No Human Involved - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  At 11:45, Mace returned to his desk. A statue of a pig wearing a uniform with his badge number on it held down the latest paperwork that needed his attention. He blocked out the confusion of sound around him. Phones rang nonstop; somewhere a prisoner wailed. He was accustomed to the mayhem of the bullpen. Fluorescent lights blazed twenty-four hours a day amid the flirting, banter, and occasional flare of temper. His status of sergeant didn't rate him a private office. Not even the lieutenant was given more than a desk slid against a wall rather than up against another desk.

  He shuffled through the staggering amount of paperwork of ten ongoing investigations. The paper that interested him the most was the typed, single-spaced report just in. It was written by Dr. Hymie Miller, an independent psychiatrist the station had hired. Copies would need to be forwarded to Parker Center when Mace got around to it.

  Consulting with Dr. Miller had been Mace's idea. He knew that police departments had been putting together psychiatric profiles for some time, though it wasn't an entirely accepted practice. Not sure where to begin, he had called his ex-wife. She was surprised that he even knew she was dating a shrink. He reminded her that he was a detective, after all. When he thought again about turning the report over to Parker Center, he decided not to bother. They probably wouldn't be interested. They had their own experts.

  The doctor had put together an impressive amount of information on the Ballona Creek Butcher. Dr. Millers speculations were limited by the lack of torso, he wrote in a cover note, specifically the lack of information of possible sexual assault and actual cause of death. With the information provided, certain conclusions could be arrived at. The killer hated his victim, but whether this hate was directed at all women or the victim in particular, he really couldn't say. The murderer's lack of regard for human suffering suggested an antisocial psychopathology of an extreme degree. The first arm showed evidence that it had been severed while life remained in the body Sadistic. The report suggested they look for a man with a strong drive to inflict pain upon women, or obtain some sort of revenge. The small caliber bullet fired into a nonlethal part of the body might reflect the man's need to penetrate his victim in a painful manner. Because of the physical effort needed to commit the crime, and assuming the offender worked alone, they should look for a well-proportioned individual. Probably between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five. Even without a death scene to examine, it was clear that a great deal of preparation had gone into the commission of these acts. Gathering the paraphernalia necessary to sever the arms and legs would have taken planning and foresight. This was not an act that evolved casually The murderer was also a man of some caution, evidenced by the pains he took to conceal his crime. He would feel no remorse for his crime. The doctor recommended looking for a man whose twisted ideation went back to childhood. Perhaps a search for prior similar atrocities? Attached to the doctor's report was a paper he had published on psychopaths.

  Psychopaths, the doctor wrote, were almost two-dimensional, lacking depth of emotion. They went through life miming feelings when other people's reactions clued them to the appropriate expressions. It was as if they learned the steps to a dance, but could never feel the beat. They were pathological liars. The only right and wrong they seemed to distinguish was that when they got caught, it was wrong. Freed, as it were, from the normal restraints of remorse, shame, empathy love—the feelings that kept the remainder of society within some sort of bounds—the psychopath was capable of monstrous deeds. That certainly fit the profile, Mace agreed to himself.

  Forensics had determined that the force that yanked the limbs from the torso had come from simultaneous opposing directions. Mace looked at his stack of matches. Thought of the jagged edges of the body parts, the torn skin and muscles. The condition of the blood in the capillaries of the legs proved that Vicky's heart had ceased to beat just prior to separation. She must have already suffered a great deal, so that was a small consolation. They weren't sure about the second arm.

  At twelve o'clock, the ballistics report from the Mancini homicide arrived by messenger. Mace stared at the results and realized with a sickening certainty that the screw-up at the bar wasn't going to be forgotten or forgiven for a long, long time. Certainly not by him.

  The distinctive scoring scrolled on the bullets retrieved from the head of Flower George matched the rifling marks on the bullet recovered from the leg muscle of the Ballona Creek victim. He had let their first strong lead slip out a bathroom window.

  "Cassiletti," he barked, "get over here."

