No Human Involved - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  "Thanks, buddy l'm on it." He hung up and rejoined the players in the dining room. "We've got to go in. Sorry fellas."

  "Great timing." Mando looked pointedly at the stack of chips in front of Mace's place.

  Mace grinned, then motioned to his partner: "C'mon, Cassiletti, you can use the overtime."

  Cassiletti asked to use the phone and then joined Mace outside.

  Wizard preferred to work nights under bright mercury floodlights. The business slowed down after ten. He used the uninterrupted time to patch together his mismatched fleet of taxis. A six-year-old Doberman named Bradly patrolled the perimeter beneath a battered chain-link fence, the top two feet of which were strung with razor wire. During the day the two sliding gates that faced Brook and Main streets were left open so the cabs could move freely in and out. Once the sun went down, a heavy chain secured with a case-hardened padlock held the gates shut. Drivers radioed ahead when they were on their way back.

  A dirt alley ran behind the shop and a graffiti-decorated block wall separated the two. Broken

  beer bottles embedded in the concrete on top of the wall discouraged unwanted visitors.

  Munch parked the GTO in the alley and walked around to the front of the yard. The chain wasn't stretched all the way tight and the gate fit loosely in its track. The resulting slack allowed her to create a gap of five or six inches when she leaned into it. She slid through the opening and braced herself for the dog's attack. Bradly greeted her with both paws on her shoulders, pushing her against the fence. His joyful yelps brought Wizard around.

  "Hey" she said.

  "Hey yourself. What are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay gone."

  "The way I figure it, I got a chance to set things right. I don't want to be running for the rest of my life. I'm thinking I might call that cop."

  He sighed wearily and shook his head in disgust.

  "Come inside," he said, "off the street." He led her into the office. It was little more than a storage room with a cage where he kept his radio equipment, paperwork, and spare parts. A naked lightbulb swung over his desk. The desk was built of milk crates and an old front door with knob and mail slot still attached. He used the doorknob to store rubber bands and centered his wastepaper basket under the mail slot.

  He took a seat on his throne, a pivoting black vinyl desk chair worn to his shape and lovingly embalmed in silver duct tape. She sat opposite on a stack of tires with usable tread. Wordlessly he unfastened the large round wristwatch that he always wore. Beneath it was a shiny mass of puckered scar tissue. "Do you know how I got this?" he asked her.

  "I figured you burned yourself welding."

  He shook his head and jabbed at the damaged flesh with a big black finger. "When I was a youngster, about your age, a man put a hundred-dollar bill on my arm here. He told me that if I could hold still till his cigar burnt through that I could keep the hundred dollars." He held his wrist beneath her face so she could take a good look. "I learned a very important lesson."

  "Did you get to keep the money?"

  "No, I did not." He strapped his watch back on and wagged a finger at her. "What I learned was this: Don't ever try to play a man at his own game."

  "You don't have to worry about me. I'll be careful. You got that cop's card?"

  Before she returned to her car, she stopped at the edge of the block wall that bordered the alley The third cinderblock from the end and up about three feet was chipped at the top. She worked the mortar loose till she made an opening. She glanced up and down the alley once, saw no one, then slipped her hand inside. She winced as the tender skin on her wrists and forearms scraped on the rough plaster and scooted back the sleeve of her coat. She raised up on her tiptoes and stretched taller, pushing her arm inside the opening all the way to her elbow. Something brushed against her fingertips, something soft and alive. She recoiled, but her arm stuck. She had never been squeamish before. This new sensibility must be another double-edged gift of sobriety she thought, this acute awareness of everything icky.

  She took a few deep breaths to steady herself. Its okay its okay she chanted to herself. She repeated the prayer Father Frank had given her; When God is with me, who can be against me? There was another list she could make, she thought wryly She exhaled and closed her eyes, stretching her fingertips as far as they could reach. Sweat broke out on her back and forehead. She was rewarded by the feel of something smooth and cold, something steel. It was too far down in the blocks of the wall to get a grip on it. When she at last worked her arm free, she held it against the outside of the wall to measure how far down the gun had dropped. She figured it had fallen right behind the black in some gang member's spray-painted "Venice Rules."

