by Lankford, Terrill Lee; Raphael, Lev; Parker, T. Jefferson
"I get up early."
"Doesn't look good, does it?"
"Don't panic. I've just begun to snoop. I'm going after this character Angelo next. He's a hustler. He's been in the skin flicks too. He was parlaying his relationship with the Bishop girl to get parts. Looks like he started cheating on her when her usefulness wore thin, but he still expected her to be loyal to him. They had a number of public rows in the last couple months. He fits the profile of jealous lover. Makes a good suspect."
"That's what you said about Teddy Vincent."
"Hey, that was yesterday."
"Right."
"Keep your chin up, but watch your back. That body may have been left in your Dumpster out of convenience or as a not-so-subtle attempt to frame you. We don't know. If you have been set up, whoever is behind it may not be done with you yet."
"You think I could be in danger?"
"Aren't we all?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
I hung up. The gloom descended again.
I went downstairs to get the mail. It was on the floor at the base of the front door. I picked up a handful of envelopes and a small package and walked through the house, flipping through the envelopes. Bills and junk mail. Nothing interesting. I looked at the package. Typed labels. Beverly Hills postmark. The return address in the upper left corner read simply "Karma City Central."
I sat the envelopes down on the bar and tore open the package. Inside I found a videotape and a plain white card with the words "You're my inspiration" typed on it. I stared at the card and the videotape. Then I noticed that my hands were shaking.
I went upstairs and slipped the tape into my VCR, turned on the television and hit Play.
There were the standard color bars and tone that indicated a professional duplicating machine had turned out the tape. Then an image popped on. An image I had never actually seen before, yet I recognized immediately. A girl was having sex on a bed with two men. Two men I hadn't seen in over a decade. The girl was young. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. She had curly black hair down to her shoulders, almond-shaped eyes, and thin lips. She appeared to be enjoying herself—at first. Then the sex got a little rougher. She stayed in the game, but she did not look happy about it. They rolled her flat on her back and one of the men fucked her while the other guy received a semi-forced blow job, twisting her neck in a very awkward and uncomfortable fashion. The men banged away at the girl from both ends of her body, then pulled out and climaxed almost simultaneously. As they pulled away from her she appeared limp. Her eyes were vacant. After a few seconds one of the men came back into the frame and shook the girl. She did not respond. He shook her harder and she fell off the bed to the floor. The camera jumped and tilted wildly and suddenly the picture was gone. It was over.
I had never actually seen this film before, but I had witnessed the event. I had been looking through the viewfinder of the camera when it all went down. This was the accidental snuff film that had sent me scurrying from the country over a decade ago. I didn't even know that the negative had been developed and copies printed. I had abandoned the set immediately after the girl died, leaving everything with Matty and George, the two guys who had hired me. The two guys who had sex with the girl in the film, breaking her neck and smothering her to death in a moment of uncontrollable lust. How and why this film had been transferred to tape and sent to me was a mystery. Who was dredging up my past and trying to shove it down my throat? I felt my stomach start to boil.
Another picture popped onto the screen. The image was cheap looking, obviously shot directly on video. A beautiful sunset on the sea. I slowly realized it was only a painted backdrop as the camera pulled back to reveal Candice Bishop in the foreground. She was scantily clad in torn designer rags. Her arms and legs were stretched out and tied to two horizontal poles that might have been broomsticks. It made her body look like an X. She had a ball gag strapped in her mouth and there was a rope tied to the middle of her arm pole that extended into the air offscreen, obviously hooked to a ceiling pulley to keep her on her feet. Cheap Muzak set the scene. Something you might hear on an elevator in an insane asylum.
