12 Days

by Chris Frank

  Day 3: 12:55 a.m.

  A Santa Monica squad car was in the driveway of the La Pense home in less than six minutes. The two officers first on the scene knocked on the front door but received no response. They had no difficulty rationalizing an unauthorized entry into the La Pense home as they could see, bright as day, the naked form of a ghostly white prone female body through the mail slot. A call for backup was initiated and the policemen entered the premises. Within minutes, there were seven squad cars at the house and forensics were on the way.

  After the house was deemed clear of possible intruders, the officers first to arrive were appalled by what had to be a very sick and twisted joke. The victim was naked, covered in what looked like powdered sugar, and wearing a chef’s hat. But what really caught the eye was the two-foot baguette jammed down her trachea, three quarters of it still protruding from her lifeless lips. Forensics would have a field day with this as well as the drawings that the killer must have made in the sugar. On the floor between her left arm and leg were two birds and between her right arm and leg, the number ‘three’.

  Day 3: 6:38 a.m.

  “What do you want to do now?”

  Lisa asked this question as she spread something that resembled butter on a piece of whole-wheat toast. The open-ended question left Jim pondering options. She could have been asking about his job; Lisa was genuinely concerned about the fallout from the day before and she fully understood the shit flowing down hill analogy. She might have been asking about the case. They had information that linked the deaths of Paul Artridge to Janette McDermott and from what Jim had implied after his conversation with Captain Jones, it did not look like anyone else had made that connection. If the killings continued, it wouldn’t be long before the others caught on and they might lose a strategic advantage. Then what, copycats? It could be a total mess.

  Then he thought no, she could have been asking about them, as a couple. Lisa had said she had not planned on looking up Jim’s address on the Internet, nor had she planned on knocking on his door, and sex had never even crossed her mind, but it had all happened. It wasn’t a mercy fuck, or even an ‘I’m sorry’ fuck; he honestly could not give it a label.

  Maybe it was a “What do you want to do now?” sexually; in which case, it was up to Jim to answer the question.

  “Let’s start with… wishing each other a good morning.”

  She smiled.

  “Good morning, Jim Jovian.”

  “Good morning, Lisa Klein.”

  “How did you sleep last night?”

  “In fits and starts.’

  Lisa smiled.

  “How is your schedule looking today?”

  Jim smiled back.

  “Well, I don’t have plans for today and tomorrow looks wide open. The Captain told me to stick around town, so I guess that trip to Lourdes will have to be put on hold. I can’t officially do police work, but I do have some ideas that maybe you can help me with.”

  A twisted smile crossed her face.

  “Such as?”

  “Research. You obviously know your way around the Internet; we’ve got to find the link between our two victims. Our killer is very methodical, almost theatrical. He has scripted his kills, set the scenes like he’s filming a movie. These two victims were not chosen randomly; there is nothing haphazard about how this guy operates. There is a link between the victims and we’ve got to narrow it down and nail it.”

  Lisa thought for a second.

  “You’re right about the movie thing; it does seem scripted. Do you think our killer’s in the industry?”

  Jim liked the fact that everyone who lived in L.A. and worked in entertainment called it “the industry” as if Hollywood was the only source of revenue in town. But in some ways, it might very well be true. The writer’s union was on day 235 of their latest walkout strike, and the taping of scripted shows had ground to a halt. Reality no longer was a descriptive adjective for television, it dominated much the medium, and the reality show writers mostly weren’t in the union. Movies were still being made, as completed scripts were still in the pipeline, but in another six weeks, the large screen filmmakers would also be devoid of fresh meat. The monetary fallout in Los Angeles was staggering, with estimates of an economic loss to the community of close to $95 million dollars a week and growing. And the strike had a ripple effect; it was burying the ancillary companies, the prop guys, the caterers, the limo drivers, even the dry cleaners. These people could not take an ongoing hit like this, especially during the holidays. Not that much happened work-wise in the business during the holiday season, but the way people were talking, this thing could go on for months into the New Year.

  “He might be in the business,” Jim answered. “This is L.A., and the killer’s pretty pissed-off.”

  “Shit.”

  For some reason Lisa seemed to be distressed. Was it the idea that the killer could be one of her own, a denizen of the media?

  Jim pressed onward.

  “Can you email me as much material as you can find on Artridge and McDermott? I have the time to sift through it.”

  “Sure, it might take a couple of hours.”

  “That’s fine. I’m going to run by Alice Edwards’ house to make sure she’s safe.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Well, I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay.”

  They stood there awkwardly for a few seconds. They were definitely past the handshake phase of saying goodbye and paradoxically, despite the unleashed passion of the night before, they didn’t seem to be at the kiss phase either. Lisa grabbed Jim, gave him an earnest hug, as he headed out the door.

