12 Days

by Chris Frank

  “I know that, Captain, but this is not the time. I’m going to catch this son of a bitch and then we’ll talk.”

  The Captain was silent for a moment before he continued.

  “You were right about the Crenshaw woman,” Jones added. “We found her on the Hyperion Bridge, bound and gagged. She suffocated. Lord duct taped her mouth and nose; she didn’t stand a chance.”

  Jim thought for a second.

  “The cop who almost got run down in the alley, wasn’t that near the Hyperion Bridge?”

  Captain Jones was silent.

  “I think you’re right.”

  “This is twice now near that bridge. Why does he keep going there?”

  “I don’t know. Any thoughts?”

  “No fucking clue, but it’s got to be important to him.”

  “Are you at the hospital?”

  “I’m at the Crenshaw house. I needed to check on my car.”

  This was the second time Jim lied to his captain. He didn’t have to look after his car. He needed to find the invoices that Lisa had in her hands before she was run down like an animal. In those bills was the location of Marty Lord;s home. If Lisa could find it, Jim prayed that he could, too.

  “Call me if anything changes.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  He shut his cell and walked to Phyllis’ front door. He pored through the invoices for close to an hour and found nothing. He told himself it could be the lack of sleep, or maybe the early hour. Or maybe he should just admit that Lisa was smarter than a detective in the Los Angeles Police Department.

  Roy Winston disrupted Jim’s reminiscence.

  “Did you find what you’re looking for?”

  Jim sat back in frustration.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Yeah. I grabbed these invoices from Dairy Farms before the accident. I think that somewhere in these papers is the key to finding Marty Lord.”

  “No shit. What do you want me to do?”

  “The officer in the black and white…”

  “Levins,” Roy volunteered.

  “Right, Levins. Ask him if these were all the invoices that they found. Yes or no, we need to look through this shit and find that bastard.”

  Roy took off.

  Jim sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He had not spoken to the hospital for a while and he hoped that since his phone had not rung, Lisa was okay. He thought back to the accident; he saw her standing at the car, waving the piece of paper. She had it in her hand. Jim turned to the pile of bills that were spread out on Phyllis’ table. None of them had wrinkling, or bloody fingerprints. Where was that other invoice?

  Roy returned.

  “Tell me that you’ve got something.”

  Roy shook his head.

  “Levins said that these were all the papers they found.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Except,” Roy continued, “The one that the girl was holding in her hand.”

  Jim stood up.

  “Are you fucking serious? That’s the one I need! What happened to that one?”

  “Levins said it was covered in blood so they bagged it and took it to the station. The ones on the table, they found in your car.”

  Jim grabbed Roy by the arm.

  “I need to see that invoice.”

  As they were running to the door, Jim’s phone went off. It was the hospital. He stopped in his tracks and answered.

  “Jovian… Yes, very good… I’m on my way.”

  He hung up.

  “Change of plans, amigo?”

  “Yes. Roy, get down to the station and pick up the invoice, then bring it to me at the hospital, okay? I’ve got to get down there now.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  Jim pointed to his car.

  Roy laughed.

  “You got no door.”

  Jim climbed in and started the engine.

  “Who needs a door?”

  Roy tossed Jim a wave as the detective drove away.

  Day 8: 6:58 a.m.

  Marty knew that he was asleep because of the dream. He was ten years old again, finishing his homework in his room, when he heard a knock on the front door. He watched from his bedroom door as his father spoke to the policeman who had found the body. His father did not move a muscle or show any signs of emotion when he was informed that his wife had committed suicide. From what he could hear, apparently his mother was found hanging from a rope attached to a light post on the Hyperion Bridge. His father thanked the police officer for his time and closed the door. He watched the man walk to the kitchen and stand by the stove. His own mind and heart were racing, terrified at the news, but his father did not appear to be effected! He simply calmly stirred the soup that they would be eating that evening for dinner. Marty opened his eyes with a start and looked around. It was a dream, just a dream! He tried to dismiss if from memory, ignoring the tears that were rolling down his cheeks.

  Day 8: 7:02 a.m.

  Jim sprinted into the ICU and found Samantha Kelly, the nurse assigned to Lisa. She had made the call, so she was the first to approach the heavily-breathing detective.

  “Detective Jovian?” she asked.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Nurse Kelly. There was a note on the chart to call you if there was any change in her status.”

  She proffered her hand which Jim shook as he caught his breath.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Samantha answered the question.

  “Right now she’s stable. Her blood count was low so we’re hanging some blood. She coded about an hour ago, but we brought her back.”

  Jim stared at the woman he loved through the window outside of her room. He saw the blood products dripping slowly into her veins and the breathing tube connected to the ventilator that delivered the oxygen to her lungs.

  “Detective Jovian?” Samantha asked.

  “Yes?” Jim responded through his mental haze.

