila folders.

  ‘What I said,’ the guy replied. ‘They won’t do your bail.’