A man entered the frame. He wore only a leather mask and a jockstrap. A machete was strapped to his waist. The man had my coloring, build, and hairstyle. He could have been my stunt double. But I was certain it wasn't me. This I would have remembered. He circled Candice a few times, studying her like a hyena would survey a piece of meat. Then he stopped behind her and looked down at her ass. He pulled his jockstrap to the side and rubbed his penis against her until it got hard. He pulled a black French tickler condom lined with angry plastic studs out of his jockstrap and slipped it over his cock. He reached around, tore what was left of Candice's top off, and mauled her breasts with both hands as he started pumping into her from the rear. Candice didn't look frightened. She actually appeared to be enjoying herself. I staggered back a few feet, my jaw hanging loose.
The man pounded away at Candice Bishop. She was really starting to get into it now, pushing her buttocks against him as hard as she could. I looked at the card in my hand, the words typed so simply there. You're my inspiration.
The man was done behind Candice. He stepped in front of her and lowered the control rope so that she was bent very far forward, as if she could perform oral sex on him if he removed her gag. But the man didn't remove Candice's gag. Instead he pulled the machete from its sheath on his waist and taunted her with it, touching her on her shoulders, her breasts, her ass. He straightened her up again and teased the blade around her vagina, tracing lips and pubic hair. And then I saw it. A cigarette burn just above her pubic area. I realized fully what this tape was, when it was shot, what was about to happen. These were going to be the last seconds of Candice Bishop's life. This was a snuff film, shot the night she died, within hours of the time she was with me.
The man lowered Candice into the bent position again. Candice looked up at him curiously. It became obvious, even to her, what he really had in mind. She started to panic. She struggled, but couldn't move much. She tried to scream, but the gag was too tight. All the devices of masochistic pleasure had suddenly taken on lethal implications. She had allowed herself to be trapped into submission and silence by these bastards and now they could do anything they wanted to do to her without being heard.
The man stood in front of Candice as if trying to decide something. Candice looked off-camera, pleading with someone there with her eyes. The masked man looked off-camera as well, receiving instructions. Whatever was said totally freaked Candice out. She started flailing at her bonds like a frightened bull in a slaughterhouse, but it was to no avail. She was trapped. Tears were now streaming down her face. Her eyes were wide with terror. The man in the mask lifted the machete over his head.
I looked down at the card in my hand to avoid seeing what I knew was going to happen. Mark Pecchia's words at the party came back to me: "You're the best there is, Nick. . . . "
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man swing down hard with the machete.
"You're my inspiration." Mark Pecchia's words, repeated on the otherwise blank calling card. A coded confession that would never hold up in court. Not in a million fucking years. I crushed the card in my hand and stared through tears at the image on the monitor. Candice Bishop had been decapitated, on camera, by a man in a mask whose body could easily double for mine. The frame around me was clear now, the reasons still a blur. Someone had murdered a girl and wanted me to burn for it. Not just burn, but suffer slowly as well. The who had all but been answered. The next question was why?
2
I called Dale Holiday's office, but he wasn't in. I wasn't even sure what I was going to tell him. I thought I had some answers, but they led to more questions. It was certainly no full vindication on my part. What I really had in my possession was incriminating evidence that could send me to Death Row if it was interpreted against my favor.
I dressed quickly and hauled ass in the Lamborghini toward Beverly Hills. I was looking to break the sound
barrier. As I went up Sunset Boulevard I could see a giant plume of reddish brown smoke rising over the mountains to the north. I turned on the radio and discovered that arsonists had struck again and a raging fire was racing toward Malibu all the way from Calabasas. I didn't have time to worry about it. I had my own fire to put out.
I made Beverly Hills in record time. I ripped up Benedict Canyon and screeched to a halt sideways in front of Mark Pecchia's driveway. There were a number of expensive cars and a couple of junkers parked there. I blocked them completely with my car. No one was getting out of here until this thing was over.
I went to the front door and was met by a behemoth of a man whom I recognized as Jerry Pendrell, an ex-linebacker for the Raiders who had blown out his knee in his second year with the team. He must have blown his money up his nose too, because he was working as Mark Pecchia's bodyguard now.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"I have to search you," Jerry said.
"Bullshit."
"Then you have to leave."
