No Human Involved - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  "A lot of us knew her. How did she get it?"

  "She was tortured and stabbed. That's why I'm calling."

  "There is one guy the girls have been complaining about. I don't have a name."

  "Let's get an artist to make a composite."

  "I'm on it, bunkie."

  Later that morning, as he sat in the back of a Santa Monica courtroom and waited for his turn to testify the conversation with Digger kept echoing in his head. He put it together with the information the psychiatrist, Dr. Miller, had supplied him with. Whoever this guy was, he must have left a shadow. What if he was a local? His sickness hadn't come out of nowhere. Somewhere this guy had a past, other records of sadistic behavior. Caroline had agreed to have lunch with him at the recess. He had planned for them to go to Bob Burns for an intimate lunch in the dark restaurant. Now he didn't want to waste time. He wondered if she'd mind if instead they got sandwiches to go from the cafeteria.

  The lawyers went into sidebar discussion with the judge. Mace stepped out into the hallway to call headquarters and check on his messages. Cassiletti answered and told him that a list of names had arrived on the teletype from his ex-wife. Mace told him that he'd pick them up after court.

  "I've got a meeting with the shooter in the Mancini homicide at seven tonight at the Lairs," he told him.

  "Are we bringing her in?" Cassiletti asked.

  "Let's see what we get from her. She wants to cut a deal. In fact, I think it would be better if I go by myself. I don't want to spook her."

  "Does she have a lawyer?"

  "I doubt it, she didn't mention anything about a lawyer. If I know this broad, she'll come alone. She doesn't have anyone."

  After he hung up with Mace, Cassiletti placed another call. "I've got an update for you," he said.

  23

  COURT BROKE FOR AN HOUR'S LUNCH RECESS AND Mace found Caroline waiting for him in the hallway

  "I need to check something out at the animal shelter," he said to her. "Would you mind a lunch on the run?"

  While they bought ready-made sandwiches, she asked, "Why do you need to go there?"

  "My dad mentioned something at dinner last night. Something he remembered from about ten, maybe fifteen years ago about a kid who tortured animals."

  "Isn't your dad sort of . . . "

  "What?"

  "Never mind. What were you saying?"

  "I'd like to stop over at the SPCA, see if anyone there remembers the incident."

  "Does this have to do with a murder investigation?"

  "It might tie in to the Glassen case. This shrink I talked to said that the offender probably had an earlier history of sadistic behavior. That makes sense to me."

  "Once a criminal, always a criminal?" she asked.

  She posed the question quietly.

  He hesitated before he answered; instinct warned him that he had just entered a mine field. Something in her tone of voice, the arch of her eyebrows.

  "I'm not talking about joyriding," he said and realized too late he had detonated a booby trap.

  "Joyriding?" she asked. "What an interesting choice of juvenile offenses to choose from. Why did that come to mind?"

  They had reached the parking lot. He slipped his key in the door of the car and avoided her eyes.

  "Do you want to go or not?" he asked.

  "Oh, I'd love to see you in action, Detective. So much goes on behind the scenes, don't you think? Where we civilians don't have a clue." She got in the passenger seat and folded her hands primly on her lap.

  As he walked around to the driver's side, he stole a glance skyward. "Here we go, folks," he said out loud. Sometimes he had an incredibly big mouth.

  The West Side chapter of the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals was sandwiched between warehouses on a cul de sac in the industrial section of Santa Monica. A collection of storage buildings and body shops near the bus station. Shopping carts full of derelicts worldly goods parked in doorways served as declarations of homesteading claims. Blanket rolls, layers of newspaper, and empty wine bottles spilled onto the sidewalk. Mace couldn't help but wonder about a civilization that sheltered and fed its stray animals and left the humans to face the elements alone. Of course, the hospitality extended to the animals only lasted so long. No easy answers. He snuck a look at Caroline's angry face. None at all.

  They parked the car near the entrance of the pound and were greeted by the prolonged barking (judging by the variety of pitch and volume) of every conceivable size of dog. They were welcomed at the front desk by a round-faced gentleman in his sixties who smiled as they entered. He transferred the leash he was holding to his left hand and extended his right to Mace. Then he came around from behind the desk with his charge in tow.

