12 Days

by Chris Frank

  Deus moved close to Roy as they approached the exit.

  “Take that exit on the right.”

  “Terminal Island?”

  “We’re taking the bridge,” Deus answered.

  Terminal Island was an artificial creation within Long Beach Harbor. It had a long and storied history including having formerly been known as Rattlesnake Island, the home of first and second generation Japanese-Americans prior to World War II. With the outbreak of that war, Terminal Islanders were put in internment camps and their residences were burned to the ground. The island could be accessed from the west by the Vincent Thomas Bridge, which happened to be the third longest suspension bridge in California. Knowing the Luger was right behind his back ready to fire, Roy simply paid the toll and proceeded towards their still secret destination. When they were close to the halfway point of the bridge, Deus leaned forward and spoke to Roy.

  “Stop the car.”

  “What?”

  “Stop the car now.”

  Roy checked the rear view and side mirrors, then hit the brakes and skidded to a halt.

  “Good. Now turn it and block both lanes of traffic.”

  Roy didn’t question the command; he just did as he was told, which did not please the truckers who had unfortunately paid their tolls after Roy. The police car swerved sideways and parked, drawing honking horns and shouts immediately.

  “All right, gentlemen, let’s get this party started,” Deus said with a smile. “Roy, get out of the car slowly. Jim, stay right there.”

  Roy mumbled beneath his breath as he used both hands to lift his damaged left leg.

  “Slowly, he says, slowly. I got half a fucking foot left and he wants me to go slowly.”

  Deus was standing at Roy’s door waiting for him.

  “Any more complaints, Roy?”

  “No.”

  Deus was glad.

  “Good. We’re coming for you, Jim.”

  As killer and the gimp cop were walking around the rear of the police car, an angry trucker approached the pair with his arms extended, as if in prayer.

  “Hey, officer, give me a break. It’s New Year’s Day. I want to go home. Just let me get through and make my delivery, huh?”

  As Roy opened Jim’s door and the detective struggled to exit, Deus turned towards the man and looked him straight in the eyes. With the calmness of someone without a care in the world, he raised his Luger and pumped two rounds into the trucker’s chest. The man fell to the ground with a look of disbelief on his face. As Roy and Jim yelled out protests, they found the Luger pointed at their faces.

  “Okay Jim, let Roy lean on you. Good. Now walk,” ordered the killer. “Stop when we get to the middle. Everyone will be here soon; I want to be ready.”

  Day 8: 9:59 a.m.

  Captain Jones was speeding down the 110 with his sirens blaring when his radio crackled into life.

  “Attention all units, we have reports of shots fired on the Vincent Thomas Bridge. Civilian down. All units, repeat, shots fired on Vincent Thomas Bridge. Proceed with caution.”

  Jones grabbed the mike and screamed over the multitude of ‘rogers’ that were bombarding his ears.

  “This is Captain Jones. I need SWAT, eyes in the air, everyone in and around Long Beach at that bridge. This is our serial killer and I think that he has one of us.”

  Jones threw down the mike and drove like the wind.

  Day 8: 10:02 a.m.

  “I think this is going to be a beautiful day.” Deus said as he looked out over the deep blue Pacific. “Why don’t you fellows grab a seat?”

  Defiantly, the angry policemen remained standing.

  “Have it your way,” Deus said.

  He moved about ten feet away from his captives and looked towards the south.

  “The Catalina ferry leaves from right over there,” he said to no one in particular. “I used to go there with my folks when I was a kid.”

  Jim could not keep silent any longer.

  “As much as I’d love to take a tour down memory lane with you, Mickey boy, I’m more concerned how this story will end.”

  “As all stories do, detective, sadly and with tears.”

  Jim laughed.

  “All stories don’t end in tears.”

  The killer took a little time before responding.

  “Mine do.”

  The sound of police sirens and helicopters whirring in the distance were growing closer. Deus shaded his eyes and looked north.

  “There,” he pointed. “The guests have arrived.”

  Two police helicopters were now within view as well as the air unit dispatched by KVTM News.

  “Oh good,” Deus said, “The press is here too. Perfect. Now we can get started.”

  He moved slowly towards the railing on the bridge’s south side. He was taking off his jacket when he heard a deep baritone voice advancing up the bridge.

