Bleeding Out lf-1

by Baxter Clare

  "Look, I don't know, maybe you're...healthier, better-adapted, maybe it won't happen to you, but if you wake up scared, or have a bad dream, I'm just next door, okay? You don't have to go through any of that alone. Just come and wake me up, alright?"

  Kennedy's smile faded and she agreed.

  "Promise?"

  "Yeah," the younger woman said seriously.

  "Okay," Frank sighed, hugely relieved. "Get some sleep."

  She returned to the dark kitchen and hung up the dishtowel. Pouring the last of the wine into her glass, she noticed the slight trembling in her hand.

  On Friday afternoons he watched the football games at Culver City, or sometimes he'd go to Crenshaw or Inglewood, but he never went back to his old school. He drove by occasionally but would have been ashamed to be seen there. That was where it all started to come undone. He played that game in his head every night, and every night, he stopped battering Jimmy Pierce once he was on the ground. In his head he went on to finish the game, neatly straight-arming blockers, flying into the end zone with the crowd cheering and his father clapping. The scout on the sidelines would be incredulous and he'd ask the beaming coach, "Who's that kid?"

  He missed the game, missed the contact and the release of pounding into the other players. After the games on Friday, if he had enough money, he'd cruise LaBrea or Washington until he found a whore. Then he'd take her in the back seat and slam into her, a towel around her throat silencing her cries.

  24

  Frank woke up on the couch in the den, fuzzy and slightly headachy from the wine. It was a familiar feeling, and she dismissed it with a glance at the VCR clock. It's gleaming red numbers mocked that it was only half past three. Dark, relentless dream flashes assured her there would be no more sleep tonight, and Frank was glad the lamp was still on. She straightened her legs over the end of the couch and concentrated on Stan Getz soloing on "These Foolish Things."

  When the song ended, she stopped the spinning CD and walked quietly into her bathroom. She shook out some aspirin and brushed her teeth, then got into bed with a pysch text. She closed her eyes, the book unopened, wondering where he was.

  You're out there somewhere. Maybe working. What do you do?

  Frank made a list in her head of night jobs. She ruled out all the jobs that involved people. If their profile was right, he wouldn't work well with others, too insecure. She considered delivery jobs.

  Nope. You're smart and you'd use that. Your assaults and your bodies would be spread all over. No, I think you go somewhere, not too far from home, and you stay there. Probably drive the same route every night. Comfortable, predictable, no surprises. You don't like surprises, do you buddy? We have a lot in common, you and I.

  Frank would have smiled if it hadn't been so true.

  J lie here thinking about you and you're thinking about.. .your last girl. Peterson. Bet you didn't even know her name. Bet you never even talked to her. She would have been so scared, so frightened, and I'll bet you just stood mute over her.

  Frank thought of standing silently by Kennedy's bed in the hospital that first night, not wanting to console her, crippled by her own fears.

  Or maybe you're on to your next girl already. Its been a while. Are you thinking about how you're going to do it next time? Do it better, make it last longer. How you 're going to hurt her? Same way, or are you ready for something new? Simple assault, violent assault, murder...where do you go from here? Do you ever see yourself in the mirror and wonder who you are?

  Frank remembered striking the mirror the night she'd had that dream. This wasn't the first time she had compared herself to a sociopath. She thought cops and criminals were really the same animal; the main thing separating them was which side of the law they stood on. Only one was sanctioned to kill.

  Where are you, buddy? I see you working alone, something like night security or physical labor. If you were doing a security gig, that would explain why you know so much, why you're so clever at this game. I think you'd be bragging, though. Security guards are wannabe cops. They talk tough, act tough, swagger. But you seem like a lay-low kinda guy to me. And you're a big guy. Physical labor would be easy for you, effortless. Gives you lots of time to daydream, time alone, nothing too intellectually challenging, quiet, no one in your face except maybe a skeleton crew or night shift supervisor.

  She considered making a list of all the jobs in the area that ran twenty-four hours, then realized the implausibility of that. After all, this was one of the largest cities in the world. There wasn't even any guarantee he'd work within the area she examined. If he had a night job.

  Maybe you're a porno freak and spend all your nights in gummy joints and cruising strips.

  Frank tried that on, envisioning him in porn theaters, walking down sidewalks, hands crammed in pockets, hunched over, unobtrusive, inconsequential, no one. She put him in a car, an older one, maybe a sedan or import, something practical, nothing flashy. Maybe an older truck if he did manual labor. It would be dusty and in need of waxing. There'd be litter in it. Not a lot, but some, enough to look messy. She could see him cruising, watching the hookers, building up his nerve, probably spending more time jerking off than picking up.

  Nope. I like the night job better. It's more consistent with your hours of attack. You could be doing porn anytime. And you'd need a job to pay rent. You're living somewhere. You did Nichols and Agoura and Peterson inside. Jane Doe was an aberration. You might live with your folks, but at your age they'd expect you to have some money at least.

  And you spend your mornings cruising. But you won't be at the parks anymore. I know the black-and-whites are scaring you away.

  You're not stupid. Going there for the last two was risky enough. But you had to do it, didn't you? And at the end of the rapes you switched to schools, not just one school but two. You're good, breaking it up, moving it around, but you're still in the locus of Culver City. You haven't moved out of there, and I don't think you will. You're comfortable and feeling good where you are. You've got us running all over.

  But why schools? first because you know that's where you'll find girls? Why not just pick up runaways, homeless kids? It'd be harder on us, better for you. Nope. You like them young and innocent. You don't want a street veteran. You want someone who'll offer no resistance, someone who has no clue how to fight back.

  Frank recalled the anticipation and pleasure she'd felt after denying Noah's protests and deliberately putting Kennedy on the bust.

  The lieutenant opened her eyes to the shadowy ceiling. Usually she enjoyed the challenge of trying to think like perps, especially someone like this with no apparent motive, but tonight the similarities felt too close to the bone. Frank opened the fat book she'd been holding and squinted at it. Not to bring images closer, but to squeeze them away.

  Frank glanced up from the sports section as Kennedy stumbled out of the guest room in shorts and a sports bra. Unaccountably flustered, Frank closed the paper and got up for more coffee even though her cup was still half full.

  "What are you doing up so early?" she asked sarcastically. Behind her Kennedy mumbled that she was going to get bed sores if she slept any more.

  "Coffee?" Frank asked, not turning.

  "Sure."

  Kennedy slouched against the counter and Frank handed her a cup, careful to keep her eyes above Kennedy's neck.

  "What the hell you get up so early for when you don't have to work?" she grumbled good-naturedly.

  Frank flipped her wrist over. "It's nine o'clock."

  "Like I said, what do you get up so early for?"

  Frank shook her head and picked up the paper, muttering, "Kids."

  "What's happenin' in the world?" Kennedy asked, standing close enough to Frank to see the paper too. Frank was keenly aware of Kennedy's soft smell, like freshly mowed grass or baking bread. Something ancient and involuntary turned over in Frank's belly; it was small and buried, but it groped at the warm scent. She got up and opened the refrigerator.

 
; "How'd you sleep?"

  "Oh, pretty good, I reckon, considering there's a hole in my neck. Your bed's comfortable."

  "Hungry?"

  "Girl, how do you eat so much and stay so skinny?"

  Frank closed the door, still keeping her back to Kennedy.

  "Hey. How about I take you out to Sylvester's? Best corned beef hash in the city."

  "They got grits?"

  "Kennedy," Frank said, fooling around at the coffee pot again, "this is L.A., not Lubbock."

  "Damn. Ya'll don't know how to eat around here." Then, to Frank's relief, Kennedy went into her room to put on a shirt.

  The day was clear and sunny. During the drive they bantered easily, and at the restaurant they both ordered the hash. Kennedy kidded the waitress about putting grits on the menu. Then a comfortable silence slipped between the cops as they assessed the patrons.

  "So," Kennedy asked at length, "who's the we you bought the house with?"

  Frank stalled, sipping her coffee.

  "You've got a mind like a steel trap."

  "I'm a detective," she grinned helplessly.

  Frank studied the happy eyes and shiny hair. Kennedy's cheekbones were high and strong; her color was good. Her lips were pink, the lower one fuller than the top.

  "Who'd you buy the house with?"

  "You're relentless," Frank said dismissively, deciding that was a better quality in a cop than a houseguest.

  "Who was it?" Kennedy pressed.

  "Look, sport, I'd really rather not discuss my personal life, okay?"

  "You did in the hospital."

  "That was different."

  "How so?"

  The waitress brought them a basket of biscuits, forcing Kennedy's elbows off the table. Frank noticed her lean right back in when the waitress moved away. Like an animal hunting, she didn't want to lose the trail.

  "Why was it different in the hospital?"

  Frank paused, appraising the handsome face again. She decided it wasn't the packaging that made Kennedy appealing, but the enthusiasm behind it. She was so damn...vibrant. Kennedy was staring at her, waiting for an answer. Frank knew she wouldn't quit until she got it.

  "That was all stuff I thought you should know."

  "I see."

  Frank watched her open a biscuit and draw butter and honey across it.

  "Pretty good," she said around a mouthful.

  "As good as mama's?"

  Kennedy laughed and mumbled, "Mom couldn't cook for shit. It got so that if something wasn't raw or burnt me and my brother wouldn't eat it."

  Frank smiled in spite of herself, infected by Kennedy's high humor.

  "So, did you decorate the place or was that the mystery guest?"

  Frank's jaw muscle jumped. She'd been willing to share about the nightmares and the fear, but now Kennedy was crossing over into an area where she had absolutely no business. Any hint of warmth fled from Frank's eyes. She warned Kennedy to drop it.

  "Okay. Sorry," Kennedy said contritely. She pushed the biscuits toward Frank. "You should have one while they're warm."

  Frank took a biscuit, but just left it on her plate. She'd spent eight years successfully forgetting Mag until Timothy Johnston's death had suddenly resurrected her. Mag's specter had risen as Frank watched Kennedy bleeding out. It had sat next to her in the ambulance and followed her into the hospital. Noah had given the wraith life and Kennedy fed it. Now it loomed large and powerful, hanging over Frank like a second, much darker shadow.

  Kennedy continued making Smalltalk, but Frank only answered with nods or monosyllables. After breakfast, she dropped Kennedy off at the house despite the younger woman's protests that she wasn't tired.

  "Good. Keep it that way."

  "Where are you going?"

  "The office for a while."

  "Sure you don't want some company?"

  "Very."

  Kennedy opened her car door but before she got out she turned to face Frank. "I'm sorry I got so nosy back there. I was just curious, that's all."

  Frank nodded, staring ahead, deciding what would be the best route to take to Figueroa at this time of day.

  Kennedy stuck her hand toward her. "Friends?"

  Kennedy's sincerity was genuine, no mocking, no teasing, and Frank thawed a little. She shook. "Sure. What do you want for dinner?"

  "Geez, girl, we just had breakfast. Brunch."

  "Yeah. And you'll be starving in a couple hours. What do you want?"

  "I don't know," Kennedy whined, then brightened. "Surprise me. If everything you make's as good as last night's supper, then I'll be happier'n a dump rat."

  Frank squinted at Kennedy. "A dump rat?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Kennedy laughed. "You never been to the dump and seen all them big ol' rats runnin' 'round? Fat and happy as can be?"

  "Can't say that I have."

  "Well, girl, you ain't lived ‘til you've gone rat shootin' at the dump."

  Frank pressed her lips against the smile oozing around the edge of her mouth.

  "That's a big thing in Texas, huh?"

  "Oh, yeah. Huge. And it being Texas and all, we got rats the size a Rottweilers."

  Frank's smile finally spilled over. Kennedy grinned happily and said, "See you later, gator."

  She slammed the door and jogged up the walkway. Frank thought about telling her to take it easy, but Kennedy would just flash that damn cocky smile and do exactly what she wanted. Backing into the street, Frank wagged her head. Kennedy had an amazing capacity to bring Frank down then toss her up again, higher than she'd been in a long time. Higher than she was sure she wanted to go.