  “We need to inform the next of kin. Do you know who that would be?”

  Jim turned to the nurse and gave her a blank stare. He knew that hospital protocol necessitated contact with an immediate family member in case of life-threatening situations. There were questions that needed to be answered, such as organ donation, do not resuscitate orders, things only a person with medical power of attorney could answer. Jim now not only felt desperation, but stupidity. Not once over the past eight days had he asked Lisa about her family or for that matter, where she was from.

  Jim looked back at Lisa as he answered the nurse’s question.

  “Sorry, we’re just…I have no idea.”

  Samantha stared at her charge through the glass.

  “It took us close to twenty minutes to resuscitate her. I started CPR immediately but there is no way to tell if she has anoxic brain damage until she wakes up.”

  Jim looked at the nurse.

  “Anoxic what?”

  “Anoxic brain damage. When your heart stops, then your brain does not get the oxygen that it needs to survive. If the brain does not get oxygen, it starts to die.”

  Jim turned his eyes downward and said nothing. Samantha had worked in ICU long enough to know that it was time to leave the man alone with his thoughts. She spoke softly as she turned away.

  “I’ll be at the nurse’s station if you need anything.”

  “Thank you,” he said, “for saving her.”

  Samantha smiled a sad smile and touched Jim’s hand.

  “That’s my job,” she said and walked away.

  Jim leaned against the glass. He realized that if Lisa died and Marty Lord got away, the bad guys would win. As a boy watching the movies, he sometimes rooted for the bad guys. Those days were over. Fuck the bad guys, bring my Lisa back to me.

  When Roy arrived at the ICU, he found Jim resting in a chair at Lisa’s side; the new detective was holding the unconscious
woman’s left hand. Roy did not want to disturb his friend but knew that he must. Roy shook Jim gently.

  “Jim,” Roy said, “Hey, Jim. Wake up.”

  Jim opened his eyes then stood up when he saw that Roy had the clear plastic evidence bag in his hands. He grabbed it and hurried out of the room. Jim looked for Nurse Kelly and found her in the next cubicle.

  “Nurse?” Jim called.

  Samantha looked at him and walked in his direction.

  “Yes, Detective?”

  “I need some gloves.”

  Samantha pointed to a box on the nurse’s station. Jim thanked her and ran. After he squeezed his hands into a one size fits all pair of latex gloves, Jim removed the invoice from its protective case. Lisa’s blood nearly covered the evidence. He could barely make out the name and address on the invoice. It looked like M. De... on 276 something. Jim was getting frustrated. He handed the sheet to Roy, who had also donned a pair of gloves.

  “Can you read this?”

  Roy took a look.

  “Let’s see. Looks like M. D-E, I can’t tell whether the next letter is a ‘u’ or a ‘v’.”

  Jim was impatient.

  “Roy, what about the address?”

  Roy held the invoice up against the overhead lights.

  “It looks like 276 something and the last couple of letters for the street are ‘ble’ or maybe, no, ‘ple.’”

  Jim grabbed the invoice again and held it to the light.

  “That would be Apple. Marty Lord lives on Apple Road.”

  Roy chimed in.

  “That’s where the Crenshaw lady lived.”

  “I know. There can’t be that many homes that start with 276. We’ve got to get back there.”

  Jim turned to Lisa. Roy sensed confusion in his colleague. Jim asked his next question to no one in particular.

  “How did Lisa know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That this was the guy. How did she know that M. De… whatever was Marty Lord?”

  As he was getting one last look at Lisa, Jim noticed an elderly priest giving last rites to the poor woman in the room next to Lisa’s. He flashed back to his altar boy days and the answer came to him. Jim turned to Roy.

  “I got it. Marty Lord is a pseudonym. De is Deus, Latin for ‘god’ or ‘lord’. Our killer isn’t Marty Lord, it’s M. Deus. That’s why we couldn’t find him. He changed his name. Deus is his real name.”

  The enormity of this revelation was not lost on Roy.

  “Nice.”

  “I’m going to Apple Road,” Jim said, and trotted off.

  “I’m coming with you!” Roy called out.

  “We’ll call the Captain when we get in the car.”

  They both left the ICU as fast as they possibly could.

  Chapter Twelve: Different Drummers

  Day 8: 7:41 a.m.

  He was eating the last spoonful of cottage cheese when he saw the police vehicle drive slowly past his house. The car did not stop, but he thought he saw the familiar face of the dark-haired man looking to the curb as if he was checking the address. He watched as the cop car parked two houses away. He had just removed the Luger from its resting place when he saw the dark-haired man and another officer exit the car and walk towards his neighbor’s home. This is it, he thought. They were going to have to take him out, for he was not about to go quietly. He walked to the back bedroom and swallowed a handful of pills and took his place on the toilet. This is as good a place to die as any, he thought.