  "What's up, boss?"

  "We need to go over to the house of the victim we pulled in from Venice last Saturday Mancini, George. Run everything we got on that glass and the coat we got from the bar: Saliva, hair fibers. I want that van taken apart, too."

  "What are we looking for?"

  "Vicky Glassen's fingerprints. Tell them to check blood and hair fibers. We're going to turn the place upside down. I want the weapon. I want the hooker. Drop everything else." He stopped; there was that nagging feeling again. "Call the lab and ask them to run the Mancini blood for traces of venereal disease. Never mind, I'lI call Carol myself. I want her to check the ends of the Glassen bones for hack marks. She might have overlooked that. I wonder if she can test the body parts for VD?"

  "Uh, sir?" Cassiletti waited nervously for Mace to look up. "That isn't our case anymore?"

  8

  ON TUESDAY MORNING, MUNCH EMERGED FROM the bushes half an hour before she was due to be at work. She passed by the Denny's and looked up to see Ruby's cheerful face. The waitress beckoned to her.

  What is this broads problem? Munch wondered. Munch pushed through the glass doors and took a seat at the counter near the door with her back to the side of the restaurant. Without being asked Ruby set a mug in front of her and filled it with coffee. "Cream?"

  "Black."

  "Have you ever tried it with cream and sugar? It's a little more satisfying that way Look, tell you what. Try a cup like that and if you don't like it, I won't charge you."

  Ruby poured the cream in the coffee till it took on a caramel hue and then poured in two packets of sugar. Munch took a sip. It was better. "I saw you at the meeting yesterday." Ruby patted her hand. "I just want you to know that you're not alone."

  She pulled back her hand. "Listen, I'm not that way I want to be alone."

  "Thats cool, I was the same way"

  "What happened?"

  "I got some time under my belt. I learned to trust."

  Trust. This broad probably believed in the tooth fairy too. Ruby went to the booths to take some truckers order. Munch gulped down her coffee. She wanted to leave before Ruby got back and things got any more personal. The coffee was hot and burned all the way down. There was a basket of cellophane-wrapped crackers on the counter, so she helped herself and left a buck for the coffee. When Happy Jack got to work, she was sitting on the front steps waiting for him.

  "I got my Social Security number," she said. "They wanted me to take a test before I could get my drivers license."

  "Good morning."

  She paused, unsure of herself. Had she been rude? "Good morning," she said.

  "So whats the holdup?"

  "Its been so long that I have to take the test again in my own car and its down."

  "Whats wrong with it?"

  "Timing chain. Its a Pontiac with over ninety thousand miles on it, you know how those nylon sprockets like to strip."

  "Well, lets tow it in here and get it going. Is it far?"

  "Just a few blocks. I figured I'd do it after next Friday"

  Happy Jack put his palm over his mouth as she had seen him do that first day. After a minute, his eyes brightened. "Listen, the parts won't cost but about twenty bucks. I'll call Danny over at Fox Tow. He won't charge me anything. Hell, I give him enough business. I'll let you have the parts on credit. You can work on your car when you're between jobs. Sound fair?"

  She nodded.

  If Happy Jack had been paying
close attention, he would have recognized the look. It was very similar to the adoring gaze Missy the chihuahua often fixed on his wife.

  Later that morning, Happy jack came into the lube room, where she was working on a Pinto with leaking wheel cylinders. He watched her work for a minute before he said anything. She was aware of him standing behind her and it made her nervous. Was he waiting for her to screw up? She was getting ready to spin around and challenge him when he spoke.

  "So what do you do for fun?" he asked.

  "Fun? What do you mean?"

  "What do you like to do for entertainment? When you're not working?"

  She would have preferred he ask her something easy Like the theory of relativity and what it meant to her. At least something she had an answer for. The back of her neck began to burn. He would find her out. She didn't belong here. It had been a mistake to hire her. It was only a matter of time. He didn't know her and when he did. . . Entertainment? It was almost funny Entertainment was her middle name. If she never did anything but work for the rest of her life, she'd still probably never get even. She straightened her back and glared at him. Fuck it, she thought. If he wanted her to go, he would have to say so. "I don't know," she finally answered him through clenched teeth.

