12 Days

by Chris Frank

  “But thank you.”

  Lisa kissed him briefly on the lips and smiled.

  “All the other murders, besides Edwards, were planned. It seems to me that number ‘four’ shows that he can adapt on the fly. Jim, please be careful.”

  “I will. I am a cop.”

  “Detective,” she corrected.

  “Detective,” he concurred.

  “All I know is that I would not want my name or my face associated with this case in any way. This guy is capable of anything.”

  “I think that we need to change the subject. What are we going to do about you?”

  “When the roles were reversed, two days ago, you said you would ‘worry about it tomorrow.’ I’m going to take your advice. If we turn on the television right now we could catch the final question on Jeopardy. How does that sound?”

  “Terrific.”

  Jim picked up the remote and followed her suggestion.

  Day 4: 9:20 p.m.

  Captain Jones had just finished another long day at work. He settled into the front seat of his Cadillac Escalade and tuned his radio to KUSC, the college station that featured classical music around the clock. As a lovely Haydn quartet wafted through his speakers, he recounted the events of the day. After much prodding, the mayor had finally come around and now saw the advantages to Jones’ decision to release information about the killer to the press. Sometimes he could not understand how this dolt had been elected mayor of the second largest city in America. The only way to get through to this guy was to hit him across the forehead with a two-by-four, so to speak, and even then, the mayor would need an aide to explain to him what had just happened.

  The surveillance video from Target confirmed that Jim Jovian had a good eye for details, as the artist’s rendition of the killer was spot-on. Still, Captain Jones knew that it was likely not the face that would get their suspect caught, but the limp. He had called an orthopedic surgeon friend to look at the tape and give him an opinion. Jones was told that although it could have been a knee injury that caused the limp, in all likelihood it was the hip. Based on the description of the man’s walk and how it now looked on-camera, the diagnosis would have to be degenerative arthritis with congenital hip dysplasia at the top of his differential diagnosis. The surgeon suggested that the suspect probably had been born with a dislocated hip that had not responded to treatment. A brace worked in selective cases, but the more recalcitrant ones required operations that had varying degrees of success. To the surgeon, the “antalgic gait” on the man in the video was proof of therapeutic failure.

  Jones wanted to use this fact to his advantage. The severity of the limp was far more distinguishable than the killer’s facial features and he wanted that piece of information circulated to the news stations. His press conference at seven o’clock let the news stations know that the man who was terrorizing southern California had a bad wheel; if anyone knew the suspect, they should call the hotline immediately. The Captain had done all he could; day five was less than three hours away.

  Day 4: 10:07 p.m.

  Bobby Santoro sat on his couch, orange dye from the bag of nacho-flavored Doritos covering his fingers. He briefly touched himself in the way he always did, when he saw the beautiful Gisele An on the news. The movement that her face inspired in his pants quickly disappeared when the face of Captain Robert Jones suddenly filled the screen. He took another hit from his bong and exhaled. The guy with the limp, he thought, I know that guy. What the fuck was his name? He came very close to remembering it when a Wendy’s hamburger ad caught his attention and sent him down a completely different thought pattern altogether.

  Day 5: 6:47 a.m.

  Nothing again last night, thought Captain Jones. Either the guy was changing his modus operandi or he had gone underground. He looked at the morning edition of the L.A. Times as he drank the first of many cups of the black coffee that he would indulge in today. The headlines were stupid. “The Birdman of Covina” as he was so quickly dubbed, would now take his place with “The Hillside Strangler” and “Son of Sam” as infamous serial killers. Like the others, this new maniac would now be forever etched into the minds of the communities that they had terrorized. He had checked with Central; they received hundreds of calls after the news ended last night from people who knew a man with a limp. It was now up to his task force to sift through the silver linings to find this very dark cloud.

  Day 5: 7:00 a.m.

  Jim had left home early that morning with Lisa still asleep in bed. She must be exhausted, he thought, I’ll let her rest. It’s probably the first time she’s slept in, in years, poor thing. He was growing very fond of Lisa; she did not cramp his style, she was very smart, and she was wonderful in bed. Jim had never been one to think of the future from a romantic standpoint, but something was changing inside him and Lisa was the catalyst of his metamorphosis. He entered the I10 Freeway at Rosemead Avenue and played with the radio. As he flipped through his options, he was overjoyed. Now that Christmas was over, the constant prattle of holiday songs that had filled his head since Thanksgiving had finally come to an end. Jim was not a Scrooge by any stretch of the imagination, but if he heard ‘The Little Drummer Boy’ one more time, he would buy drumsticks and snap them off in some criminal’s ass. Six weeks of Christmas songs was enough to drive anyone crazy. Jim tuned into KROQ just in time to hear Barry Manilow’s rendition of “Another New Year’s Eve.” Unbelievable, Jim thought, un-fucking-believable.

  Day 5: 7:43 a.m.