  “Marty, Marty Lord. This is Captain Robert Jones from the Los Angeles Police Department. It’s over, Marty. Come on in; it doesn’t need to end like this.”

  At this point, Deus had completely removed his jacket. He stood proudly, wearing a bright white shirt with some stencil work on the front. In a striking shade of black, emblazoned across Marty’s shirt was the number ‘ten’. Marty climbed to the edge of the rail and turned to the Captain.

  “Of course it does, Captain; just listen to the song.”

  The killer waved at the KVTM helicopter, beckoning it to come closer. As the copter pilot heeded the request, Deus pointed to his shirt and then turned to Jim.

  “Detective Jovian, it was a pleasure meeting you. I am truly sorry about the girl in your car, but in war there is always collateral damage.”

  “She’s going to be all right,” Jim said calmly, beginning to walk toward the man with the gun. “But how about you?”

  “Jovian, stay back!” yelled the captain.

  Jim shot him a smile and a wink, then turned back to Deus as he approached.

  “Mickey, think about this…” He called out to his boss, “It’s Deus, sir. His real name is Mickey Deus.”

  The killer was getting confused, not sure what to think about the detective’s approach. Waving his gun back and forth from Jim to the Captain, he somehow managed to balance himself on the southern rail of the bridge.

  “You didn’t catch me, Detective Jovian! It’s over only because I say it’s over!”

  Jim was within a couple of steps.

  “But Mickey, think about it! You could go to prison for life! You’d be able to watch the movie about you. Like Charles Manson, man! Famous!”

  Through the throbbing haze of pain and insanity in the drugged-out cancer riddled brain of Marty Lord, the thought gave him pause. For a fleeting instance, the lure of Hollywood took hold, the greedy claws of infamy masquerading as fame and importance wrapped around his brain.

  That was all Jovian needed. He leaped with both feet, screaming like an infuriated beast, and drop kicked the killer off the railing and toward the sea below, the Luger going off but bullets hitting no one. Jim landed on his back on the railing, his body teetering toward oblivion as he scrambled for balance. Then the strong hands of the police captain grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to safety.

  “You crazy son of a bitch!” yelled Captain Jones. “You could have killed yourself!”

  Jim caught his breath and struggled to his feet as the captain unlocked the handcuffs. Jim rubbed his raw wrists as he looked up with a satisfied smile.

  “Sir, I was trying to capture his gun with my feet. Sorry about that.”

  The captain stared at his detective.

  “Why in the hell did you do that?”

  “Accuracy,” Jim responded.

  He stepped to the edge of the bridge and looked over. Mickey Deus’s body was floating below.

  “What!?”

  “Lord’s a leaping. His name wasn’t really Lord, so I couldn’t let him leap. He needed to be pushed.”

  Roy had mana
ged to hop over to their location, but his face was wracked with pain.

  “Thanks, Jim,” he said, then promptly passed out onto the pavement.

  The camera in the KVTM copter caught the killer’s entire downward journey, including the explosion of the body against the icy cold Pacific Ocean. Several Coast Guard vessels rushed in to quickly collect the remains of the “Birdman of West Covina” who had proven he couldn’t fly.

  The squad car Roy had been driving was being towed away, back down the bridge. An officer directed traffic, clearing the cars and trucks that had been stalled. At the bottom of the bridge, traffic was being directed away.

  “The madness is finally over,” the Captain said as emergency medics rolled Roy on a stretcher toward an ambulance. Jim followed as the Captain spoke to Roy before he was loaded into the ambulance.

  “Good work today, Officer Winston.”

  Roy grimaced.

  “Thanks, Captain, all in the line of duty.”

  Jones smiled.

  “Take care of that foot. If L.A. ever gets another pro football team, they’ll need a kicker.”

  Roy smiled.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Jones shook Roy’s hand then fixed his gaze upon the emergency medical technician.

  “Take him to Huntington Memorial. He lives in West Covina. I want his family close by.”

  The technician nodded.

  “You got it, Captain.”

  Roy was loaded up, the rear doors of the ambulance were closed, and off they went.

  Jones turned to Jovian.

  “How are you holding up?”

  Jim shrugged as he rubbed his wrists.

  “Not bad. Can’t hear much out of my left ear from the gun shot in the car. Wrists are sore. I never knew how uncomfortable these things are.”

  Captain Jones laughed.

