20
WHEN MACE RETURNED TO THE STATION, HE made several calls. The first was to Dr. Miller. His receptionist informed the detective that Doctor was with a patient and would call at his earliest convenience.
Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Hymie Miller called. Mace recounted the details of the new victim's wounds and the curious smear pattern of blood on her inner thigh. The doctor asked for a minute to consider the ramifications of this new information.
At last he spoke. "Your offender is getting bolder. He no longer feels the need to go to such lengths to conceal his crime. He probably feels that if he's gotten away with it once, he will do so again. Quite possibly he has been questioned already by your investigators. I see the stab wounds to the woman"s abdomen as further proof of the killer's need to penetrate his victim in a painful manner. You are assuming that the women were nude at time of death, correct?"
"That's right," Mace said. "We found no fibers on the bullet and none by the cuts. The weapons would have carried fabric with them into the body."
"This strengthens the validity of our first theories of a sexual sadist."
"What do you make of the blood smears?" Mace asked. "I'm certain they were made intentionally and not the result of random action."
"Yes, I've given that some thought. It sounds almost ritualistic. I believe it was a symbolic gesture on the part of the murderer. His blood lust satisfied, he makes a loving gesture. In his own twisted way perhaps he is thanking the woman. It won't stop here. Your man will kill again. The thirst for blood, if you'll pardon my melodrama, is like an addiction. An addiction with a steadily rising level of tolerance. He will kill again and he will do it soon."
Mace thanked the doctor for his help and hung up. He drummed his fingers on the desk for a minute, then he grabbed the phone book and looked up the number of the free clinic on Brooks Avenue. Mondays were Nan's do-it-for-free day.
"What's wrong?" she asked when she came to the phone. "Is it Digger?"
"I need your help."
"With what?"
"You've heard about the Ballona Creek Butcher?"
"Sure. How can I help with that?"
"The first victim, Victoria Glassen, had a venereal disease. I need to know if she was treated for it and if she filled out a list of sexual partners."
"You know that's confidential information. I can't . . . Did you say the first victim? Has there been another?"
"They just found her. According to your boyfriend, it won't be stopping with two, actually the death toll is three that we know of."
"The records are kept at the downtown office. I'm going in tomorrow. I'll check it out and call you if I come up with something."
"Thanks, Nan."
"Anytime," she said softly
He hung up the phone and wondered what Freud would have made of that answer.
***
Munch spent most of Monday tearing apart the top of the engine of the Dodge. She was glad to be busy The temptation was strong to just leave now. Her car was running, she had new identification and a little bit of money Of course, now that she had begun the valve job on the Dodge, she felt obligated to see it through. It wouldn't be right to leave the pieces for someone else to put back together. No, Ruby was right, she had to stop running sometime.
She climbed inside the engine compartment of the Dodge to make a final check that she was ready to proceed to the last stage of the teardown. She ran her hand along the back of the engine to make sure nothing was still attached. A forgotten wire or hose could cause a big problem when it came time to start yanking.
Finally she was satisfied that all the bolts that held the cylinder heads to the block were out and all the other accessories were safely out of the way She'd seen other mechanics get into big trouble at this point, break expensive parts because they didn't take that extra minute to make sure they were all clear. This was where, she always thought, being strong could work against you. Better to be smart and have to think the job through, rather than to be a bull who tore things apart indiscriminately and made the going back together part that much more difficult. From now on, she was going to apply those principles to her personal life as well, if she were given the chance. First things first, she reminded herself.
Using a big pry bar that she wedged into the exhaust port, she pried the head apart from the block. The remaining coolant and oil bled together, green and black, down the side of the engine. Her hands were slippery with the oily fluids. She wiped them on a rag and considered her next move. Jack had specifically told her not to try to lift the heads herself. This asking for help all the time was a constant lesson in humility That was supposed to be a good thing. Somehow it was supposed to be a way to get closer to God, more in touch with her own feelings. If she got any closer to her feelings, they would have to put her in the nuthouse. She seemed to always be on the verge of tears. Ruby said to hang on, it would get better. She even gave her a bumper sticker that said, "DON,T GIVE UP FIVE MINUTES BEFORE THE MIRACLE."
They had a lot of little sayings at the meetings:
"Easy does it," "One day at a time," "First things first," and her personal favorite: "Today I live." First things first, she reminded herself again.
That meant getting these seventy-pound heads to the ground. Lou walked by and she called to him, "Can you help me?"
"Heavy aren't they?" he said.
She waited for him to make some crack. He surprised her by helping her lift the heads to the ground without so much as a snicker. She jumped down from the car and turned the heads upside down so that she could study them. The intake valve that was stuck open had black crystals fused to its beveled edges and was heat warped. She and Lou exchanged looks.
"We better flush the gas tank on this one," Lou said.
"Have you met this guy?" she asked.
"Yeah, he's an asshole. Mr. Disco. I think he's going through a divorce."
"That kind always is," she said.