  Day 3: 7:15 a.m.

  Lisa jumped out of the shower and put on a towel. She checked her body in the mirror, looking for damage from the night before, but found none. She grabbed a Q-tip, left the bathroom and threw herself down on the bed. Absent-mindedly, she probed her ear and stared at the ceiling. When she decided that her auditory channel was clean, she reached for the television remote and put on the KVTM ‘Morning Show.”

  Lisa had a soft spot in her heart for the show, having started her career there only four years before as a production assistant. The people were very nice but the hours sucked. She got tired of doing fluff pieces about celebrity beaver shots and reality superstars who were famous simply for being famous. She wanted to do real news; hence the move to 10 o’clock. But all of Lisa’s mental reflections stopped with two sentences out of the reporter’s mouth.

  “…in three days, this time on a quiet street in Santa Monica. Renowned chef Audrey La Pense was found dead early this morning at her home. La Pense, who owns the restaurant that bears her name on Olive Street in Los Angeles, was 42 years old. Police have not ruled out foul play…”

  Lisa listened to the story through its completion. She had a feeling in her gut that the killer had struck again. She raced to her living room and grabbed her cell phone, hoping to reach Milt at the station before she called Jim.

  Day 3: 7:18 a.m.

  Alice Edwards lived right around the corner from the Santa hanging tree on Pear Street. He had driven down this block a thousand times and not once had he thought of her, or which house was hers. She was, without a doubt, a repressed memory. Alice Edwards, the neighborhood bully, had once again stuck her nose back into his business. It would be the last time. She hadn’t been part of his original plan, but she was now. He had spent months planning the others but Alice would have to be improvised. Fair enough. He had plenty of time, almost 40 hours if he pushed it, but he did not want to push it. He had a nice rhythm going and he wanted to continue his momentum. He could see her house from where he parked, as well as the dark-haired man who walked up to her front door and rang the bell.

  Day 3: 7:19 a.m.

  Jim rang the doorbell and braced himself. After a few seconds, he heard her voice through the closed door.

  “Who is it?” Alice asked in a not-so-friendly tone.

&nbs
p; “Officer Jovian, ma’am. West Covina police.” Jim had responded from rote habit.

  “What do you want?” Alice asked.

  “I just want to make sure that you are okay. May I come in and talk, ma’am?”

  “Let me see your badge.”

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  “Your badge, your badge. Hold your badge up to the window above the door.”

  Jim looked at the window and stopped. He had forgotten that his badge was probably downtown right now, being used for target practice.

  “Er, ma’am. I didn’t bring my badge today.”

  “Didn’t bring your…You’re not a cop! I’m calling the police. Get away. Get away from my door. Help! Help!”

  Jim realized that further communication was useless. Alice Edwards was alive. That was all he wanted to ensure but damn it, now what? She’d probably call the station again! Jim ran to his car and made a quick exit.

  Day 3: 7:21 a.m.

  He laughed when the dark-haired man ran away from the Edwards home. It was a real laugh; he was genuinely amused. He had not really laughed in years. It always made his head hurt, and sure enough it was hurting right now. He swallowed a few pills and watched the house. Mrs. Edwards was very cautious. She would not open her door to strangers. Thank God he had forty hours to plan out her demise.

  Day 3: 7:23 a.m.

  Jim looked at his phone on the passenger seat. Three missed calls. Weird. He was about to pull up the caller’s ID when the phone rang again.

  “Jovian.”

  “Why aren’t you picking up your phone? I’ve been calling you.”

  Lisa sounded concerned.

  “Lisa?”

  “Yes, it’s Lisa.”

  “My phone was in the car. I was talking to Mrs. Edw…”

  She couldn’t wait.

  “There’s been another murder.”

  “Where?”

  “Santa Monica. I spoke to Milt; he got some footage that we should check out.”

  Jim was amazed.

  “That guy gets around. I’m leaving West Covina now.”

  “Meet me at the station in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  Jim hung up the phone. He made a left and headed for Hollywood. Although he no longer carried a badge, today he felt more like a cop than he ever had in his life.

  Day 3: 7:40 a.m.

  His mouth was as dry as Death Valley. He did not want anything to drink for fear of needing to relieve himself. He had to stay vigilant and keep his eye on the prize. It was the first time he had ever thought of Alice Edwards as a prize, but that she was. He did not listen to the news station on the car radio; he preferred the silence. At this point in the game, the powers that be had to be in full panic mode. He left them clues, but as he had assumed when the plan came to him so many years ago, it would take about five days before anyone put the pieces together. The most recent dose of oxycontin was just kicking in; it caused a brief wave of euphoria to pass across his eyes. He watched as a boy of about sixteen dismounted his bicycle and approached the Edwards house. The boy walked to the front door, knocked, and started a brief conversation with Alice through a closed door, as had the dark-haired man. But the boy had more luck. Within seconds, the door opened and the young man handed Alice a newspaper. Alice grabbed the paper, pointed to her watch and told him that this had better not happen again or she would be looking for an alternative source for her print media.