  She picked up a rock and scratched a crude X. Then she replaced the mortar and returned to her car. Across Brooks Avenue, in the alley behind the houses there, a 1972 brown AMC Matador with Colorado plates and a Zig Zag man decal in the front windshield sat with the engine turned off. The detectives had been staked out there for the last three hours, ever since they received the call that their suspect might show up. The two men watched with great interest her exploration of the wall.

  "You get the girl," Mace told Cassiletti, "and I'll go see what's in the wall."

  Cassiletti handed Mace the keys so that he could open the trunk. Mace tossed the keys back and retrieved a flashlight and tire iron. He jumped when the siren blared into the quiet of the alley "What the fuck?" he yelled. "Cassiletti, what's the matter with you?"

  Munch's head shot up and for a second her face was caught in the light.

  "Grab her," Mace yelled and the two men rushed toward her.

  They heard her yell, "Bradly!" and the next thing they knew a black apparition of snarling muscles leaped over the wall and joined them in the alley.

  "Watch the dog," Mace said, but it was unnecessary Cassiletti was already back in the Matador and grinding the starter. Mace pulled his gun. The Doberman growled and bared his teeth at the detective as he stepped backward. Mace aimed. The animal turned and leapt fluidly back over the block wall.

  Cassiletti pulled up alongside Mace. "Sorry Sarge. I hit the switch with my knee. You wanna try to find her?"

  "Nah, she's gone." Mace burned a look at his partner. "Let's see what she was so interested in."

  Flashlight in hand, he carefully examined the wall, letting the beam play down to the childish X marking the spot.

  "Looks like we still might get two for the price of one.

  15

  MUNCH RAN BACK TO HER CAR. SALIVA KEPT FILLING her mouth, and she spit it out. Her hands shook as she found the ignition switch with her key Somehow she managed to start the car and put it in gear.

  She had lost them. She was pretty sure. If there were more of them they would have stopped her by now. Brenda's house was two blocks away The thought came to her innocently disguised as mild curiosity Was Brenda holding? It would be so easy to stop.

  Just as it occurred to Munch that she had a pocket full of money red flashing lights filled the rearview mirrorof the Pontiac. It was an all-too-familiar sight. A sickening deposit of acid collected in her stomach and quickly spread to the back of her throat. She pulled the car over and watched the cop approach in her sideview mirror. She knew to make no sudden moves. His hand rested on the butt of his pistol as he swaggered towards her.

  "Step out of the car, please," the cop said. "Nice and easy keep your hands where I can see them."

  "What's this all about, Officer? she asked, wide-eyed. "I wasn't speeding, was I?"

  "I'll need to see your license and registration? He swept the beam of his light through the interior of her car and then back in her eyes. She graced him with a quirky little smile and

  complied.

  "Wait here," he said. He retreated back to his cage car with her temporary license in his hand. A million "would haves," "could haves," and "if I'd onlys" coursed through her mind in a matter of a few adrenaline-charged seconds. Her brain hit turbo-speed as her h
ands clenched the top of her open door. A number of alternate choices she might have made filled her head. Her eyes shifted between watching the cop in her side mirror and stealing quick glances at the ignition key dangling from the switch in the dash.

  She struggled to keep calm as a litany of indecipherable clipped sentences and numbered codes passed between the cop and the static-charged voice coming back over his radio. She watched the cop's expression, but couldn't read it. The cop glanced up as a car passed with its radio turned up full volume. She smiled at him and he went back to reading the numbers on her registration into his microphone.

  She started to get angry Why couldn't they just leave her alone? The cop looked up and she glared at him. His eyes narrowed back. Jail, she was going to jail again.

  ***

  She remembered how dark it had been when she first arrived at Sybil Brand. It had seemed to be morning, but she wasn't sure. Her days of incarceration in Van Nuys Jail had left her disorientated.

  They led her into a cold, windowless room with three female prison guards watching closely from behind thick Plexiglas. Munch was told to undress.