  "Yeah, I know what you mean," he said. "I spend so much time at work that when I get home, all I want to do is sleep and watch TV"

  He left to go back in the office and she stared after him. How much longer would she be able to keep up this charade? If her failure was inevitable, why wait?

  At ten o'clock, Cowboy from Fox Towing pulled into the lot.

  "Understand you got a comp for me," he said to Jack as he swung down from his truck with an easy grace. He was angularly built, clean-shaven, in his early twenties.

  "My mechanic here thinks she threw a timing chain." With a twinkle in his eye, he added, "She'll show you where it is."

  "She?"

  "Daisy this here is Cowboy He'll take good care of you."

  She looked at him suspiciously "This won't cost nothing, right?"

  "Friendly little thing, ain't she?" Cowboy laughed and turned to her. "I'll only charge a smile, darling."

  "Forget it," she said and started to walk away

  "I was kidding. Shit, you'd think I was trying to get in your pants or something. Don't you worry I like my women with a little meat on their bones. I also prefer it if they don't smell like ninety-weight." She glared at him, suddenly embarrassed. For an awful second, she felt like she might cry again or something. What was happening to her?

  "A11 right," Jack intervened. "Let's kill the chitchat. I got a business to run. Daisy get your keys and let's get this over with."

  "I left the keys in the car. It wasn't going nowhere."

  "Come on, girl." Cowboy waved, seated back in the driver's seat. "Let's go get you hooked up."

  She climbed into the cab with him and directed him to where her car was hidden. When they got there, he let out a low whistle.

  "Dang, girl, you sure know how to make things rough on an old country boy"

  "You're from the country?"

  "You don't think I made this hillbilly accent up, do you? Where are you from, Mars?"

  Despite herself, she smiled. "Close."

  "There, that's more like it. Was that so hard?"

  She turned to face the car again. "Maybe we can push it out into the street."

  Cowboy looked at her critically "It's a pretty heavy car for just two of us to push uphill. Don't worry I'll manage. I've been doing this awhile. You're lucky this was so well hidden. If a cop had spotted it in this neighborhood, I would have had to impound it."

  She froze. "You work for the cops?"

  "Why? You wanted or something?"

  "No," she said quickly Then added lamely "I just thought they had their own tow trucks."

  "They sub out the towing. It's a good contract, we get paid for the tow and we get all our tickets fixed." He smiled at her. "You ever get any tickets you need fixing, you just come see me."

  "First I need a license," she said, and thought: And what I need facing goes beyond what a traffic cop can do for me.

  They drove back to the shop in silence. Jack told her that she might as well get started on her car while business was slow. At noon, he tapped her on the shoulder and told her to take a break.

  "Come and sit; have some lunch. We still need to decide what flowers to plant here. It gets pretty hot in the summer. We need something that can take the heat."

  She washed up and came to join the two men.

  "That Cowboy is a real nice fellow," Jack said and opened his brown lunch sack.

  "I suppose." She pulled a package of broken bread sticks from her pocket.

  "What's the matter, Daisy?" Lou asked. "Isn't he your type? Maybe you should meet his boss, Lee. Yeah, maybe I'll introduce the two of you."

  "Will you look at this?" Jack said, holding up two sandwiches. "Is my wife trying to get me fat or what? I can't eat all this. Help me out, Daisy"

  She snatched the sandwich greedily It was roast beef on white, with lettuce and lots of mayonnaise. She took three bites before chewing. "This Lee ain't a cop, is he?"

  Lou laughed, "No, and Lee ain't a he, either."

  Between bites she snarled, "Go fuck yourself."

  "How about the mouth on her?" Lou said.

  "All right, that's enough of that," Jack intervened. "Do I have to babysit you two? Listen, Daisy. Cowboy gave me a couple tickets for the rodeo this weekend. You want to go? Maybe bring a friend?"

