by Chris Frank
“Not that I know of…”
“Well, if Lord isn’t sitting on the guy, where the fuck is he? It’s almost midnight.”
“Don’t know, Captain. Maybe he’s out on a date, grabbing dinner. Maybe he’s at a late movie or sleeping over at his girlfriend’s house.”
Jim was clearly frustrated.
“What do we know about this Swanza?” asked the Captain.
Jim looked at his notes.
“Not much. He’s got no criminal record, he doesn’t own a car, but he has a driver’s license.”
“Do we know what he does for a living?”
“We got nothing so far. He’s from Africa. Maybe he’s a gypsy cab driver,” Jim said.
“I’ll put aside the racist overtone and we can start with that; contact all the cab companies and pass his photo around. Maybe he’s working tonight. Hopefully we can get a hit.”
“Okay, Skip. I’ll set it up. I’m going to ask the neighbors a few questions; see if they know anything about him.”
For the first time, Jim noticed a round sheaf of papers in the big man’s hand.
“What’s that you’re holding.”
The Captain snorted derisively and unfolded the papers.
“It’s what supposed to be a screenplay. Written by one Marty Lord, about a serial killer.”
“Where’d you get that?
The Captain looked around and then leaned close to Jim.
“I know some people at the Writer’s Guild. Helps to be Captain.”
Jim laughed.
“Well, is it any good?”
The Captain winced.
“It’s terrible. And there’s a fake address on the title page and registration. This script is so bad, if they made this movie, I’d find the guy that wrote it and kill him myself.”
He rolled the script back up.
“So let’s find this Swanza guy.”
Captain Jones turned on his heel then turned back.
“Oh, detective.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nice work. You continue to surprise me.”
“Thank you, Captain, sir.”
Jim didn’t have the nerve to tell his boss that all the credit should be going to his girlfriend. Maybe she should be the detective, he thought. Jim grabbed his pen and notebook and went downstairs and knocked on the door to apartment 1A. A tall, thin Hispanic man with a dancer’s body answered the door.
“Good evening, sir, I’m Detective James Jovian of the Los Angeles Police Department. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
The dancer looked at him askance.
“What’s this all about?”
“I wonder, sir, do you know your neighbor, David Swanza?”
“Yes, did he do something?”
Jim did not like the dancer.
“No, sir, he did not.”
The resident of 1A put his hands on his hips.
“Well, then why is 5-0 busting in his place and making all this ruckus on a Sunday night? Some of us have to work in the morning.”
“I’m aware of that sir. What can you tell me about Mr. Swanza?”
The dancer gave Jim a harrumph.
“He’s a quiet guy, he never plays loud music, and he has a bird. The landlord won’t let us have pets, but I never considered a bird to be a pet, do you?”
Jim ignored the question.
“Do you know what Mr. Swanza does for a living?”
“I know that he works at night. I usually hear him coming home around 1:00, 1:30 in the morning.”
“Do you know where he works?”
“No, but he wears a uniform.”
Jim’s eyebrows rose.
“What kind of uniform?”
“I don’t know. One of those red velvet numbers, with the tassels on the sleeves. And he has a hat.”
Jim was pressing now.
“Red velvet uniform and a hat. Like a uniform that a doorman would wear?”
“I suppose, can you please tell me what this is about?”
“We think he could be a potential murder victim.”
The man looked terrified.
“I’m sorry, that’s all I know about him. Except, he’s always talking about movies. Is there anything else?”
“Thank you sir, you’ve been very helpful.”
Jim left the dancer and hustled back to David’s apartment. He saw the female fed with the hair in a severe bun and touched her on the arm.
“Hey.”
“Hey, back.” She smiled
“Did you find anything?”
“Not much, what about you?”
“The pixie from across the hall says that Swanza works at night and wears a red velvet uniform with a hat.”
“Like a limo driver?”
“I’m thinking doorman, but there aren’t that many of those in Hollywood. If that guy was right, Swanza should be returning from work in a little over an hour.”
Jim glanced around the room.
“Did you find anything that would point to a hotel or an apartment complex where the guy could be working?”
“Nothing so far, but I’ll keep looking.”
“Thanks, will you call me if you find something?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, I owe you.”
Jim smiled at the agent.
“Hey, I’m going to get a coffee, did you want one?”
“Sure, that would be nice.”
Jim left in search of a store that sold hot coffee, thinking he’d like to drown Marty Lord in a giant pot of java and Juan Valdez his ass.
Day 6: 11:21 p.m.