  "Everything off, ladies," the matron had said, bored and speaking into a microphone. The mechanical voice echoed off the stone walls. The prisoner next to her pulled down her jeans to reveal men's boxer shorts.

  "We got one for the Daddy tank," the guard announced.

  "What's a Daddy tank?" Munch asked the black woman next to her.

  "Shut your face," the woman answered.

  "No talking, ladies," the guard said.

  Munch was led into a second room. The floor was wet and cold under her bare feet. Two female guards waited till six naked prisoners were in the room before shutting the door. The seated deputy told them all to bend forward and spread open their cheeks and vaginas. Munch focused her attention on the six-inch grated drain in the center of the floor. When the officer was satisfied, the second one stepped forth with a tank and spray nozzle. She wore goggles and a mask, so Munch couldn't see her eyes as she sprayed her down.

  "What's this?" she asked.

  "Delousing spray" the faceless uniform answered. "No talking, eyes straight ahead."

  They were led to another room where they were issued light blue smocks, navy blue sweaters, and white rubber go-aheads.

  "What size shoe you wear?" the girl behind the shoe bin asked. A badge clipped on her blue smock said, "Trustee."

  "Six," Munch answered.

  The trustee handed her a pair of size eights. The prisoner behind her shoved her along. She shuffled her feet so that the shoes would stay on.

  It was then the fear caught up to her. Seized her in icy arms and whispered in her ear, "You're alone."

  It was the voice that had ruled her for the last seven years. It was the Monster. It was not the guards she feared, or the other prisoners. Her horror stemmed from the fear of facing the day with no chemical inside her.

  The next part of the processing had involved a cursory medical examination. She told the nurse that she was an epileptic, a trick an old hype had taught her. She was issued a yellow armband that signified a special medical condition and entitled her to a twice-a-day call to the infirmary line. There they gave her an assortment of tablets and capsules in a tiny white paper cup. They always made sure she took them all, made her open her mouth wide and lift up her tongue. No saving them up, they warned. The drugs weren't much, but at least it was something. After a week, the nurse told her that they were going to start reducing her medication. At lunch that day in full view of everyone from cell block E, she faked a seizure and there was no more talk of reducing her medication.

  Her strongest memories of Sybil's Stroll were of the noise. The cacophony of voices echoing off the cement floors and walls. The colored girls screaming over their games of crazy eights in the day room. The fights over which soap opera to watch on the black and white TV mounted high on the wall and controlled by the guard in her booth. The solid thunk of steel bars sliding closed.

  Three times a day the inmates lined up in the hallway to be marched to meals. They weren't allowed to go till quiet was achieved. The guards were prepared to wait as long as necessary so three times a day there was a break in the screaming. The whap of the rubber shoes in the hallway was the only noise permitted. The women made a game of slapping their shoes as loudly as possible. Munch had closed her eyes and pretended they were the sounds of horses on a cobblestone road.

  ***

  Finally the cop was through with his business. She watched him throw his silver clipboard back onto his passenger seat and walk back to where she waited.

  ***

  At Sybil Brand, she had read a book a day Mysteries, westerns, romances, whatever was available on the cart. That part wasn't so bad. The books had taken her to other worlds. She broadened her vocabulary as well, learned new adjectives, nouns, and verbs that didn't begin with the letter F. When she came upon a new word she wasn't familiar with, she could usually figure out the meaning by the context of the sentence. There was so much more to life than the narrow world of shooting galleries and mirrored motel ceilings.

  ***

  "You better roll your windows up," the cop said, bringing her back to her present situation and immediate problems.

  Her shoulders slumped and she put her hands behind her back. Maybe he would let her leave the car for Wizard. She started to say something, but the cop spoke first.

  "You were driving down an alley with your headlights off," he said as he returned her license and registration. "That's why I stopped you, Miss Signman. This is a bad neighborhood? She didn't hesitate. "Thank you, Officer. Don't worry I'm leaving."

  16

  I CAN'T BELIEVE WE MISSED HER," MACE TOLD Caroline. It was Saturday morning and he called her at home after getting her number from a clerk he knew in Santa Monica. "We were so close."