  Day 8: 7:42 a.m.

  Jim had spoken to the Captain on the way to West Covina to update him about the bloody invoice. He told Captain Jones that he and Roy were going to check out all the possible places that could be the Deus home on Apple Road. The Captain sounded frustrated that he couldn’t get out of a breakfast meeting with the mayor. He told Jim that he was sending back up.

  Jim rang the bell at 2761 Apple Road while Roy used the knocker at 2763. The resident at Jim’s location was an elderly woman who apparently loved cats; the smell coming from the house was atrocious and there had to be at least twelve litter boxes in the living room alone. Jim asked the woman a few meaningless questions and quickly left. He walked past Roy, who was busy interviewing a six year-old girl in a plaid school uniform. Jim climbed the front steps at 2765 Apple Road and rang the bell.

  Day 8: 7:43 a.m.

  Ding Dong. Hearing the doorbell, Marty froze. He’s here, he thought; finally he was about to meet the dark-haired man. He checked his gun and steadied it in his left hand, unsure of his options. Should he aim the Luger at the closed bathroom door or at his own head? He still had a few minutes; he would let the moment decide. One thing was certain, somebody was about to die.

  Day 8: 7:44 a.m.

  Jim rang the bell once more and then tried the knocker to no avail. He left the front of the house and walked around the side of the building. As all these houses were about the same. Jim knew that from the rear window he could see directly into the kitchen as he had at Phyllis’ home late last night. As he approached the backyard, Jim was overwhelmed by a sense of déjà vu. He saw Lisa, who was very much alive, waving the invoice in joy. He saw the truck strike her and send her through the air. He then saw himself, as if he were looking down from a cloud, holding Lisa’s bloodied head in his arms and screaming for help.

  Jim cupped his hands and looked in the window but saw no evidence of life. He was about to leave when he noticed an open container of large curd cottage cheese by the sink. The words “Dairy Farms” were proudly displayed on the side of the container. He unholstered his gun and ran to the front of the house. Roy was about to approach the next home on his list when Jim waved him down frantically.

  “Roy, stop!” Jim cried. “Pretty sure this one’s it.”

  He stepped to the front door, listening. Roy took out his gun and stood next to Jim.

  “Should we call it in?”

  “Captain said backup’s on the way. It doesn’t look like anyone’s home. Let’s clear the place.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Jim lowered his voice.

  “On three. One, two, three.”

  Day 8: 7:45 a.m.

  SLAM! Hearing the front door crash open gave him a start. His heart was pounding so hard he figured they could hear it. They’re in, he thought, now it’s just a matter of time. He was shocked to realize that at a moment like this, as he was about to encounter death, his life was indeed flashing before his eyes. He could see his mother hold his hand at the zoo and then perform a similar action at his bedside after the third hip operation in a year at the Los Angeles Children’s Hospital. He remembered wearing a black suit at her funeral and the look of indifference on his father’s face as they lowered her into the ground. And he could see his victim’s faces; Artridge, McDermott, La Pense, all of them, taking their last breath of life, just as he was about to do. When he heard one of the cops enter his bedroom, he made his decision. He raised the Luger and pointed it at the door.

  Day 8: 7:46 a.m.

  Steady and cautious was how this would go. They entered the house, Jim went high and Roy went low, just as they had been trained to do at the academy. The living room was empty and within seconds, they had cleared the kitchen as well. There were two bedrooms down the back hallway; Jim took the one on the left, Roy, the one on the right. When Jim breached the door of his pick, he knew that he had entered Marty’s war room. The walls were covered with photos and newspaper clippings. He saw pictures of Artridge leaving his office in L.A., of Janette McDermott leaving church with her family. There were even pictures of people that he did not recognize. A man named “Big” Jack Larsen was posted under a number 4 written in magic marker on the wall. This must have been the guy that Alice replaced, thought Jim. What a lucky son of a bitch. He went through each day in order, including number ‘nine’, which was a shot of a young girl leaving a strip club. He would have to get this to the Captain and find the girl before Marty did. But there was something odd abou
t the numbers on the wall. The pictures and the numbers stopped at nine; there was no ten, eleven or twelve. Where was the picture of Milt Adams? Why wasn’t it up with the others? But then, there was none of Alice Edwards, either. Curious. Jim would let the team work this out. He wanted to show the room to Roy and then call downtown. He exited the second bedroom and called out to his friend.

  “Roy, you’ve got to see this.”

  There was no answer. The hairs on the back of Jim’s neck started to tingle. He raised his gun and moved stealthily to the master bedroom.

  “Roy?”

  Roy answered, “In here, man.”

  Jim lowered his weapon and entered the room.

  “Jesus, Roy, you scared the shit…”

  Jim swallowed the rest of the sentence as he saw Marty Lord, a.k.a. M. Deus, pointing a Luger directly at Roy’s left temple.