  He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he knew how she operated, how dictatorial she could be.

  God, this cranky old hag had it coming to her!

  The poor kid politely bowed his head as Alice Edwards slammed the door in his face. The boy left the corner house and surreptitiously flipped Alice off before hopping on his bike and continuing his journey. He watched the boy hurl his wares at the four houses adjacent to the Edwards home; he landed one newspaper on the steps, two in the bushes, and one disappeared from view completely.

  Now he got it. Alice Edwards did not want to pick up her newspaper if it was strewn recklessly on her lawn; Alice wanted her newspaper hand delivered. And because of that, Alice had opened the front door.

  Day 3: 8:20 a.m.

  Lisa pulled into the KVTM lot at top speed, braking just in time to stop three inches short of smashing into Jim’s legs. He looked at her in disbelief.

  “Fuck!”

  Lisa mouthed an “I’m sorry” as she pushed past and into her parking space.

  “I’m sorry!” she repeated as she hurried out of the car and approached him.

  He tried to look upset, but he loved the sound of her voice, on the phone, in person and in passion.

  “Forget it, let’s get inside.”

  The “Morning” show at KVTM was still on the air and would be showing the news footage from the most recent murder twice more, at 8:25 and again at 8:50, but that was the edited version; the raw stuff was back in the bay. Lisa and Jim opened the editing room door and saw Milt spinning wildly on his chair, music player in his ears, wailing away on a set of air drums. Milt did not see them until he had completed his second orbit, at which time he stopped, smiled, and waved to Lisa.

  “Wow, you got here fast. You fly?”

  “Milt, you remember Officer Jovian?”

  Milt stood and though slightly confused, put out his hand.

  “Yeah, sure. How are you doing, officer?”

  “Good, thanks,” Jim replied. “You play well.”

  “Thanks, man. It’s my passion. Air guitar just didn’t cut it for me. Drums are where it’s at.”

  Lisa stopped the small talk.

  “Milt, we need to see the Santa Monica footage from last night.”

  Milt turned to the screen, pressed a button and stood up.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Lisa sat down at the desk.

  “This is everything, all the raw stuff?”

  “Everything.”

  “Good. Milt, thank you. Listen, I’m going to show the film to Officer Jovian, so if you could…”

  “No problem-o. I’ll catch you later, boss lady. See you, Kojak.”

  “See you, Milt,” Jim said.

  Lisa grabbed Milt’s arm as he headed for the door.

  “Milt, keep your phone on; we may need to make a run this afternoon.”

  “It’s always on, just like me. Give me a call; I’m going to gas up the van.”

  Milt pocketed his imaginary sticks and disappeared into the studio.

  “He’s a good kid, just a little bit lazy.”

  Jim looked at her.

  “That ‘kid’ is all over town; I don’t know if lazy really applies. And I wouldn’t underestimate him. I think he’s a lot sharper than he lets on.”

  Lisa shrugged, and then pressed a few buttons while Jim grabbed a seat. They began to look at the tape from the Santa Monica crime scene. The first thing they noticed was how dark it was, despite the floodlights on the front lawn. The timer in the upper right hand corner read 3:46 - poor Milt had been up for a while. Milt had set his camera at the street edge of the property, looking directly at the front door. They watched some unsteady shots, as Milt was not using his tripod, opting to shoot freestyle. The camera was equipped with stabilization but that only went so far; the footage reminded Jim of a bad episode of “COPS.” He had to look away briefly as a wave of nausea generated by the motion blur overtook him. He coughed into his hand in an attempt to hide his distress.

  The next few moments really sent Jim’s vestibular system for a loop; it appeared that Milt was climbing a tree. Sections of brown bark and green leaves were periodically whizzing past his eyes. Jim could not understand how Lisa could sit there so stoically; her inner ear had to be made of stone.

  The camera eventually leveled off as Milt found a comfortable limb from which to continue his assault on Jim’s gag reflex. At this angle, Milt was looking down at the front door from approximately 50 feet away. He used his telephoto lens to stay focused
on the entry, remaining in place for what seemed like an eternity, but on the timer it was really only four minutes. The resolution of the lens was remarkable; Jim could see the paint cracks lifted off the surface of the front door. And then the door opened; someone from forensics left to get something from the truck. The camera rushed forward. In scarcely more time than it took the forensics guy to close the door behind him, there in all her glory was Audrey La Pense.