12 Days

by Chris Frank

  It had taken him forever to get home, almost three hours from Hollywood. When he hit the meter maid, it damaged the radiator on his truck and the engine started to overheat on the 10 freeway. He managed to get the truck to a service station and filled the radiator with water, a maneuver that he had to repeat twice more before he was able to reach his own garage.

  He was a mess, and things were just getting progressively worse. He did not know if he had enough drugs to dull the constant pain in his hip and the blinding sensation in his brain. He swallowed half a dozen pills and curled up on the floor. Maybe this is it, he thought. Maybe this is the end of the line. If it was, it could not come soon enough.

  Day 7: 6:35 a.m.

  The act of saving David Swanza was overshadowed by the brutal death of the meter maid. The man had killed again, even when they saved his intended target. Captain Jones had not slept well last night because of this, and he could only imagine Detective Jovian had not, either. Jones had been debating for several days when to play his next card. He realized now that the time had come. He needed all the help he could get in catching this bastard. He called a news conference for 10:00 a.m. He was going to introduce the public to Marty Lord.

  Day 7: 7:45 a.m.

  The stench had become unbearable in the apartment and the other tenants were furious. Several of them had called the super about the smell, only to be told it was probably a dead animal on the roof. But there was no dead animal found there or anywhere else after a thorough search of the property. So why was the smell getting worse? The renters demanded that the superintendent open all the apartments to see if it was maybe a house cat or a bird or a pet lizard. He did not particularly appreciate the smell either and gave in to the communal demand. The residents of the first two apartments answered the door when the super knocked. They too had noticed the smell that upon further investigation appeared to be coming from the apartment leased to the cameraman. When there was no answer to loud and repeated knocks, the super opened the door with his key and was nearly felled by the odor. There on the floor covered in what looked like quick lime and a plastic sheet was the decaying body of Milt Adams.

  Day 7: 8:05 a.m.

  Lisa was still in the shower when Jim got the call. It had been a rough night, and it looked like the morning wasn’t going to get any better. Milt Adams was dead, apparently from a blow to the head. The coroner thought that Milt must have been dead for several days but they couldn’t pinpoint an exact time of death until they got the body to the morgue. When Jim asked if there was anything about the crime scene that could lead to Marty Lord, the officer said that there was nothing out of the ordinary except two drumsticks next to the body that looked like they had been carefully placed, parallel to each other. Jim got it: they formed the number ‘eleven’. He told the officer to leave everything as he found it; he would be there in twenty minutes.

  Lisa entered the bedroom and saw Jim staring at the ground. She sat next to him and put her arm around his shoulder.

  “What’s the matter, baby? So you didn’t catch him. At least David Swanza is alive. He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

  “From what last I heard,” Jim responded.

  “So, then why the long face?”

  “Lisa, it’s Milt.”

  Lisa’s heart skipped a beat.

  “What about Milt?”

  “Milt’s dead. A neighbor found his body this morning. It looks like he’s been dead a couple of days.”

  Lisa stood up.

  “Oh my god, oh my god. I told you, I told you this would happen.”

  “I know you did.”

  “Was it him, was it Marty Lord?”

  “I can’t be sure yet, but it looks like it.”

  Lisa was pale.

  “I told you that something would happen after he took the film. Karma. Stupid son of a bitch.”

  Lisa put her face into her hands and started to cry.

  Jim wrapped his arms around her. There were no words he could think to say at a moment like this. He kissed her on the forehead and told her he would call as soon as he could.

  Chapter Ten: Leap of Faith

  Day 7: 10:00 a.m.

  The news conference started right on time. Captain Robert Jones, Jr. stood behind the lectern in Los Angeles City Hall with the mayor standing directly behind his right shoulder. He removed his prepared speech from his jacket pocket and stared into the myriad cameras that were poised to capture his every word.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Captain Robert Jones, Jr. of the City of Los Angeles Police Department. I have been asked by our mayor to give the fine people of this city an update regarding the rash of murders that has dominated the headlines over the past week. The mayor has convened a joint task force between the police department and the FBI to put an end to these horrific events. After countless hours of diligent phone calls and research, we believe that we have identified the killer. The photograph that will be appearing on your screen right now is our prime suspect.”

  Marty Lord’s picture, posed next to the police artist drawing that Jim Jovian had described, were projected on screens on both sides of the room. That, the captain had been assured, meant the same feed was going out on the TV channels. Satisfied, he continued with his speech.

  “His name is Martin Lord; he is between 35 and 40 years of age. He is a former prop master who has worked at Gower Studios. Mr. Lord has a history of congenital hip dislocation that has left him with a significant limp on his right side. The mayor’s office as well as the office of the police commissioner stand before you today, the people of Los Angeles, to ask for your help. If anyone knows where we can find Martin Lord, if you have seen Martin Lord, please contact this office at the hotline number that will appear on your screen.”

  The captain glanced at the screen – the number was there right on time.

