by Chris Frank
Sadly, hope often sprang eternal even for those who don’t know they are in the hunter’s crosshairs. Poor Phyllis Crenshaw would not be delivering milk for much longer, if Marty Lord has his way.
Day 6: 10:07 a.m.
His eyes were moist with tears when he woke. He was sad; the euphoria and anger of the previous kills was gone and had been replaced with profound regret. But the emotion went beyond his feelings for the beautiful Giselle An; it was for a life that was denied of joy. His own! The hip, the tumor, the headaches, and now murder, all intended to draw attention to a magnificent script idea that had gone ignored. How does it happen, he wondered, that everything in one man’s life could go so horribly wrong? Why was he singled out for this misery? What the fuck did he do? He swallowed three of his pills and picked up the “Calendar” section of the L.A. Times. He wasn’t sure that he could finish his tasks at hand, but if he could, he wanted to know the movie schedule for the Arclight Theatre in Hollywood later that night.
Day 6: 11:25 a.m.
Parker Center was buzzing. Every agent working on the case was either on the phone or interviewing an individual named Swan or some variation thereof. There were 134 Swans and 652 Swansons who lived between Santa Barbara and San Diego. The logistics of speaking to each possible victim was proving to be a daunting task. Captain Jones had ordered the agents and detectives to call each adult Swan and Swanson and ask if they had met anyone strange lately, anyone with a limp. He did not want to start a panic, but since the public knew about the limping serial killer, the mere mention of such a gait abnormality drew gasps of horror over the phone.
Jim hung up the phone on his most recent call and sat back in his chair. Over the next day and a half, he surmised, there would be close to 800 people in southern California who would live in fear because of their name alone.
Unfortunately, no one had let their fingers do the walking to a specific line in the directory, the one listing for a man named Swanza, so the man from Africa never got a call.
Day 6: 1:19 p.m.
Captain Jones did not like the mayor of Los Angeles. He thought that the man was a lightweight philandering little piece of shit who rode his Hispanic ethnicity to a paper-thin victory over an infinitely more qualified opponent. Captain Jones understood politics and he knew that part of his job as police captain was to make the mayor look good, and to respond to the son of a bitch’s every beck and call. The call today required Captain Jones to attend a Sunday afternoon lunch meeting at the mayoral manse to give the politician and his selected aides a detailed update on the case that the mayor claimed “was ruining his reputation for being tough on crime.”
Tough on crime, my ass, thought Jones. This guy cut the police budget by close to 40% to help pay the health care costs for the millions of illegal immigrants who were financially devastating the city.
Jones maintained his composure and told the mayor that his people had knocked on every door in West Covina and come up empty. There was no record of any family named Lord in that area or within a 30-mile radius. They had found a family named Lords in West Hollywood as well as a porn actress with the same name in the San Fernando Valley, but no Marty Lord, bad hip or not. The mayor thought that calling all the Swans and Swansons was a good idea but held little hope that it would help catch the killer. He then made it very clear to Captain Jones that the rash of serial killings would need to stop very soon or there would need to be a change in the hierarchy of command at Parker Center. Captain Jones thanked the mayor for his hospitality, got into his car and drove home to the Palisades, picturing the mayor standing next to Marty Lord and wondering which of these pieces of shit he hated more.
Day 6: 2:35 p.m.
By his count, Jim had successfully scared to death forty-one Swansons and fifteen Swans; not bad for half a day’s work. All the dialing for dollars had taken its toll and he had one mother of a headache. He had tried to call Lisa several times but her phone kept going straight to voice mail. She must be out looking for a job, he thought. Jim didn’t tell the Captain that it was Lisa who figured out the Giselle An angle; Jim took credit for the discovery because he did not want Jones to know that he was discussing sensitive police material with a witness. He wanted to speak to Lisa to get her thoughts on the potential Swan victim; she always had good insight and right now he could really use her help. Plus, he really missed her. It was crazy, he thought, but Lisa Klein might just be the one. He picked up his phone and tried her cell but once more, voice mail. I wonder where she is, he thought, probably shopping for dinner. Oh well. Jim looked over the names before him and started to dial the next Swan on his list.
Day 6: 2:36 p.m.
Lisa sat in her car and stared at the phone. She wanted to answer when Jim called but she could not get up the nerve. She never thought that she would meet a man who could make her happy, but Jim Jovian had succeeded where so many others had failed. Lisa knew that she made Jim happy as well. When he was sleeping last night, she stared at him for what had to be an hour. He was so content, so peaceful. They had not yet mentioned the word, but it was coming. At some point, she would hear the word love from Jim’s mouth. Lisa’s actions would test the boundaries of that word; she prayed that love would help them survive. She looked at the purchase she had made in her hands for a long time before opening her car door.
Day 6: 4:34 p.m.