She used the phone in the office to call the machine shop. They said they would be there within the hour to pick up the heads. After she hung up with them, she pulled a business card out of her pocket and dialed the number printed in black. She got goose bumps when she read the guys name. Ruby said that when that happened it was because there was an angel tapping you on the shoulder.
***
"Sarge?" Cassiletti said to him when he returned to the squad room. "You got a call on line two, some girl."
"Sergeant St. John, Homicide," he said as he picked up the call.
"I was close, wasn't I?"
His heart skipped a beat. "What do I call you now?"
"Munch will do. I have something you want."
"If you're talking about the gun, I already have it."
He heard a sharp intake of breath. "What about our deal?" she asked.
"What else do you have that I want?" he asked her. Another intake of breath.
Munch had spent the weekend debating that very question. She didn't want to be a snitch. She had been raised to believe that a snitch was the lowest form of life. Ruby insisted that this was "stinking thinking," as she put it. Munch would have to change her value system, Ruby insisted. That sort of thinking had gotten her where she was. But Munch knew there was more to it than that. If she told the detective where she got the gun, she would be incriminating herself. Ruby reminded her that she had turned her will and life over to the care of her Higher Power, that this was no time to be taking it back.
Munch countered with the loophole she had found in the step about making amends. It says, she pointed out to her sponsor, that you should only make amends when to do so would not injure yourself or others. Ruby hadn't known how to respond to that other than to say "Turn it over."
"If I tell you where I got the gun," she asked him now, "will you square things for me?"
"I'll do my best."
"Why should I trust you?"
"You called me."
"Let me go over this with you and I'll tell you the parts I'm having trouble with
."
"Lay it on me."
"That's what he said."
"What?"
"Sorry bad joke." She giggled, sounding like a little girl. "Okay, seriously. Say a person is suspected of a criminal act with a weapon and the police take a statement from that person about how they came into possession of that weapon. Wouldn't that person be incredibly stupid to implicate themselves?"
"Who have you been talking to?" Mace asked. If she had a lawyer, that would change things.
"I'm just trying to get clear on this," she said.
"I'm going to level with you. If a certain weapon was used in the commission of a crime, several crimes. And the first crime it was used for was of more importance to the police than the second crime. In that scenario, a deal could be agreed on."
"Hypothetically speaking, couldn't the information the police sought be obtained over the phone?"
He snorted impatiently "If you want my help," he said, discarding the pretense, "you'll have to make your statements in person, so I have proper documentation. To make anything stick, I have to have a solid chain of evidence. How about if I meet you somewhere?"
"I was hoping to keep this off the record."
"I can't promise that."
"This has to do with the Ballona Creek Butcher murder, doesn't it?"
"What makes you say that?" He sat up suddenly. Cassiletti raised an eyebrow and reached for the extension. Mace waved him away.
"I read the paper, the way that girl died. It must have been horrible. It could have been me."
"He's struck again, a hooker named . . ." He scrambled for the sheet of the latest victim. "Brenda Wallace." A sudden instinct told him to share this with the girl. The sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line informed him that his gut feeling had been right on. "He won't stop. I need your help."
A moment of silence, then: "I'll meet you tomorrow night," she said. "Do you know where Lairs is?"
"On Washington and Lincoln?"
"Yeah."
"Why not tonight?" he asked.
"I have a prior commitment," she said.
"All right. What time tomorrow?"
"Seven." Then she said something that struck him as odd. "Maybe we can save each other"
Mace hung up the phone and wondered what she meant by that.
21
THE RESTAURANT WHERE MACE USUALLY TOOK his dad on Monday nights for ribs was decorated in a Polynesian motif. Tapa paper covered the walls and the ceilings were lined with dry palm fronds, curled with age. Tiki lanterns lit the bar where longhaired women in bikini tops and grass skirts circulated with fragrant leis that hung in woven baskets on leather thongs around their necks. Similarly clad women served drinks in coconut shells with little umbrellas stuck in them.
They took their customary table near the patio. A waterfall cascaded over red-brown lava rocks and fake parrots perched in miniature palms. The sound of the water was soothing. But his selection of tables went beyond the meager aural pleasures the fountain provided. As usual, Mace's reasons for always choosing that table were twofold. If the place ever caught on fire, he wanted to be near open air. Without asking, the waitress brought Mace a Seven-and-Seven in a bucket glass and a ginger ale for Digger
"Thanks, Shirley" he said.
She brushed against him and asked if he wanted anything else. He smiled and asked her to bring them dinner when it was convenient.
After she was gone, Digger grunted. "She wants you."
"Yeah, yeah," Mace said, "you always say that."
"They always do."
To change the subject, Mace told his dad about his ongoing investigation.
"You still working on that chicken thing?"
Digger was having one of his good days. He had been dressed and ready when Mace arrived at the house, in clothes that almost matched. That he remembered an event as recent as a month ago was another promising sign.
"He hit again. This time he left the whole body. It's the same guy I can feel it."
Digger sipped his drink and made a face. "They forgot to put the booze in this again."
"I'll tell them about it, Dad."
"You know, your case reminds me about something that was in the news."
"Same case, they just published the details."
"Terrible thing to do to a dog."