  “Please be advised, Mr. Martin Lord is a very disturbed and dangerous, lethal individual. Do not under any circumstances attempt to approach Mr. Lord. Call the hot line and law enforcement officers will be immediately dispatched. We will find Martin Lord and we will put an end to these killings and our collective nightmare. I thank you for your time and patience, and I look forward to any assistance you may render. We’ll get through this. May God bless us all.”

  Captain Jones did not linger or accept questions from the press. He finished his prepared statement and left the lectern. He had made a promise to the people of Los Angeles; he needed to get to work.

  Day 7: 10:15 a.m.

  Phyllis Crenshaw was delivering her milk products on New Year’s Eve morning when Captain Jones was delivering his speech. Had she seen the broadcast, she might have noticed that Martin Lord bore a striking resemblance to Mickey Deus, who had a house on Apple Road in the Fruit street section of West Covina. Mickey loved large curd cottage cheese. Had Captain Jones told the public that the motivation behind Marty Lord’s reign of terror was to enact a script idea of a killer who picked his victims according to the Twelve Days of Christmas, Phyllis Crenshaw might have realized that on Day 8, her job as a “maid-a-milking” could prove to be very dangerous. But Phyllis had not seen the news that morning because she was doing what she always wanted to do; she was taking care of her customers.

  Day 7: 10:21 a.m.

  The place was swarming with cops, but no press had shown up yet. Lisa sat in her car and stared out at the hubbub that was surrounding Milt’s apartment complex. She had been parked in the exact same spot a few days ago after she had seen the WNN report that led to her dismissal from the KVTM News job. She was so angry at Milt that day for his betrayal, and now here he was, being carried out in a body bag by a coroner’s assistant. Poor Milt, she thought. Poor stupid, greedy Milt. She had seen Jim leave the apartment and drive away. He had only been there a few minutes before he took off. Lisa was confident that Jim had not seen her; she could guarantee that Jim would be pissed if he knew she was there. When the coroner’s van drove away, Lisa started her car, shifted
into drive, and went looking for a place that sold donuts.

  Day 7: 10:43 a.m.

  Milt’s dead and decomposing body was captured in the crime scene photos, and even though Jim was miles away from the actual body, he could still smell the stench lingering in the apartment. He had stopped in Culver City on the way to Parker Center to get a first-hand look. The smell was overwhelming. Milt’s body was in an advanced state of decomposition and after two minutes, Jim called it quits. He grabbed the photos and raced from the apartment as fast as he possibly could. He was comfortable now, in a clean conference room without the stench of death in the air. Poor Milt, Jim thought. He gambled his soul with the devil and the devil won. His head had been crushed from the rear right, with a shovel or something flat. Lying next to his body were two drum sticks, clearly displaying the number ‘eleven’. There was no sign of forced entry, so Milt had to let Marty into his apartment. Why would Milt do that? And why would Milt turn his back to Marty? Jim was asking himself these questions when his cell phone rang. It was the hospital; David Swanza was awake and ready to talk.

  Day 7: 11:21 a.m.

  He awoke from his slumber feeling refreshed. He still had a grapefruit size tumor in his brain, a missing femoral head and a functionless right hand, but he could think when the blinding pain wasn’t present, and he was hungry. He made his way to the refrigerator and ravenously devoured what was left of the cottage cheese before he threw himself down on the couch. He flipped on the television and saw a photo of himself with the pseudonym “Marty Lord” emblazoned in the moving bar at the bottom of the screen. Okay, he thought, the police are upping the ante. It looked like he would have to make some changes to his appearance. He pushed himself off the couch, found his shears, and walked gingerly to the bathroom thinking, Who shall I become now?

  One of the only things that he had inherited from his father that gave him pleasure was the full head of thick black hair. It was the fear of baldness that originally prevented him from opting for chemotherapy as a treatment option for his cancer. But now it had to go. He stared at his image in the mirror. He had snipped and clipped until his head was completely shorn of its luxuriant locks. All of his tresses were in the bathroom sink or scattered along the floor. He did not look like himself, which was good; he decided that he looked like a pirate. He left the bathroom and positioned himself on the couch. Today, he would rest; after all, it was the seventh day.

  Day 7: 11:30 a.m.

  The City of Angels Hospital was located just east of Hollywood, on the south side of the 101 Freeway. David Swanza had been given a private room on the third floor with a police officer standing guard outside in case of a repeat attack. Detective Jim Jovian flashed his badge to the officer in charge and entered David’s room. He found that the victim had his eyes closed, his head turned towards the window. Jim approached the patient and touched his arm gingerly. David Swanza opened his eyes and turned quickly, somewhat fearful.

  “Mr. Swanza, I’m Detective James Jovian. The doctor told me you’re not able to speak, but can you nod your head to answer?”

  David nodded and pointed to his neck. Apparently, the tracheal injury was going to temporarily make him a mute. David pointed to a pen and paper on his nightstand, which Jim quickly retrieved. David wrote down a few words and handed them to Jim.

  “I’m so glad you have the strength to do this.”

  He read the question on the paper.

  “Yes, Mr. Swanza, I was the one who found you in the theater.”

  There were tears in David’s eyes when he grabbed Jim by the hands and silently mouthed the words, ”Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Jim replied. “Mr. Swanza, do you remember anything about the attack? Anything that could help us find the man who stabbed you?”

  David thought for a second, and then began to write.

  Jim read the scribble out loud.

  “He has a bad right hand. How do you know that?”

  David wrote again, then shook his right hand.

  “He kept shaking his right hand as if it was asleep. Okay,” Jim said.

  David grabbed the paper again and wrote.

  Jim read, “It looked like his whole arm was asleep. Mr. Swanza, is there anything else?”

  David shook his head ‘no’, and pointed to his neck.

  “Well, if you do remember anything, ring your buzzer and tell the officer in the hall to call me. I’m going to leave my card right here, next to your pen.”

  Jim sat a business card on the nightstand.

  David looked at Jim and again mouthed “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Hey, congratulations on surviving.”

  The Ethiopian smiled bravely and blinked thanks. Jim smiled in return, then turned and left the room.

  Day 7: 12:34 p.m.

  Phones were ringing off the hook as thousands of concerned citizens called offering support in the search for Marty Lord. It was amazing to Captain Jones that an individual like Marty, who had to have lived in Los Angeles for at least five years, based upon the Gower job, could remain so invisible. No one knew Marty Lord by name. Many people thought that they recognized him but so far every lead was a dead end. How could someone just not exist? It was looking like they were dealing with a pseudonym. That was Hollywood – you could work under an assumed name, and sometimes the paperwork was so sloppy, you could escape getting flagged in the system. Captain Jones walked over to Jim, who had just hung up on a caller.

  “Did you get the pictures from the Culver City murder?” Jones asked.

  “Right here, Captain.”

  Jones briefly scanned the photos.

  “We think this is Marty’s work?”

  “Very likely. We know he killed Alice Edwards because she knew too much. Milt Adams was the guy who connected the murders on WNN. I’m now convinced that Marty is able to adjust his kills on the fly. And then there is this.”

  Jim pointed to the drumsticks.

  “So what does that mean? Eleven drummers drumming?”

  “It fits.”

  “Why would he kill number eleven on day 4 or 5?”

  “Silence of the Lambs.”

  The Captain looked at the detective like he was talking Swahili.

  “Say what?”

  Jim coughed.

  “Sorry, Captain. Marty probably wanted to eliminate Milt for exposing his plan, but couldn’t wait for day eleven. So he kills him and then covers him in plastic with quicklime, so that he won’t be discovered until later on, ideally – in Marty’s mind, anyway – like on the eleventh day. It’s not perfect, but it does work in a twisted sort of logic.”

  “Fine. What does that have to do with Silence of the Lambs?”

  “The villain, Buffalo Bill, killed his first victim, but wanted her body to be discovered third. We covet what we see, that’s what Hannibal Lecter said. Marty saw Milt Adams and coveted him. He tried to make Milt fit into his musical killing scheme.”

  “And this Milt Adams cameraman guy was a drummer?”

  Jim thought back to the day he saw Milt spinning wildly in his chair in the editing bay at KVTM News, air drumming like a madman.

  “Must have been. He had drumsticks.”

  The Captain rubbed his temples as though in pain.

  “Did you go to the hospital and speak to Swanza?”

  Jim nodded.

  “Just got back.”

  “Did he remember anything?”

  “Only that Marty was having difficulty with his right arm.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t know, Skip. Swanza said that his attacker kept shaking his right arm as if it was asleep.”

  Captain Jones rummaged through the pictures that were taken of David Swanza and found one of the wounds.

  “The cut is on the left side of Swanza’s neck. That would mean that if Lord was looking at him, he would need to use his right hand.”

  Jim thought for a moment then began miming the thoughts he was having about the encounter.<
br />
  “Swanza was fairly certain that Marty could not use his right hand. What if Marty was sitting down? Remember, he does have a bad hip. What if he was in front of Swanza and he stabbed upward with his left hand? That could be consistent with the injury and what Swanza saw.”

  “Could be,” agreed the Captain. “I can ask one of my friends over at Cedars what would cause someone to lose control of his arm, see if that could help.”

  “I’ll keep manning the phones,” Jim replied.

  As the Captain turned to walk away, he stopped.

  “What’s next on the list?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “The list. What follows after ‘swans a swimming’?”

  Jim looked at his printout.

  “Maids a milking.”

  “Do you have any ideas about that one?”

  “Not yet, could be a lot of things. Breast-feeding single moms, women who work on dairy farms outside the city, I don’t know. I’ll talk it over with the team and give you a call.”

  “Detective, don’t make me order you to read that rotten screenplay,” the Captain joked.