David Swanza filled a bowl of seed for his bird, Moesha, patted her head, and told her to behave. This would be David’s last night of work for the year. Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve and David would be spending it with some Ethiopian friends who had a place in Inglewood. They would wear ceremonial garb and eat foods that were village favorites from back home. David looked forward to New Year’s Eve. He locked his apartment door and left his place on Franklin Avenue to begin the mile and a quarter walk to work. When he got to the street, he saw a man in a dark gray Ford flatbed truck pull into a parking spot across the street from David’s building. David did not give the truck a second thought until he saw it parked again, this time in the alley off Hollywood Boulevard next to the Arclight. Without fear, David walked down the alley and approached the truck. As he got within fifty yards, the driver threw his car in reverse and sped out of the alley backward. That will show him, David thought, no one scares David Swanza.
Day 6: 4:41 p.m.
Marty Lord settled for a parking spot on Ivar south of Hollywood Boulevard. He did not expect the Ethiopian to approach his truck, which was a surprise. He did not think that the usher saw his face but he could not be sure. He was sweating right now; the screeching of his tires as he fled the alley had caused overwhelming paroxysms of pain to pass behind his eyes. He struggled with the bottle of narcotics as he seemed to be losing strength in his right hand and control of his fingers. The doctors said that this would happen; at some point the tumor would destroy that portion of his brain that controlled motor function. He managed to extract a couple of the pills and chewed them to a fine powder before washing them down with a sports energy drink. He knew that he would not last long now; first voluntary muscle control would go, then speech, and finally the involuntary muscles such as his diaphragm, until he just stopped breathing. He looked at his right hand in frustration before smashing it against the steering wheel.
Day 6: 5:13 p.m.
Imperial Boulevard in Los Angeles ran in an east-west direction, reaching its Pacific Ocean terminus near LAX. In less than three miles, the boulevard was the home to no less than twelve strip clubs catering to weary travelers and horny surfers. Every one of the girls who plied their wares at the clubs carried a story of some kind of abuse and used the ‘pole’ as a crutch to try to get them past their demons. For Toni Richardson, her abuse of choice was crystal meth. Dancing under the stage name Velvet, she was a single mother who, despite the fact that she had delivered two children, maintained a killer body. She was twenty-four years old and lived with her mother and the kids in a three-bedroom house that her father left them in El Segundo. On a good night, s
he could take home $500 cash with an extra $500 if she was willing to party with the customers. It was great money, but she knew that her looks would not last forever. Toni had a plan; she was saving up to go to college and become a physical therapist. She finished her makeup, kissed the kids goodbye, and drove to the club. She looked forward to the day when she would never have to dance again.
Day 6: 7:35 p.m.
“I must have spoken to one hundred people today who had a ‘swan’ somewhere in their name,” Jim complained between bites of his steak. “It was unbelievable.”
“Do you think you accomplished anything?” Lisa asked.
“I definitely succeeded in scaring the shit out of those people,” Jim replied.
“Don’t underestimate what you did, Jim. At least they will be extra vigilant tomorrow. If everyone you called stays home, you are going to make it harder for Marty Lord to get his next victim.”
Jim nodded as he downed a mouthful of wine.
“I know, prime objective is to protect the public, but it’s not helping us catch the guy. We know everything about the son of bitch, except how and where to find him.”
“How did it go with the license plates?”
“We matched them, but once again the address is the post office box in Alhambra.”
“But I thought that you had to legally give a home address to get the box, in case of subpoenas or stuff like that.”
“You’re right, you do. Marty used Gower Studios as his home address, so once again we’re nowhere.”
Lisa thought for a moment.
“What about the ‘Fruit’ streets?”
“What about them?”
“Did you check all the houses to see if Marty grew up around there?”
“We spoke to as many people in the neighborhood as we could, nothing. The problem is that with the real estate market being what it was, there was a huge turnover of homes in West Covina over the past few years and a ton of people are new to the area and don’t know their neighbors. No one remembers a man with a bad limp.”
Lisa put down her fork. Jim looked over at her.
“What’s the matter?” Jim asked.
“I bet Alice Edwards would have remembered.”
Jim grabbed her hand.
“Stop it. What’s done is done. It was a momentary lapse of judgment. You’ve got to stop beating yourself up over that.”
Lisa had tears in her eyes.
“I got that woman killed, Jim. That woman is dead because I had to have a story.”
Jim did not let go of her hand but he did not disagree either.
“We’ll get through this. Together.”
“Will we, Jim?”
“Yes”
“How?” Lisa begged.
“We’ll get through this because…” Jim looked deep in her eyes. “Lisa, I love you. You don’t have to say it. I understand it’s fast.”
“Shut up.”
Lisa jumped up from her chair and threw her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him to the floor.
“I love you so much,” she cried. “I’m so happy and I’m so sorry, can you forgive me?”
Jim sighed. If he had answered Alice Edwards’ first call on Christmas morning, she might still be alive and Lisa would not have to bear her guilt.
“Don’t be sorry. If you want me, of all people, to forgive you, then consider yourself forgiven.”