  "How can I help you?" he asked, beaming broadly as if welcoming rich customers to a Beverly Hills showroom. He reached down and stroked the neck of the black and white Labrador mix tethered beneath him. The dog responded by lovingly licking his face.

  Mace handed the man a business card. "I wonder if you can answer a few questions for me."

  "About a homicide?" The man looked nervously between the two of them. "Caroline Rhinehart?" he asked, noticing her for the first time.

  "Hello, Angel," she said. "Detective St. John is investigating an incident that happened a long time ago, to dogs."

  Mace looked between the two of them in surprise. He decided to let Caroline tell him in her own time how the two of them knew each other. "Certainly Detective, anything I can do," Angel said.

  "Do you remember an incident, I'm going back ten, fifteen years, where dogs were dismembered?"

  "It was before I started working here," he said and winked at Caroline. "But something like that gets talked about. Nothing outrages folks more than cruelty to animals. Johnson was bombing the shit out of North Vietnam, but the dog dismemberment made the front page of the L.A. Times."

  "What else do you remember?"

  "Just that some teenager was torturing dogs. He pulled off their legs while they were still alive. Happened over in the Ballona Wetlands, but they brought the animals here. Neighbors heard the animals crying and turned him in. That put an end to that. The kid was just under eighteen, so his name wasn't published. If you want any more details, you might want to come back tomorrow. Talk to Ed. He was working here back then. He's off Tuesdays, but he'll be here in the morning." The animal on the leash give a drawn-out whimper and nudged Angels legs. Angel crooned to the animal, "Don't worry you'll get your bone." The dog licked his hands, lowered the front of her body till her head rested on her outstretched paws, and kept her butt in the air. She gave off one sharp yap and wagged her tail. Then she jumped to her feet again.

  Mace reached down and patted the animals head. The dog responded by wagging her tail and dropping open her mouth in what could only be interpreted as a grin. It was then that he noticed the animals startling blue eyes, so light that they were almost white.

  "Great eyes," he said. She obviously knew how to use them to her advantage, now batting them coyly when Mace smiled at her and made a little kissing sound, she cocked her head sidewise and her ears perked up in an imitation of the RCA Victor logo dog.

  "Yeah, we think she must have some husky in her," Angel said.

  "You give the dogs bones?" Mace asked. "Nice life."

  "Just the ones on death row, sort of a last meal treat." Angel scratched the dog behind her ears and her tail thumped the counter.

  "Death row?" Mace asked and stole a look at the happy animal.

  "Yeah, she's been with us for three weeks. Her time has come. She's real smart, makes a great companion."

  "A good watchdog, too, I imagine," Caroline said.

  As if on cue, the dog jumped up on Mace, planting two white paws on his chest and licking his face. He was aware of Caroline watching him.

  "Maybe I'll adopt her," he said. "My dad could use a watchdog."

  "I'll start the paperwork," Angel said. "Her name is Samantha."

&n
bsp; Ten minutes later, they were headed for the exit: Caroline, Mace, and a reluctant Samantha, who dug her paws in the linoleum as they approached the front door. "What's with her?" Mace asked.

  ."She doesn't want to leave Nicky"

  "Who's Nicky?"

  "Her cage mate," Angel said. "I've never seen two female animals take to each other more. They sleep with their heads on each other's stomachs, play together, groom each other. Ah, well, she'll get over it." He opened up the cage under his desk and extracted an English Sheepdog mix with big brown eyes. "C'mon, Nickf Angel said. "I've got a nice bone for you, sweetheart."

  In the car on the way to Diggers, Caroline asked, "How's your dad going to like having two new dogs?"

  Mace shrugged. "You heard the man, you can't split up a pair like that. Maybe I'll keep them with me for a while and make sure that they're going to work out."

  "Don't you want to run a make on them?" She reached around to the back seat and petted the dogs, who were busy slobbering up the rear windows and equally oblivious to each other.