"What dog? What are you talking about, Dad?"
"That kid that tore the legs off the dogs. Don't you remember?"
Mace looked at his dad in exasperation. His dad's recollections were all jumbled up. He'd often juxtapose people and places in his stories that Mace knew couldn't have been where he said they were when they were. Then he'd remember something with surprising accuracy that had happened thirty years ago. "When was this?"
"Years ago, when my son was in the service."
"I'm your son, Dad."
Digger stared at him hard, his face working as he struggled to assimilate his thoughts. "That's right. You were in the service. The cops caught some kid in the Ballona Wetlands. He had a whole torture chamber set up in some abandoned house or something. He was chaining up stray dogs and pulling them apart while they were still alive. They caught him, though. Sick son of a bitch."
"Sounds like it."
Shirley brought their salad and asked if everything was all right.
Digger winked pointedly at his son. Mace sighed.
"I think we're close to catching this guy too."
"Good," Digger said. "You were always good at catching the guy werent you?"
"I still am."
The ribs arrived and the conversation ceased as both men got busy devouring their dinner.
22
AT THE MONDAY MEETING OF NARCOTICS Anonymous, held at a clubhouse in North Hollywood named, aptly enough, "The Survivors Club," Munch led her first meeting. She was now nine days clean and sober. The format of the meeting was discussion, followed by a twenty-minute speaker. They were seated around a large rectangular table in folding metal chairs. After reading the preamble, Munch began the sharing.
"My name is Daisy" she said, "and I'm an addict and alcoholic."
The others around the table responded by saying, "Hi, Daisy"
"I found out today that someone I used to run with died. Brenda was like a sister to me. We went through a lot together. She was the one who taught me how to put on makeup. How to heat up the eye-liner pencil and line the bottom of my lower lid on the inside of my lashes. I know that might not sound like much, but I never had a mom to show me stuff like that."
This news was greeted with knowing nods and murmurs of, "I heard that," and "That's cold."
"Brenda was always there for me," Munch continued. "The last time I saw her was right before I got clean and sober."
They had gone flat-backing together. A black guy who called himself Commander took them around to the projects where the wetbacks lived twelve to a room. He always brought at least two girls on the runs because the Mexicans had some sort of code against screwing the same woman as their brother. Commander charged ten dollars a pop the object was volume. He gave the girls seven of the ten dollars. That night she had made over one hundred and fifty, Brenda even more.
Tears rolled down Munch's cheeks as she remembered the telephone conversation she had had with her friend. Brenda had called the next morning and said she had gone home, sat in the bathtub, and just cried.
"I wish I could tell her that she didn't have to live that way" She wiped the tears stinging her eyes. "I've never been clean this long before." Munch shook her head in disbelief. "I have a confession to make." She looked around the room. "My name isn't really Daisy it's Munch." The people around the table greeted this news with laughter. "Keep coming back," someone called out.
"Who's next?" she asked and called on a man who raised his hand.
At the coffee break, Ruby gave her a hug. "I'm sorry about your friend. Just say to yourself, 'There but for the grace of God go I.'"
"Yeah," she answered, "well, sometimes God needs
a little help."
Ruby looked at her knowingly "Sometimes it seems that way"
After the meeting, a man approached Munch.
"We're going for coffee," he said. "Would you like to join us?" He was attractive. Dark curly hair and matching mustache. Clear brown eyes. He smiled when he spoke to her, revealing even white teeth. He said his name was Don.
"I . . . can't," she said. "I'm . . . on my period."
"It's just coffee," he said. "There'll be a bunch of us, men and women."
She blushed when she realized her assumption.
"It's okay," the guy said. "Just keep coming back. It gets better."
***
On Tuesday morning, Nan called Mace.
"I made a copy of Vicky Glassen's file," she told him. "I think I have something you can use."
"Great."
He heard a rustle of papers, then Nan spoke again. "Her case was earmarked. The strain of gonorrhea that she had is a new one and still rare, penicillinase producing neisseria gonorrhea. We're calling it PPNG. It has penicillinase properties, which means that we can't treat it the same way we normally treat gonorrhea because the bacterial enzymes in the virus deactivate penicillin?
"What do you use?"
"Spectinomycin seems to be effective."
"Can you put together the list of people who have been infected for me?" he asked.
"It'll take some time. When do you need it?"
"Yesterday"
"I'll get going on it. Give me your telex number."
He read it off to her.
"Dr. Miller wants to talk to you. He's thought of a few more things. He'll call you later."
"I'll be in court most of the day tell him to leave a message with Dispatch."
The last call he made was to Jimbo Washington, his colleague in Vice.
"Do you have a file of freaks?" A freak was a John who beat up prostitutes.
"Any kind in particular?" Jimbo asked.
"I'm looking for a guy who chains the girls up. Anything like that?"
"I'll check it out. Whats up?"
"We got a homicide involving a hooker victim."
"Anyone I know?" Jimbo asked.
"Brenda Wallace?"
"Shir."
"You knew her?"
No Human Involved - Barbara Seranella Page 16