  He had not slept well last night, but then again, he never did. It wasn’t the headaches that kept him awake. It was the knowledge that the police were getting closer; that they might catch him before he got a chance to finish his work. He knew that at some point, he would get caught; it was part of the plan. He just wanted to be further along. He toyed with the idea of completing all the scheduled kills at a faster pace but alerting the police to the victims’ locations on the appointed day, so that the pattern could still be seen in all of its intended glory. He would think about this more after he swallowed a few pills and got himself together. He had to make a quick stop before his scheduled audition that afternoon and he did not want to be late. He had to see a man about a drum set.

  Day 5: 7:49 a.m.

  Organized chaos is what Jim thought about when he arrived at the fourth floor conference room in Parker Center that morning. The task force was working at a furious pace to catch a homicidal madman. Call after call had come over the hotline as hundreds of concerned citizens let the police know that the man with the limp lived somewhere amongst them. Twenty-eight calls were fielded about women with limps, sixty-six calls about elderly men with walkers, and one call about a three-legged dog named Buster that was terrorizing a lady in Riverside. Eight witnesses with credible stories had either arrived or were on their way for personal interviews by the task force. Jim drew the name of a man named Julio from Long Beach who said he knew the guy. After about five minutes, Jim had sent him home after instructing the self-proclaimed “witness” that the Christmas killer was a white man, not a man of African-American descent who sat in front of the Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles restaurant in a wheelchair and sold incense.

  Jim knew that this was going to be a long day.

  Day 5: 9:45 a.m.

  Lisa stood in the shower with the hot knob turned as far to the left as possible. But no matter how scalding the water, she could not get warm. She was freezing inside as she thought about the events of the previous day. She knew that for the rest of her life, she would carry the blame for death in her heart. She crumpled into a ball on the shower’s floor and cried. What do I do now? she asked herself. What do I do now?

  Day 5: 10:45 a.m.

  Bobby Santoro woke early; he hadn’t gotten much accomplished on his script yesterday so he wanted to get a fresh start. He rolled out of bed and brushed the thin layer of marijuana residue out of his mouth, threw on a hoodie, and left his apartment. Bobby really wanted a whitefish salad on a toasted onion bagel
and cup of coffee from Kanter’s Deli, so he made a right and drove to the Fairfax district. As he entered the restaurant, he noticed that the takeout line was only five people deep. It was a strange time to eat, somewhere between breakfast and lunch. Bobby placed his order and stood in waiting line behind a short bald man who smelled like cilantro. Bobby tried to ignore the smell as he busied himself reading newspaper headlines over the short man’s shoulder about the Christmas killer. Then, in a moment of clarity, Bobby remembered what had been bothering him for the past few days; Marty Lord. Marty fucking Lord, that was his name. He had that stupid script, 12 DAYS or something like that. Bobby knew that he had to contact the police immediately; he ran out of the deli and onto the street towards his apartment before the old Jewish guy behind the counter could yell that his bagel was ready.

  Day 5: 10:57 a.m.

  It was Jim’s turn to man the phones. Most of his cohorts were either interviewing prospective witnesses or taking an early lunch. As luck would have it, he took the call from Bobby Santoro.

  “Police hotline, Detective Jovian.”

  Bobby cleared his throat.

  “Hi, is this the number I’m supposed to call if I have information about the guy with the limp?”

  “Yes it is. Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, so I know the guy. I used to work with him at Gower Studios about two years ago.”

  “Okay, sir. How do you know it’s him?”

  “He had a terrible limp.”

  “There are many people who have a limp in Los Angeles.”

  “I know that. But how many people with a terrible limp have written a movie about a serial killer who murders people according to a Christmas song?”

  Jim could not breathe. He started snapping his fingers wildly to anyone who would notice to get over to his desk. Jim hit the speakerphone button.

  “Sir, what is your name?”

  “Bobby Santoro.”

  “Bobby, tell me where you live.”

  “1096 Willets Avenue, Apartment 3B, Los Angeles.”

  Jim jotted down the address.

  “I’m coming to see you. Stay on the phone.”

  He handed the phone to an FBI agent he had just met that morning.

  “Keep talking to this guy. Don’t hang up until you hear my voice on the other end of the line.”

  Day 5: 11:30 a.m.

  God, Gordon thought, I fucking hate being a waiter. One of these days I am going to get my big break and tell everyone in this town to lick my balls. Until then, Gordon Ring would have to straighten his tie and prepare for the first wave of diners who wanted to grab an early lunch at Pecca. He was scheduled to work both lunch and dinner but had convinced the manager to let him leave at 2:30 for his audition, with a promise on his mother’s life he would be back by 5:00 p.m. sharp. Since ninety-eight percent of wanna-be actors in L.A. waited tables, it was not an unusual request and, since the manager had fielded said request a thousand times before, he granted Gordon’s wish. Gordon thanked the man profusely.

  He stood now at the men’s room mirror, practicing a few last silent screams. This could be his day, the one he had been dreaming about since the first time he saw Quentin Tarantino suck champagne from Salma Hayek’s boot in From Dusk Till Dawn. He left the bathroom and took his position with the other actors by the kitchen. He nodded his thanks one last time, which the manager acknowledged with a smile. Actors, the manager thought, nothing but dreamers.