  He looked skyward again. "Alright, I'm sorry I didn't mean to invade your privacy How did you find out?"

  "The guy in Records that you asked to violate the court order?"

  "Wait a minute," he interrupted. (Technically I didn't unseal any records. I just asked him to look up the original arrest reports. But anyhow, what about him?"

  "He's my cousin."

  "Oh. Small world, huh?"

  She nodded.

  He decided to risk another question. "By the way where did you know the guy at the shelter

  from?"

  "Angel? I got him his job." A smile played on her lips. "Actually it started as community service."

  "The guy was a client of yours?"

  "Does this relate to your investigation, or is this a personal?"

  He sighed. "Mea culpa."

  She cracked open her window and let her purse rest on the seat between them instead of clutching it in her lap. He took this as a sign of encouragement. "Just one question. What was Angel on probation for?"

  "He's a con artist." She looked at him. "Was."

  Mace stole a glance in the rearview mirror and Samantha panted back at him. Her big red tongue lolled to the side of her mouth, saliva dropping to the seat, and her eyes closed in a squint till only a slit of blue showed through. It was an expression that could easily be interpreted as laughter. Nicky batted her big brown eyes in sort of an apology and then threw up on the floor.

  As they turned onto the boulevard, Mace checked his watch.

  "Do you mind if we make a quick stop?" He made a right turn. "My place is about six blocks from here on Olympic. I can't leave the dogs in the car." As if to emphasize his point, Samantha began chewing on the armrest. "Hey stop that!" he yelled at her. She barked and began cleaning the inside of his ear.

  "You're really good with dogs," Caroline said and quickly looked out the window.

  Five minutes later, they arrived at the Bella Donna.

  When he opened the car door, the two dogs tumbled out, barking joyfully They chased each other around the train, playing tag by biting each other on the scruff of the neck. Then after somersaults and pretend snarls, they changed directions and the new "it" dog became the chaser.

  "Does your heart good, doesn't it?" Caroline said.

  Mace realized he was grinning. He wondered how long it had been since the animals had had a good run.

  Tired of their game, the animals reconnoitered. Mace watched as they paced off the perimeter, noses to the ground. The two dogs stopped at intervals to squat and mark their territory After a few minutes, they returned to stand at their human savior's side.

  He ruffled their ears. "Thirsty?"

  They panted yes.

  He opened the gate of the platform and swung the intricately ornate wrought iron outwards. Then he lifted up the steel plate that interrupted the stairway and led his charges up the stairs. As he opened his door, it occurred to him that this was the first time he had let someone in in a long, long time.

  Nicky and Sam bounded up the stairs gracefully as if they had always belonged there. Caroline followed. He felt himself holding his breath.

  "Oh," she said as she entered his parlor. "It's wonderful."

  The first thing she did was cross the floor and sit down at the piano. She ran her hands over the ivory keys. He had never seen anything so desirable in his life as those delicate fingers resting on the keys.

  "Play something," he said.

  She turned to him. Her eyes were smoky and unreadable. Her face froze and her lips parted, like she was going to say something. He'd seen the look many times; it usually preceded a confession. The moment felt suddenly intense, as if there was too much feeling packed into one tiny space. Whatever she had to say, he knew that it would mark a new level of intimacy between them. This time, he didn't look away

  "He didn't show you my entire arrest history."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Ir might."

  "It won't."

  "I want to tell you." She stared directly into his eyes and began. "I told you I ran with a rough crowd. I ran away from home when I was fourteen. My father drank, my mother looked the other way I. I met a man who said he loved me and I ran off with him. He turned out to be a junkie. He used me to run scams on people. Usually I'd be the security he'd leave with people that he was scoring drugs for."

  "Little Miss Marker?" he asked, smiling gently to encourage her.

  She looked at him levelly; he could see the effort to tell him was taking a lot of courage. Seated on the little piano bench, she threw back her shoulders and continued. "It was my job to somehow escape before the people realized they'd been had. Sometimes I did, sometimes not." She took a deep breath and looked down. "Then I had to placate the people anyway I could. I did what I had to."