I looked Jerry Pendrell over. He was still a monster, fucked up knee and all. It wouldn't be worth the fight even if I could take him, which was highly unlikely. I turned and faced the wall.
"Knock yourself out," I said.
Jerry frisked me. He wasn't gentle about it. He checked my chest and crotch areas the most thoroughly. I got the feeling he was more interested in any recording devices I might have on me than weapons. Either that or he was a closet fag, like half the NFL.
Satisfied, Jerry led me through the house and out the sliding glass doors in the back. A steep hill led down to the swimming pool and the tennis court. We rode down the mountainside in a big blue metal tram like we were at Magic Mountain.
Mark Pecchia sat by the swimming pool reading a copy of Billboard magazine. He was in swim trunks and a white terry cloth robe hung off his shoulders. A row of tall fir trees provided shade from the sun. The atmosphere was quite pleasant. A man sat on the edge of a lounge chair five feet away from Mark Pecchia. The man was not as large as Jerry Pendrell, but he looked meaner. He was picking his teeth with a matchstick and staring into the swimming pool as if he were angry at it for being so clear and blue. Since when did rock video directors need bodyguards?
Mark Pecchia took no notice as Jerry Pendrell and I approached. He simply turned a page of his magazine and kept reading.
"How's it going, bud?" Pecchia asked without looking up from Billboard.
"You know why I'm here," I said, trying to sound intimidating.
"I'm not a mind reader," Pecchia said through a thin smile.
"You set me up. You killed that girl and you set me up."
Pecchia finally looked up from his magazine. "I assume you're talking about Candice Bishop. From what I read in the papers, you killed her."
I paced nervously in front of him. His words and attitude were as good as a confession. To me at least. The authorities would need a hell of a lot more.
"Why? Why me?" I stuttered, losing some of my bravado.
"Is that all you ever think about? Yourself?" Pecchia asked. "What about her? Why don't you ask 'Why her?' Because the truth is, you don't give a fuck about anyone but yourself."
I stared at him, trying to figure out what the hell this game was all about.
Mark Pecchia got up and walked over to the wet bar on the side of the pool. He began rolling a joint culled from a giant bag of what looked to be high-grade pot.
"Yeah," he said. "You killed that girl, all right. You may not have chopped her head off yourself, but you killed her, just as sure as you killed the other one ten years ago."
My face grew ashen. How could he know? But of course he did. He had assembled the two tapes.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked nervously.
"Need me to spell it out?" Pecchia asked as he lit the joint.
"I guess you better."
"It takes more than a few years dicking around in Europe to clean a slate as dirty as yours. Hit?"
He offered me the joint. I was in a daze, but I waved him away. He shrugged and walked back to his chair and sat in the lotus position. The bodyguards had no reaction to any of this. They were like big, ugly mannequins.
"You must've really thought you were hot shit when you hit the big time and no one showed up to nail you," Pecchia continued. "Did you really think you were going to get away with murder like that?"
"I didn't kill anybody! Not then and not now!"
"That's what the other guys said, but here we have it: Dead girls everywhere and no murderers in the whole fucking town. Weird, huh?"
"You did it, you crazy bastard. You killed Candice Bishop."
"No, Nicky, baby. You killed her the moment you took her home with you. And now you're going to fry for it. You're finished. End of story. It's just a matter of time now before they reel you in. Ever been fucked in the ass, Nick? Those big boys are gonna dig your little white cheeks in jail. Hope you catch as well as you pitch."
I rushed toward Pecchia. The seated bodyguard stuck his foot out and tripped me. Jerry Pendrell intercepted the pass. He punched me in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. I collapsed on the ground, trying desperately to breathe.
"How's it feel to be on the receiving end, Nicky?" Pecchia cackled. "Better get used to it. The niggers love white trash like you in the slammer."
"You sick fuck!" I wheezed. "You murdered that girl just to get back at me? For something I didn't even do? I'm gonna fucking kill you!" It must've seemed a very idle threat coming from a man who was trying to find his lungs on the ground in front of him.