  Day 5 12:00 p.m.

  Bobby Santoro had never been in a police station, which was an amazing feat considering all the drugs he had either sold, snorted, or smoked. He sat in an interrogation room with Captain Robert Jones and Detective Jim Jovian, staring at a tape recorder, still somewhat stoned from the night before. When asked if he wanted anything before they started, Bobby responded that he could really use a bagel with a thick schmear. His request was respectfully rejected, and Jim pressed the record button on the digital recorder.

  “Testing. This is Detective James Jovian; Captain Robert Jones, Jr. and I are taping this interview in Interrogation Room 1, Parker Center, in Los Angeles, California. I will begin. Sir, can you please tell me your name and where you live?”

  “My name is Robert Santoro and I live at 1096 Willets Avenue, Apartment 3B, Los Angeles.”

  “Very good, Mr. Santoro. Did you come to Parker Center and agree to be interviewed under your own free will?”

  “Well, yeah, but you drove, officer.”

  “Yes. And are you of sound mind?”

  Bobby laughed.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Are you mentally stable? Do you think clearly?”

  “Well yeah. I mean I smoked pot yesterday but I’m okay today.”

  Captain Jones groaned and looked at Jim crossly. Knowing that he could erase that response later, Jim continued.

  “Mr. Santoro, do you know the identity of the man who has been implicated in the deaths of Paul Artridge, Janette McDermott, Audrey La Pense, and Alice Edwards?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Would you tell us how you know this?”

  “When I first moved to L.A., I got a job at Gower Studios doing some sound work for a show about undertakers. There was this weird guy who worked at Gower, doing props, His name was Marty Lord. This guy was a real head case. He was good with props but he was scary.”

  “What makes you say that he was scary?”

  “He always looked like he was in a trance, like he was dosing with some powerful shit. He would stare with these blank eyes like he couldn’t see anything. Nobody liked him and then one day the producer just had enough. The actors would not work with Marty anywhere near the set, so they let him go. Man, Marty was pissed. He creeped us all out.”

  “Mr. Santoro, why do you think that Marty Lord is the person that the police are looking for with regard to the murder victims that I recently mentioned?”

  “Well, first of all, Marty had a limp; this guy had trouble getting around. He told me that he had been born without a hip or some shit like that and that nothing the doctors did could correct it.”

  “Again Mr. Santoro, there are many people who walk with a limp. Why do you think Marty Lord is the person the police are looking for right now?”

  “Because of his script.”

  Jim watched the Captain lean forward, interested. Jim looked back at Bobby.

  “By script do you mean a screenplay?”

  “Why, yeah, sure.”

  “What script was that, Mr. Santoro?”

  “This script Marty wrote. Everyone who works in the industry thinks that they can write a script or that they can direct a feature. Marty once told me about an idea he had about a serial killer who selects his victims according to a Christmas song. The killer in Marty’s movie would choose his targets based upon the words of this song.”

  Jim proffered to Bobby a still photo taken from the Target video of the man who bought the bamboo cage. He stated for the record what he was showing the witness.

  “Mr. Santoro, is this Marty Lord in that picture I gave you?”

  Bobby looked at the grainy photograph.

  “It’s been a while so I can’t be one hundred per cent sure, but yes, that’s Marty Lord.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Santoro. I have one last question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you remember the name of the song in Mr. Lord’s script?”

  “Yes, I do.’

  “And what is that song?”

  Bobby smiled.

  “You guys haven’t figured that out? It’s …‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’.”

  Day 5: 2:35 p.m.

  Hollywood used many of the old warehouses on Figueroa Street north of downtown L.A. for movies sets and casting studios. The rundown buildings were cheap to rent and invariably seemed to be infested with flies. Gordon Ring had been on Figueroa for auditions before, but not this particular location, which seemed to be more decrepit than the others; still, a gig is a gig and as the sai
lors say, any port in the storm. The director with the bad limp introduced himself to Gordon and led the would-be star to a well-lighted room in the rear of the warehouse. Gordon’s concerns that he was the only person auditioning were quickly allayed by the director’s claimed idiosyncrasy of only being able to meet one actor at a time. The director felt that this was the best way to really get to know him. Gordon took off his shirt as asked and screamed. Not real enough, claimed the director. Gordon screamed again; still not enough. The director wanted to try it this time with props; he grabbed a bowie knife from his bag and stood before Gordon. On three, he directed, I want to you to scream. One. Two. Three. Gordon screamed convincingly as the director thrust the bowie knife in sequence through his anterior abdominal musculature, his liver, and then out his back. Now that, thought the director, was a good scream.

  Day 5: 2:45 p.m.

  Jim had spent the last hour searching the Internet and gathering as much information on Marty Lord and Christmas songs as possible before addressing the task force, as per Captain Jones’ request. He found nothing on Marty Lord. The guy was a real nobody. Jim called the people at Gower Studios but no one could remember him. Personnel had a post office box in Alhambra as a last known address and a home phone number that Jim discovered was not in service any longer.