  "What happened?"

  "Our siren went off accidentally It happens?"

  "Sure it does."

  He could sense her smiling on the other end of the line, but made no effort to clear up her mis-assumption as to how the girl had eluded them.

  "Well, it wasn't a total loss," she said. "You retrieved the weapon."

  "It won't do me much good if I can't link it to a suspect. It was wiped clean." He took a breath. "I was wondering if you had plans tonight? Maybe catch a movie, have dinner?"

  "I'd like that," she said.

  Mace remembered to breathe. "I'll pick you up at six. Where do you live?"

  "You're the detective." She laughed then, a pleasant tinkling of fine crystal. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

  Mace looked at the paper in his hand. He even knew when she got her last parking ticket. "I'll see you then."

  The restaurant he took her to was in downtown L.A. A former dried bean warehouse that had been converted to a restaurant and bar. It had been built during World War II next to the railroad tracks by a consortium of farmers to store their products. The silos where the beans and grains had been kept were painted Tuscan red and the words THE DEPOT were painted in Pullman green. The main attraction of the restaurant was the commuter train that passed by every twenty minutes. Over the bar, a bell sounded when the train was due and those so inclined rushed to the open doors and waved at the passing locomotive.

  Over an appetizer of salsa and chips, Mace and Caroline maneuvered through each other's histories, searching for points in common. They determined that they were both natives. She grew up in Santa Monica, he in Venice.

  "How did you get into probation work?" he asked.

  "From the other side of the desk." She sipped her margarita. "I ran with a rough crowd when I was a teenager. But by the time I was seventeen, I managed to pick up a few charges on my record."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

  "Nothing too serious" She sipped her drink and he let the question go unanswered. "I got lucky. I was assigned a probation officer who cared. She took the time to convince me of the error of my ways, fou
nd me a summer job, got me involved in sports. She offered me a deal. If I could stay out of trouble for a year, she would seal my record."

  "It obviously worked." He nodded thoughtfully.

  "So now you want to return the favor, give back to society."

  If she caught the edge in his voice, her manner didn't betray it. "What about you, Detective St. John? Did you raise some hell in your youth?"

  "Nah, I was a regular choirboy My dad saw to that. He always kept me busy with summer jobs. Any time left in between school and work was devoted to training. I wanted to be a world champion boxer."

  "Aren't you kind of, um, small for a boxer?" She blushed as soon as the words left her mouth. He thought it was the most endearing thing he'd ever seen.

  "Not for a middleweight," he explained.

  "So why didn't you pursue it?"

  "I was a bleeder. The refs kept calling the fights because they thought I was hurt. I tried soaking my face in brine, all kinds of things. Nothing seemed to help; I was just prone to cut. After high school, I I joined the army I liked the military but two tours of the jungle cured me of those aspirations. I came back home, got married, went to the academy made detective, got unmarried."

  "How long have you been divorced?"

  "Two years."

  "Do you still see her?"

  'We keep in touch. I have to know where to send the checks." He tried to keep his tone light, but bitterness seeped through. Caroline studied the chip basket. "What about you?" he asked. "Ever been married?"

  "No. I'd like to someday. I want to be really sure when I do. I only plan to do it once." She searched his face. "Your dad means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

  "Sure. He raised me. When I got out of the service, we were going to see the country together. I got married instead." He shook his head. "I should have gone when we had the chance."

  'You could still go, couldn't you?"

  "Digger's not up to traveling much these days."

  "Is he sick?"

  "Not really. His heart is strong. He had a circulation problem awhile ago, but surgery fixed that. His arteries were all clogged. The doctors said he was a walking time bomb. They always say that. When they operated they said it looked like he might have already had a few silent strokes. The doctor said we should do a CAT scan. Nan, that's my ex-wife, explained that the scan would show how much brain damage there had been. What good would that do? It's not like you could cure it or anything. Brain damage is irreversible. I took Digger home after a couple of days. The doctor said I should look into a convalescent home, that Digger wasn't able to care for himself. He also said that pneumonia could be an old man's best friend."