  She carefully closed her face. ‘You mean a rodeo like with horses?"

  "Yeah, they got horses and bull riding, stuff like that. Interested?"

  Horses. She'd love to see horses, maybe they'd let her feed them carrots and sugar cubes.

  "Yeah, I'd like to go. But I'll just need one ticket. It's kind of short notice to call a friend, they're probably all busy"

  Jack didn't say anything, he just reached into his shirt pocket and fished out a shiny stub.

  9

  ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, MACE ST. JOHN got a call from Carol Zapata at the crime lab. He was staring at the phone and not surprised when it rang. He answered on the First ring.

  "I have some results for you," she said.

  "What did you find out?"

  "First the bad news. We couldn't run the blood of the Glassen girl, it's been too long. Also, there wasn't enough saliva left on the glass to get a blood grouping on your suspect. I even checked the sweat on the collar of the coat, but I'm afraid your perp isn't a secreter. So, no luck there. Found some traces of gunshot residue in the pocket."

  "She must have taken the gun with her when she rabbited," Mace said. "How about the Glassen body parts?"

  "Now that was interesting. I did find some hack marks on the bones. I figured they were shovel marks at first. Now I'm inclined to believe they were made by a thick-bladed knife. By the way, the Mancini corpse did test positive for gonorrhea. Anything else that you want me to check for? The body is going to be cremated later today"

  "Nothing I can think of."

  Her tone changed, became softer. "How's Digger?"

  "He has his good days. Thanks for asking." He told her he'd check with her later and hung up.

  Mace flipped open his notebook and turned back pages till he came to the section devoted to the Glassen murder. He went over what he had already. Victim was young, pretty and according to her friends, a party girl. He made a note to question her friends about her health, specifically if she'd ever mentioned anything about having a venereal disease. Boyfriends? his notes asked. He'd only come up with the name of one boy at the college. It seemed that she did the majority of her socializing off-campus. According to her friends, she liked a rough crowd. So what did he have? The solution of the mystery hinged on asking the right questions. There were many For starters, why the bullet? Maybe he'd decided to put her out of her misery sooner. Not likely Maybe the perp needed to silence the girl. Why the mutilati
on? Was there a sexual assault? He underlined Torture, and wrote next to it, Satanic ritual (?). If an investigation took a wrong turn early a detective could waste a lot of time on a path that led nowhere. Early assumptions could be damaging, even disastrous.

  He flipped forward to his current investigation. On the page devoted to the Mancini murder he made a note of the venereal disease. The question of motive on that one was almost immaterial. When a scumbag like Flower George gets shot, you can almost write it off as inevitable. He read the guy's sheet again. Contributing, statutory rape, pandering—a real sweetheart. Cassiletti had a point, the girl deserved a commendation. But it wasn't a perfect world, and like he tried to explain to Caroline Rhinehart, murder was murder.

  He dropped the well-worn binder on his desk and a Polaroid fluttered to the floor. Cassiletti, on his way over to have St. John sign a report, picked it up. Before returning the photograph, he glanced at it. In his resulting shock, he almost dropped it, as if discovering it was coated with some contagious, deadly virus.

  "God, what is this?"

  Mace chuckled and took the picture back.

  "Didn't I ever tell you the story of Smiley here?"

  "No."

  "Five years ago, patrolmen called in a suspicious death. Smiley hadn't showed up for work in three days and her boss went over to her place to look for her. Her car was still in the garage and her door was locked. One of those deadbolt types that lock from the inside. The boss called the cops and the patrolmen felt they had probable cause to kick in the door

  "They found Smiley here in the bathroom, obviously deceased. The watch commander called me. I got there and took pictures, made notes. Her bed was freshly made and there were recently washed sheets in the bathtub. Smiley was on the bathroom floor and there was blood everywhere. Next to the body was an eight-inch butcher knife and a claw hammer. On the laundry hamper was a towel and a straight razor. The razor had also been washed and left on the towel to dry: