12 Days

by Chris Frank

  Jim Jovian laughed.

  “I’ll double up my efforts, sir.”

  Day 7: 1:33 p.m.

  New Year’s Eve was always a profitable night for exotic dancers in Los Angeles. On a normal night, all the girls would get a cut from the cover charge of $10 per head in any of the more established clubs. On New Year’s Eve, the cover went up to $50 and the cops looked the other way as the owners broke out the hard alcohol for customers. It was illegal for strip clubs to serve alcohol in L.A., except on New Year’s Eve, and the girls got a piece of the liquor take as well. Toni Richardson was never really excited about leaving her kids and going to work, but tonight was an exception. If she could clear a couple of thousand tonight, she would have almost enough to start the summer session at Cal State Dominguez Hills. Toni had high hopes for the coming year; hopes that might actually come to fruition, as long as nothing went wrong. She shuddered, thinking about it. Why did something always seem to go wrong, unexpectedly?

  Day 7: 3:06 p.m.

  Jim sat at his desk in deep thought; he had so many questions that he could not answer. He needed help and he knew who to call.

  “Hello, it’s Lisa.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, baby, how are you?”

  “Better, now that you’re on the phone.”

  “That’s sweet. What time are you coming home?”

  “Early,” Jim replied. “What do you want to do tonight? It’s our first New Year’s Eve; we can do anything you want.”

  Lisa was silent for a moment.

  “I know that this is going to make me sound like I’m an old lady, but can we just stay in? I’m tired with worrying over the job thing and now Milt, I really don’t feel like partying.”

  Jim was pleased.

  “I am perfectly okay with that. I’ll pick up some champagne and a couple of salmon steaks on my way home and we’ll chill. How does that sound?”

  “Delicious.”

  “Lisa.”

  “Yes, sweetheart.”

  “I need you to think about some things for me?”

  “Such as?”

  “Tomorrow is Day 8, which is ‘Maids a milking’. I need to determine who the next target could be and no one seems to be able to get into Marty Lord’s head like you.”

  Lisa was taken aback.

  “Wow. I’m supposed to take that as a compliment, right?”

  “Of course. It’s a skill. Think about it and we’ll talk when I get home.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

  “And Lisa?”

  “Yes, Jim?”

  “I love you.”

  She paused before answering.

  “I love you, too.”

  They hung up simultaneously, both happy. Jim found himself feeling… content. Who knew that something good could come from a string of murders at the turn of the year. It was…sick.

  Day 7: 3:25 p.m.

  Captain Jones was looking at his notes. He had spoken to a golfing buddy who also happened to be the Chief of Neurosurgery at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Jones told the doctor about Marty Lord and about the claim that the killer could not use his right arm. The doctor gave Jones a differential diagnosis for arm weakness that began with carpal tunnel syndrome, passed through a labral tear in the shoulder, briefly touched upon brachial plexus trauma before becoming a herniated disk in the cervical spine, and finally a mass lesion in the brain. As the doctor was a nerve specialist, most of the conversation centered on disorders of the brain and spinal cord. If the patient had a lesion in the left hemisphere of his brain, either a tumor or a bleed, he could easily lose function of an entire extremity, like an arm. The patient might have difficulty with speech and/or with his gait.

  When Captain Jones asked his friend if a patient with a brain lesion could exhibit violent homicidal behavior, the answer was a resounding yes – he would suffer excruciating pain and might seek to share it in a violent manner.

  The Captain thanked the neurosurgeon for his time and pored over the notes. Okay, Marty, thought Jones, we know you have a bad hip and a useless arm, probably the result of something going on in your head. We know so much about you; why can’t I find you? Where are you, Marty Lord? Where the fuck are you?

  Day 7: 4:35 p.m.

  Phyllis Crenshaw put out a saucer of milk for Ms. Kitty and checked the casserole in the oven. Just a few more minutes so the cheese browns and gets nice and crispy, she thought. Phyllis had grown accustomed to being alone on New Year’s Eve, since it was no different than any other lonely night in the world. She was not burdened by her situation; she wore it as a badge of honor. For as much as Phyllis would have loved to have a man in her life, she was content, just her and the cat. She was a middle-aged single woman with a big heart who delivered milk door-to-door and that was just fine. There were other people like her in the neighborhood; other people who were alone. Alice Edwards had lived alone, but Alice was dead now. Mickey Deus lived alone. Oh, he was so sad, Phyllis thought. He was sick and all alone. And suddenly, Phyllis wanted to make a difference that night. As she pulled her tuna casserole out of the oven, she decided to bring it over to Mickey so that they could be alone together. She’d also take over some of the cottage cheese that he liked so much. This will be nice, Phyllis mused. This will be nice, indeed.

  Day 7: 6:06 p.m.

  Lisa opened the bottle of champagne while Jim cooked the salmon. He had been brought up to believe that it was good luck to eat fish on New Year’s Eve, so on the way home, in addition to the salmon steaks, he picked up a squid salad in lemon juice and some pickled herring. Despite the fact that these delicacies from the sea were dietary staples in Judaic households, Lisa was not a big fan of seafood and was really in the mood for baby back ribs. Luckily, Jim had some in the freezer. As they prepared the meal, she handed Jim a flute of White Star champagne and they toasted the future.

  “To us,” Jim said.

  “To us,” answered Lisa.

  Jim turned his attention back to the fish in the pan.

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Did you think about the maids a milking?”

  Lisa acted offended.

  “Detective Jovian, you’re just after me for my brains. I’m a woman. I have a body, too.”

  Jim tossed the spatula aside and grabbed Lisa, pulling her close.

  “And a fine body it is, I might add.”

  They kissed playfully and she pulled away.

  “As a matter of fact, I have thought about it. I started with the personal numbers in the phone book and looked up any name that might come close to Milk or Milking.”

  “We did that, too. There were no Milks or Milkings but there were several Millikens.”

  “Right,” agreed Lisa. “Like that guy who went to jail for selling junk bonds in the eighties. But I looked further and realized that all the Millikens in the phone book were men and we’re looking for a single woman.”

  “Because the victim has to be a maid…” added Jim.

  “Or a maiden. It has to be a woman. So that didn’t work. I then looked in the yellow pages at the business listings at all the maid services, of which there are a lot.”

  “Yeah, we researched the maids and found nothing that linked the maids to milk.”

  “So I focused on the milk and looked up all the dairies and cow farms in southern California and do you know what I found?”

  “What?” asked Jim excitedly.

  “There are a shitload of dairy farms in and around L.A., especially around the Ontario area.”

  Jim shrugged.

  “I know. Ontario always smells like cow shit. How does that help?”

  He noticed that Lisa flinched when he asked his last question. There was a distinct possibility that he might have been a bit too aggressive with his tone of voice.

  “I don’t know.”

  She turned her back.

  Jim knew that he had over-stepped.

  “I’m sorry, you’ve been a huge he
lp. You’re smarter than half the people on the task force and I’m an asshole.”

  Lisa turned back around.

  “Jim, I really want to help, but all of these murders and now Milt, it’s too much.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just that if it weren’t for you, we would still be a day behind Marty. You saved David Swanza, you almost saved Giselle An. I just really believe in you.”

  What could Lisa say at that point? She gave Jim a big hug and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “Jim, I made a list of all the dairy farms I could find. We could take a look at the list after dinner if you want?”

  Jim smiled.

  “I want. Let me finish cooking the salmon and we can look at your list. Now set the table, woman.”

  “Oh, yes, detective. Right away, detective.”

  Lisa did her best imitation of a domestic servant, wiped away a tear, and playfully did as she was told.

  Day 7: 7:07 p.m.

  He kept the room dark; the light increased the intensity of the pain behind his eyes. The only light in his house came from the television that occupied the space next to his front door. He was watching “Jeopardy” when he heard someone knock. This is it, he thought. They found me. He removed the knife from its sheath and was about to slice his wrist when the second knock was followed by the sound of a female voice.

  “Hello, Mr. Deus. Hello?”

  He rose, walked to the door, and opened it a crack.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh Mr. Deus, it’s Phyllis Crenshaw, the milk lady.”

  He fell back against the door. He had already given up on completing his task. He couldn’t walk, he couldn’t use his right hand, all he wanted to do was sit in his apartment and die. Now the milk lady shows up at his front door holding a dish of food. The unmarried milk lady – a maid - comes to him! It had to be a sign, a call to keep going, to continue his quest. He put away the knife and opened the door.

  “Yes, Phyllis, how can I help you?”

  “Hi, Mr.… Oh my, what happened to your hair?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Well, then, anyway, I was alone at home and I made this tuna casserole and I said to myself, Phyllis, you can’t eat that entire casserole by yourself, I bet Mr. Deus would like some. Would you like some tuna casserole, Mr. Deus? I also brought some cottage cheese.”

  He looked at his prey in disbelief.

  “Yes, Phyllis, I would love some tuna casserole. Won’t you please come inside?”

  “Thank you,” replied Phyllis, “I would.”

  He stood aside and let her enter his home. He looked up and down Apple Road to see if anyone was watching. Nothing. When he was convinced that no one had seen them, he closed the door.

  Day 7: 8:25 p.m.

  Lisa had to admit that the meal had been surprisingly tasty. She had a couple of ribs, but Jim’s cooking had won her over. He cooked the salmon with sprigs of dill, which made the orange-colored fish quite delectable. She put the last of the dishes into the sink as Jim tuned the stereo to a local radio station that only played soft jazz. They had finished the champagne and were into a bottle of Hungarian Tokay when they sat at the table to go over Lisa’s list. She had that feeling again; that sensation that she and Jim were crime-solving partners, Nick and Nora Charles for a new millennium. Lisa did not think that at this moment, anything could make her happier. They went though all the names Lisa had copied in great detail, but despite their combined fertile imaginations, nothing would click into place.

  “Maybe, we’re looking at this from the wrong angle,” Lisa said.

  “I’ll bite. What do you have in mind?”

  Lisa stood up and started to pace.

  “We’ve looked at all the names, and at all the plays Marty could make on the names.”

  “Yes, we have,” Jim agreed.

  “And we got nothing.”

  “Zip.”

  “There are fifty or sixty dairy farms in the phone book, but how does a farm come into play? Marty isn’t going to kill some woman on a farm, it’s not clever enough.”

  “Okay,” Jim said. “Go on.”

  “Let’s focus on the words themselves: maids a milking. Maybe we should be looking for a milkmaid.”

  Jim frowned.

  “We saw the names under Milk. There isn’t anyone named Milkmaid.

  “No, the job itself.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Milkmaid, what the fuck is a milk maid?”

  “I don’t know? Someone who works with cows?”

  “No, someone who works with milk. For example, there is a lady who drives a milk truck in my neighborhood. I always see her when I go for a run in the morning. She would be someone Marty would jump at. Especially if he is familiar with the West Covina area like we thought from the beginning.”

  Jim thought about this. On the morning that Alice Edwards was killed, he had seen a woman delivering milk stop to look at him when he was busy cleaning his teeth.

  “You could be right. It’s a stretch, but it does fit Marty’s modus operandi. Do you know the milk lady’s name?”

  “No,” answered Lisa, “I don’t get my milk delivered.”

  “What about the company? Do you know the name of the company she works for?”

  Lisa thought for a second and closed her eyes. She could see the truck as if it were directly in front of her.

  “Dairy something, Dairy…Dairy… Dairy Farms. She works for Dairy Farms.”

  “Wow,” said Jim, “That’s an original name.”

  “I didn’t name it.”

  “Do you have a number for Dairy Farms on your list?”

  Lisa rummaged through the papers that were strewn on the table and came up with one.

  “Here it is. There are two numbers. One is in 909 area code.”

  “That’s probably the main number for the farm in Ontario.”

  “And a 323 number.”

  “That’s West Covina. Let’s try that one and see what we can come up with.”

  Lisa saluted.

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “At ease, young lady. Can you get ready if we need to make a short road trip?”

  Lisa smiled.

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “I can’t leave my date alone on New Year’s Eve, can I? I’ll call the dairy. Go get yourself cleaned up.”

  Lisa threw her arms around his neck and kissed Jim hard on the lips. She bounded across the kitchen floor and into the bedroom. Jim loved the fact that Lisa was so happy. He picked up the phone and dialed the number from Lisa’s list.

  Day 7: 9:15 p.m.

  He sat at the kitchen table and put another forkful of tuna casserole into his mouth. He had to commend Phyllis, it was very good, but she would never hear the compliment since she was reclining awkwardly on the couch. The chloroform had sent her into a deep sleep, which was good because with his useless right arm, it took him a good twenty minutes to get her duct taped. Moving her was going to be a problem, as Phyllis Crenshaw was not a small woman. He definitely couldn’t carry her and he did not think dragging her was an option. He had taken another bite of tuna when he saw his wheel chair in the corner. Of course, he thought, I finally have a use for that thing.

  Day 7: 9:46 p.m.

  Jim and Lisa pulled into the parking lot of the Dairy Farms home delivery center at a quarter to 10:00 on New Year’s Eve. Jim shut off the engine and was preparing to exit the car when Lisa grabbed his arm.

  “Jim, I can stay here if you want.”

  “Are you kidding? Let’s go.”

  He walked to the passenger side door and opened it for his girlfriend. She got out of the car and grabbed his hand.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Lisa, every good idea I’ve had in this case has been your idea. Every lead, you gave me. At this point, I want you next to me all the time. The milk delivery truck is your call; let’s see if you can go three for three.”

  Lisa grabbed
Jim’s hand and they walked into the building. As it was New Year’s Eve, Dairy Farms only had a skeleton crew working. Only the fact that Dairy Farms delivered milk 365 days a year gave Jim and Lisa the opportunity to see anyone at all this night, and that someone was Brian Loring, the night dispatch manager for Dairy Farms home delivery. He had been at his job for two and a half years. Brian knew all the drivers and had access to every client. He had taken Jim’s call and invited him to the plant to look around, saying that he would help in any way he could. Jim flashed his badge, made his introductions and got right down to business.

  “So Brian, we’re trying to locate a woman who delivers milk for your company in West Covina.”