Lisa grabbed Jim hard around the neck and whispered into his ear.
“Thank you. I am going to make you so happy.”
Jim kissed her.
“You already do.”
“But how much I am helping you, just hanging around your place like this?”
He started to laugh, then put on a serious face.
“Well, if you’re feeling guilty, we’ll have to get you a French maid outfit and see what you can do.”
He loved the way she smiled.
Chapter Nine: Death Dance
Day 6: 9:39 p.m.
He entered the lobby of the Arclight with a ticket for the 10:05 showing of Dance With Death, the story of a ballerina who wins her greatest part only to lose her life. He thought that the movie’s theme was ironic, given how many people throughout the Southland had performed a dance of doom to his orchestrations in the past week. He was in line for popcorn when he saw David Swanza ripping the tickets for a young couple that, from the way they were touching each other, were not planning on dissecting the fine points of their chosen flick.
He paid for his meal and walked towards the Ethiopian and handed him his ticket. As they looked into each other’s eyes, Lord saw no sign of recognition from their brief encounter in the alley. He took his stub and walked to theatre seven, knowing that at a little after midnight, in that very room, someone’s dance would be over.
Day 6: 10:16 p.m.
Lisa lay flat on her stomach on Jim’s bed, watching the news that she had once produced. She was touched by Stacy’s report of the Giselle An killing and twice found herself wiping tears from her eyes. She wanted to do something to help, so while Jim finished his shower, she grabbed a copy of the phone book and started to read. She also had not realized how common the names Swan and Swanson were. She was about to look up the commercial listings for the beautiful white bird when she saw the name. Jim entered the bedroom, still drying his hair with a towel, when he saw her on the bed with the white pages.
“See anything interesting?”
Jim nuzzled her playfully.
Lisa giggled, “As a matter of fact, I did, Detective.”
“Please enlighten me.”
Jim walked to his dresser and pulled out a pair of shorts to wear to bed.
“Well,” began Lisa. “There are many Swans in the book and even more Swansons but there is only one Swanza, a David Swanza who lives on Franklin in Hollywood. That would be something Marty would seize upon, wouldn’t it, Swanza swimming, get it?”
Jim raced over to the bed and saw the entry.
Lisa looked concerned.
“What’s the matter? Jim? You talked to him, didn’t you?”
Jim looked at her, then at the page again.
Lisa stood up.
“Are you fucking kidding me? There is a guy named Swanza in the white pages and you guys missed it?”
“You’re the best,” he told her.
Jim grabbed his cell phone and called Captain Jones and then central dispatch; he told them to send everyone available to the Franklin Avenue address of David Swanza. Jim looked at his watch as he put on his clothes. There was still over an hour left to Day 6; maybe this time they could get there on time.
Day 6: 10:35 p.m.
Marty was not enjoying the movie at all; his mind kept wandering as he became more and more fixated on the job ahead. His right hand was now virtually useless, as though it were in a perpetual state of slumber. He shook and shook the lifeless limb, hoping that with an increased blood flow to his extremity, his hand might become functional again, but it wasn’t happening. He imagined a racecar blowing a tire and spinning out into a tailspin just before crossing the finish line. Work, goddamned body, work! Apparently, he was making quite a scene with his hand, as the Ethiopian appeared out of nowhere to see if he was all right.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled. He informed the usher that he was suffering from a severe case of carpal tunnel syndrome and it was acting up.
The Ethiopian was very kind and asked if there was anything that he could do to help.
“Nothing right now, but if you could check back in an hour, it would be greatly appreciated.”
“My pleasure, sir,” said the black man, and he left theatre number seven to continue his rounds.
Day 6: 10:37 p.m.
They were ready this time. There had to be over fifty police officers and federal agents poised to move on the Franklin Avenue home of David Swanza. Jim Jovian stood in the middle of the pack, behind SWAT and the FBI guys. The agents up front knocked loudly on apartment 2B but received no answer. When a second
knock and announcement went unheeded, the SWAT team leader took the key borrowed from the manager and swung open the door. The all-clear call was immediately trumpeted through the ranks.
David Swanza lived in a one-bedroom flat with very few hiding places. Jim entered the apartment as his colleagues turned the place upside-down, looking for signs of trouble. There did not appear to be any signs of a struggle or blood, so if Marty Lord had confronted David Swanza, he didn’t do it there. Jim was about to exit when Captain Jones filled the doorway with his mighty frame.
“Anything?”
Jim looked back at the agents rummaging through David’s home.
“Nothing. Doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. I really thought this might be the next victim,”
“It still might be. Maybe we’re just too late.”
Jim looked at his watch.
“Or too early, Skip, it’s only a quarter to eleven. We still have time.”
“If Swanza is the guy, maybe Lord has grabbed him and is sitting on him,” Captain Jones offered. “Or if it’s ‘Swanza swimming’ has anyone checked on any late-night place where he might be swimming?”