"Get him out of here," Pecchia said to Jerry Pendrell. "The meeting is over."
Jerry picked me up by the collar and started to drag me toward the blue tram.
"You're not going to get away with this!" I said to Pecchia. "I'll tell the cops everything! I'll show them the video! You're the one who's going to fry!"
Jerry slammed my head against the door frame of the metal tram, stunning me into silence. He pulled me onto the platform of the tram and hit the Up button. The cable car began the slow crawl back up the hill toward the house, clicking loudly as it went. Going uphill was a much bigger strain on the motor than coming down had been.
Mark Pecchia stood up and watched us ascend. "Go ahead," he said. "Show them the video. That's why I sent it to you. Try to explain it to the cops. They'll never believe you, Nick! You're a well-known pornographer with aliases. A very suspicious character. I'm an artist, respected everywhere. You fucked her that night, I didn't. You've got possession of the video, I don't. Who do you think they're going to believe?" Pecchia laughed sourly. There was great hatred in his voice.
I was in so much pain I couldn't give him an answer even if I had one. I wouldn't have dared anyway. Not with an ex-linebacker's hand around my throat. I just rode silently with Jerry Pendrell toward the top of the hill.
Mark Pecchia saluted me and clicked his bare heels together with a laugh. "Enjoy the ride up, Nick!" he said. "You won't be moving in that direction again for a long, long time. See ya, buddy."
I stared down at Pecchia with anger in my eyes and nausea in the pit of my stomach. The tram reached the top of the hill. Pendrell shoved me through the swinging doors toward the house. He held me firmly by the back of the neck as we went through the house as if he were afraid I'd go crazy and break something. He tossed me out the front door like I was some bar drunk who had pissed off the management. I landed on my knees first, then my palms.
"Don't fucking come back, scumbag!" Pendrell yelled.
I got up and dusted myself off. My pants were torn and my hands and knees were bleeding. I stared at Jerry Pendrell as I got into my car. His boss had practically confessed to a murder in front of him, yet I was the scumbag. I could tell I was in Beverly Hills.
_____
"I had nothing against him personally. I didn't really even know him. But stuff had happened a long time ago and he was responsible. No matter what he says, he was res
ponsible."
—Mark Pecchia
_____
PART XIII
"It wasn't the first time they used that room."
—Nate Boritzer
1
Jim Morrison was locked in his "Mr. Mojo Risin'" mantra on "L.A. Woman" as I sped out of Beverly Hills. I had jammed the tape back in, not wanting to hear the barrage of news stories about the Malibu fires that were flooding the airwaves. They had already dubbed this current blaze "Firestorm II." They had sequelized the fires.
I got Whitney on my car phone. The stage was dark today, so he was home. I told him what I needed. Fifteen minutes later I pulled into the parking garage of his apartment building in one of Hollywood's seedier neighborhoods.
Whitney was waiting for me, leaning against the trunk of his '86 Camaro. I pulled up in the slot beside him and got out. We stared at each other for a moment, then Whitney turned and popped open the trunk of his car, revealing a small arsenal of pistols and assault rifles laid out and strapped down on the floor of the compartment.
"Choose careful, dude," Whitney said with a grin.
"Where the fuck did you get all this?" I asked.
"You don't think I can afford to live on what you guys pay me, do you?"
I couldn't believe it. My camera assistant was a part-time gun dealer. This town was in serious trouble.
"Aren't you afraid of being searched by the cops?" I asked.
"Nah," Whitney said. "I'm white."
It seemed a naive attitude, but maybe he was right. Since the Rodney King incident and the riots, the cops in L.A. weren't watching white folks as closely as they used to. The statistics just didn't call for it. They were getting as color conscious as they were usually accused of being. That was probably one of the reasons Di Bacco was so keen on seeing me convicted. It would look good to put a white guy away. Especially a semi-famous one. It would be politically correct. They could wave my ass like a lily-white flag for the next three years every time some attorney yelled "racism" while defending a minority in court.