Marty Lord exited the men’s room with a urine stain on his pants. The doctor had warned him that at some point, he would lose bowel and bladder control, but that was not the case yet. No, he could not control his stream because he could not extract his penis from his pants fast enough due to his useless right hand. He covered the stain with the front flaps of his white Oxford button down shirt and made his way back to the second to last row of theatre seven. As he took his seat, he saw the Ethiopian sitting in the row behind him, hat on his lap, apparently eating some red licorice. He’s making it easy for me, he thought. He turned his attention back to the screen.
Day 6: 11:24 p.m.
Jim held the two cups of coffee in his hands as he entered the Swanza abode. He handed his new friend her cup and they toasted each other in silence. Jim started the conversation.
“Well?”
“Nothing. If this guy is a doorman, I can’t figure out where he works.”
Jim sighed in exasperation.
“Hey, it was worth a shot. Hopefully, he’ll come walking into his apartment any minute and all will be well.”
“Let’s hope. And thanks for the coffee.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Jim paused. “So do we know anything new about Mr. Swanza?”
“Really not very much,” the agent said. “He does not own a suit. He has three pairs of shoes, including the ones I assume he is wearing. He has a pet bird and a bed with no bed frame.”
“Sketchy.”
“He likes the movies.”
What the dancer had said. Jim looked around the apartment. He saw a 29-inch black and white television on the kitchen counter, but no cable box, no DVD player and no DVD boxes. He turned to the agent.
“How do you know that?”
“Ticket stubs.”
She stepped over to a bookshelf and handed Jim a glass fish bowl, half-filled with torn movie tickets.
“There has to be at least one hundred and fifty stubs here. Movies are expensive. I don’t know how he affords it.”
Jim looked through the stubs, some of which were for the same movie two or three times. And every one was from the Arclight Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. The light bulb of recognition flashed.
“He didn’t pay to see these movies.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look at these.”
He proffered a group of three stu
bs.
“These three tickets are for the 7:55 showing of The Redeemed. Look at the date.”
She looked.
“They’re all the same date.”
“He wasn’t seeing the movies, he was working the movies. The uniform. David Swanza is an usher at the Arclight Theatre!”
Jim turned to the remaining agents left in the apartment.
“Listen, everyone, shut it down. We need to go to the Arclight Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. We need to go now!”
Jim led the cavalry out of the apartment building on Franklin and toward the bright lights of Hollywood Boulevard, a mile and a half away.
Day 6: 11:25 p.m.
Marty Lord turned to look over his left shoulder to make sure that the Ethiopian was still behind him. There he was, eating his snack and enjoying the movie. He knew that he should wait another thirty minutes, but he was uncomfortable tonight. Something told him to get the job done and get out of there. He reached into his left boot and removed the hunting knife and put it below his left thigh. He raised his left hand to get the Ethiopian’s attention.
“Pssst,” he whispered. “Pssst, could you help me?”
The Ethiopian looked around and reluctantly rose from his seat and approached the customer. He leaned forward to hear the request. The customer then, with his left hand, thrust the hunting knife up into the usher’s neck, slicing open a small portion of his trachea and the left carotid artery. The Ethiopian fell back into a seat, grabbing his throat in an attempt to stop the bleeding, while he gasped for air.
Marty wanted to stab the Ethiopian again, but the gurgling and rustling sound that was emanating from the Ethiopian had caused several of his fellow moviegoers to turn around and admonish the combatants to be quiet. He stood and limped out of theatre number seven to the lavish lobby of the Arclight. He had just exited the escalator when he saw the dark-haired man lead twenty law enforcement officers into the lobby. Marty stood there, frozen in place, expecting to be apprehended, but the police and the dark-haired man did not notice him. They were fixated by the schedule of movies that were still in progress, directly above his head. He averted his eyes and ducked into the men’s room immediately behind him.
Day 6: 11:26 p.m.
The general manager approached Jim and the agents, introducing himself with a look of terror on his face.
“Can I help you?”
Jim flashed his badge.
“Do you have a David Swanza working here tonight?”
“Yes…”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know…”
Jim grabbed the manager by a lapel of his red velvet jacket.
“Sir, it’s a matter of life and death!”
The manager gasped.
“He could be anywhere. We have fourteen movies playing. He could be in any one of them.”
Jim let the man go and turned to the agents.
“Split up. Everyone take a theatre. We’re looking for a tall thin black man wearing a red velvet suit. He shouldn’t be hard to find.”
Jim turned back to the manager.
“I need you to stop all the movies and turn on all the lights.”
“Why?”