  He worked the late shift. It was okay. He gave his mother most of the money but kept a stash for himself, for the whores. He didn't go home right after work. His mother would still be there. Since his father died she was constantly criticizing and complaining. He could never do anything right. If the weather was nice, he'd buy some junk food and eat his dinner at one of the parks. He liked them. They were free, and big, and it was easy to watch girls without anyone noticing him. He started spending more and more time there.

  25

  Her detectives were used to the click of Frank's Italian loafers, and when she padded into the squad room in sneakers, they were surprised to see her. "Dude-ess," Noah greeted affectionately, and Johnnie dropped his feet off his desk, grinning a little too broadly. He didn't have time to cover his folded newspaper. Ike lifted a finger on a phone call, and from the typewriter Diego greeted, "Ess-say." She exchanged hand signs with him and slapped Noah's shoulder as she passed to her office.

  "You're RODded, babe. Go home," he called.

  "You closing everything?" she rejoined, meaning had he handed all the cases to the DA.

  "One hundred percent."

  "Then I'm outta here," she called back, settling into her old chair, realizing how good it felt. Feeling a sense of purpose in directing other people, guiding them to resolve the final, mysterious destinies of strangers—strangers to the nine-three but vivid memories alive to the survivors of their cases—all of it felt fine. Being a homicide cop was the next best thing to being God: telling someone how and why a loved one died was a power trip, and Frank loved that power. A lot of cops shrank from the responsibility involved; those like her fed off it, lived on it. The cost of playing God was high—failed relationships, chemical dependencies, cynicism, emotional petrification. Frank was willing to pay, though. For her it was still worth it.

  Sifting through a stack of pink message slips, she prioritized who she needed to get back to and threw away the ones that didn't matter. Along with wads of legal briefs, interdepartmental memos, RHD memos, and department memos, was a pile of evidence reports, 60Ds to be reviewed, copies of prelim, death, and MI reports and personal notes from her detectives. There was also a message from IAD.

  Noah leaned in.

  "The Fubar finds you in here, he's gonna kick your ass."

  "That'd be worth selling tickets to," Frank muttered.

&nbs
p; "I'm serious. He says we're to 'report' if we see you around here."

  "You're kidding?"

  "Uh-uh. Am I gonna have to run you in, Frank?"

  "Guess so."

  Noah grinned.

  "How's Gidget?"

  "She's doing well. She's a quick healer."

  "Not being too much of a pain in the ass?"

  "Not as big as you."

  Frank buried her head in the paperwork and didn't see Noah's wide smile. Without looking up she said, "Have a seat. Tell me what's going on. Internal giving you a hard time?"

  Noah plucked the knees of his trousers and dropped onto the couch, all gangly joints and limbs.

  "Nah, those idiots, they don't have a clue, even though they've been on us like lips on a blow job. They're just blowing smoke." Noah paused, then casually threw in, "They've been askin' a lotta questions about you and Kennedy. Your relationship."

  Frank smirked a little, throwing out an old memo.

  "That's not surprising. They're just swinging in the wind. It's either grab onto that or grab onto their dicks. They've got nothing legit on this. They know it. We know it. Christ, even the big hats probably know it. But we've got to do it for the commission."

  IAD was just doing their usual song and dance, doing CYA, making sure Frank wasn't holding out on them. They'd been just as hard on her detectives, and almost as hard on Kennedy and the uniforms at the bust. There were no holes in any of the stories, but IAD couldn't understand how no one had seen Johnston hiding behind the hall door. They were convinced Frank had overreacted and concocted a story to save her skin.

  "Besides," Frank tossed more papers into the garbage, "if they want to bury me they've got years worth of shit."

  "Still," Noah cautioned, "you watch your ass."

  "Nothing I can do about it," she shrugged. "How's everybody else?"

  "Alright. Gettin' back to normal."

  The day after the shooting Frank had talked to all her detectives. Jill had requested early leave, but Foubarelle had flatly denied it. Frank told her to take it anyway, that she'd hash out the paperwork later. Johnnie was still pretty amped. She'd caught him after work, after he'd already had a few. She let him tell her about standing out on the balcony in the rain and not being able to do anything and how stupid they were for not seeing him and the door slamming behind them and feeling pukey because she and Kennedy were still in there.