  "We all do." He went to her and took her hand.

  "But you're okay now, you did good. You turned your life around."

  "I had help. No matter how far down I got, how low I sunk, I could always hear, even when I seemed unreachable. I remember every kind word ever spoken to me, every hand that ever reached out."

  He heard a siren in the distance. Duty called. He glanced at the clock above the bar. "I've got to get back to court." He was still holding her hand, unwilling to let the moment pass. "I've done things, too. Things I'm not proud of." He stopped there. She waited but didn't ask.

  "After work, let's get together. You can come over to my dads house with me and help me explain to him about the dogs."

  She smiled. "I'd like that."

  "I have something to do at seven." He gave her a set of keys. "Would you mind meeting me here? We'll need some dog food, too. Would you mind . . . "

  She held up her hands in surrender. "Okay Detective. I'll be here. I'll feed the dogs. I'll wait for you. But-"

  "But?"

  "I don't want you to hold back on me." She stood up and they stood eye to eye. "I expect one hundred percent. Thats the way it has to be."

  "That's what I want, too." As he said the words, they surprised him, but he knew they were true.

  24

  AT SIX OlCLOCK ON TUESDAY, MUNCH WAS READY to go. The trip to Venice would take thirty to forty-five minutes, but she couldn't see the point of hanging around the motel any longer. She had dressed quickly too nervous to bother with makeup. She selected a pair of white bell bottoms and a red-and-white-striped top. On her way out the door, she grabbed her coat.

  As she got on the freeway she fingered the amulet Ruby had given her. It was a pewter medal

  of St. Jude on a thin silver chain. Only when pressed did Ruby admit that St. Jude was the

  patron saint of Hopeless Causes and Desperate Situations.

  The sign above the restaurant was soon visible when she got off the freeway a large yellow lion with his mouth open in a roar. Lairs seemed an appropriate meeting place. She, the proverbial Christian, off to meet the lion in his den. Maybe that wasn't q
uite the parallel she wanted. Didn't the lions usually win?

  She was early The waitress asked her how many in her party.

  "Two," Munch said, "Maybe three. I'll just wait for them by the door here."

  She was standing by the horoscope machine near the cash register when she heard the familiar rumble. Instinctively she turned to the sounds. A second later she spotted the bikes roaring down Lincoln. She counted close to twenty of them through the plate-glass window that fronted the Lairs, all solo riders. She panicked when she realized that the lead bike, a black Sportster, was driven by Crazy Mike. He was followed by what appeared to be the entire club. At the flower shop next to the restaurant, they peeled off into two groups.

  Oh, God, she realized, they're coming here. If she ran out the door to Lincoln Boulevard where her car was parked, she wouldn't get far. It was too open, too exposed. Her only hope was to reach the back parking lot before they did, then maybe she could elude them on foot. She darted towards the back of the restaurant, past the startled waitress, and knocked down a busboy with a load of dirty dishes. The resulting confusion of broken pottery and his huddled form as he attempted to clean the mess up barred her exit through the kitchen. She made a quick pivot and headed towards the cocktail lounge. On her way to the swinging doors of the bar, she grabbed at the place settings for some kind of weapon and dumped what she could in her pocket. The lounge had its own separate door that exited to the parking lot on Washington.

  She burst through to the outside and was blinded by headlights. The second group of bikers had reached the parking lot before her.

  "Get on," Crazy Mike gestured to the back of his bike. "No bullshit this time."

  ***

  Mace was westbound on Washington. He looked over in time to witness the abduction. It was obvious the girl wasn't willing. Her head whipped around wildly like an animal caught in a snare. He was trapped in traffic. Even if he could get to her, what chance would he have against the pack of twenty bikers? He had to try. He put his car in park and vaulted the center divider guardrail. Cars heading east refused to slow down. She spotted him and pleaded with her eyes for him to help. Beyond her, he recognized Ugly Bud, the DEA agent. The bikes took off in unison, weaving their way through traffic.