Jim was furious.
“If you don’t stop asking questions and do as I say, I’m going to shove that flashlight you have pinned to your belt so far up your ass that you’ll taste metal! Got me?”
“All right, all right, let me see what I can do.”
Jim bolted up the escalator just as the 9:55 showing of My Scissor Sister, let out. The moviegoers had spilled into the foyer, making it difficult for the law enforcers to maneuver. Jim looked at the theatres around him, trying to determine where to look. He thought of the song line, “seven swans a swimming” and ran towards theatre ‘seven’. He threw open the door and looked around at the same time that the lights went up. Jim saw the blood on the floor first and then the body of the thin Ethiopian man on the floor, holding his neck with both hands. He ran to David and found to his great relief that the man was still alive but had lost a lot of blood. Two women were screaming, and patrons were cowering back from the scene.
“In here!” Jim bellowed, and several of the officers came running. “He’s still alive, call an ambulance.”
Jim jumped up and ran toward the lobby. He was leaving theatre seven when his fed friend stopped him.
“Jim! Where are you going?”
“He’s still here! Marty Lord, he’s still in the building.”
Jim ran to the lobby and called to the manager.
“Lock the doors! Don’t let anyone in or out!”
Please still be here, Jim prayed as he took off running, please still be here.
Day 6: 11:29 p.m.
That was close, he thought, as the doors locked behind him. A few seconds more and that would have been it. I wonder if he saw me, that cop from the Fruit streets. The dark-haired man was smarter than Marty had anticipated. He hurried along Hollywood Boulevard, glancing down at the names of the famous and not so famous that managed to be immortalized with a star on the Walk of Fame. He was more famous than any of them, at least for the moment. He was on the front page of every newspaper, on the lips of every citizen in Los Angeles. He deserved a star!
He walked slowly to Ivar, not only to not attract attention, but because his hip was on fire. When he reached his truck, he saw the ticket on the front window. He grabbed it and briefly scanned it before crumpling it and tossing it to the ground. He was in the driver’s seat when the meter maid came running at his truck. She must have matched my license plates, he thought.
“Stop!” she cried out. “Someone help! It’s him, it’s the killer!”
People were stopping to look as she continued to yell. And then she was calling it in; cops would be there any minute. With the dexterity normally reserved for a man with two functioning hands, Marty threw the truck into drive and accelerated directly at the ticket-happy public servant. Like a doe seeing headlights for the first time, the meter maid froze. She stood completely still as the grill and front bumper of the Ford truck lifted her off the ground and crushed her against the blue and white one seater that she called her “wheels”. He heard a scream from behind, then calmly reversed the truck, dislodged his passenger and disappeared quickly into the Hollywood night.
Day 6: 11:52 p.m.
What a night. We were so close to nailing his ass, Jim thought as he watched paramedics wheel the injured David Swanza out of the theatre on a gurney. Mr. Swanza had lost a lot of blood, but it looked as though he was going to pull through. Jim had saved his life, and for the first time denied Marty Lord a verse in the song. He wondered what Lord had in mind, drowning Swanza in a pool of blood and leaving his body to float?
Captain Jones clapped a hand on Jim’s shoulder.
“Swanza was a good call. You should be proud of yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re not though, are you?”
“We missed him. He was right here, Captain, and the slippery son of bitch got away again.”
The Captain looked at the large group of moviegoers being questioned in the lobby.
“Sure he’s not over there?”
Jim looked over the crowd.
“No, I know what he looks like, remember? He probably got out with the crowd that was leaving when I first got here. I should have locked the theatre down before I went looking for Swanza.”
The Captain shook his head.
“Swanza would have died if you didn’t find him when you did.”
The general manager approached Jones and Jovian.
“I have the surveillance tape of the lobby queued up in my office if you are ready, detective.”
The captain and the detective walked to the manager’s small office and squeezed their frames behind the desk. The manager hit the play button and the lobby of the El Capitan Theatre came into view. They watched the footage at triple speed until they saw Marty Lord descending on the escalator. It was l
ike a bad movie, when in slow motion they watched Detective Jim Jovian and twenty agents stand ten feet in front of Marty Lord, not seeing him as their gaze was fixed on the movie schedule above the killer’s head. Marty calmly entered the bathroom as Jim and his cohorts spread throughout the theatre. Ten seconds later, Marty exited the men’s room, mingled into a crowd and disappeared from the TV screen.
Captain Jones mumbled some curses, and turned to Jim.
“Go home, detective, get some rest.”
Day 7: 2:24 a.m.