  “What did you expect, Jovian? They’re for the bad guys. They’re supposed to be uncomfortable.”

  They were walking toward Jones’ squad car.

  “You got here fast,” Jim said. “Guess you found the house.”

  Jones nodded.

  “Officer Levins helped. He found your cell phone ringing on the living room floor there.”

  The Captain got in the backseat of his car. Jim got in behind him.

  “So my phone, where is it?”

  The Captain’s driver reached into the glove compartment and retrieved Jim’s phone. Jim grabbed it and checked the call logs. He sighed when he saw that he had not received any messages from the hospital. He turned to his Captain.

  “Have you heard anything from Huntington?”

  The Captain shook his head.

  “I could check with my office but I haven’t heard anything.”

  “How did you know about the bridge?” Jim asked as they pulled away. “How did you know to come here?”

  Jones smiled as the car negotiated through the police barricades.

  “Levins found some pictures of bridges in the creep’s bedroom. I was looking at the photos when I remembered that nine was the last number on the wall. Then it dawned on me; Marty Lord was number ten. Marty was the ‘lord a leaping’ and it had to be a bridge tall enough to get the job done, ergo the Vincent Thomas Bridge.

  Jim was impressed.

  “Nice work, Captain.”

  “You think I made this rank for my classic good looks?”

  Jim smiled for the first time that day. There was a pause before he spoke again.

  “What about number nine, the dancer? Is she okay?”

  Jones smiled.

  “She’s fine. I got the call on my way here. A couple of the boys found her at home with two screaming kids in the backyard.”

  “Well, that’s good news,”

  “Yes, it is,” Jones agreed.

  Jim sat in silence and looked out the window.

  “Something bothering you, Detective?”

  “Something doesn’t add up.”

  “What’s that?” the Captain asked.

  “Milt Adams,” Jim began. “Number eleven. There were no pictures and no eleven on that board in the killer’s house.”

  Captain Jones thought for a second.

  “I didn’t see any pictures of Alice Edwards, either.”

  “Well, she was an add-on.”

  “So was Adams,” Jones added.

  “Yeah, guess so.”

  They were on the Harbor Freeway now. The Captain tapped on the driver’s shoulder and he gunned it, lights flashing.

  “Put your thoughts in the report. I need to get back to City Hall to meet the mayor and you need to get back to the hospital. I’ll have Levins bring your car to the hospital.”

  “Thanks, Captain.”

  “Oh, and Jim.”

  Jovian looked towards his superior officer.

  “Don’t you ever do something as crazy as that insane flying kick execution of a serial killer asshole again, you hear me?”

  Jim smiled.

  “Yes, sir. Wouldn’t think of it.”

  Day 8: 3:05 p.m.

  Jim sat in the chair next to Lisa’s bed, their hands linked. Their hands had remained entwined since Jim had arrived in the ICU three hours before. Every now and then, Jim could feel Lisa squeeze his fingers, but as she was on a continuous narcotic drip, her movements were rare and never sustained. Jim was watching television when Samantha entered the room.

  “Detective Jovian?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s doing remarkably well for the amount of trauma she sustained.”

  Jim rose and addressed the nurse.

  “I want to thank you for all you did today.”

  Samantha looked confused.

  “Excuse me detective, but isn’t it me who should be thanking you?”

  Jim looked at her, puzzled.

  “For what?”

  Samantha smiled.

  “I heard from you were the guy who caught the Birdman. Is that true, did you catch him?”

  Jim looked to Lisa, who probably had more insight into the mind of the killer than anyone associated with the case.

  “I was just one of the guys. There were a lot of people who helped bring Mick… Marty Lord down.”

  Samantha would not be denied.

  “But that was you on the bridge today kicking him into the water, wasn’t it? I saw you on the television.”

  “Yes, that was me.”

  “Well then, Detective Jovian, you are a hero. And if you want my advice, I’d suggest you get used to people thinking that.”

  “Okay,” Jim said.

  Samantha peeked back at Lisa.

  “I’ll see you in a little bit, sweetie.”

  Then she turned back to Jim.

  “Have a good night, detective; try to get some sleep.”

  Jim waved goodbye and sat back down at Lisa’s side and watched her sleep. There she was, Jim thought, the woman he loved, resting peacefully and very much alive. The doctor had removed the endotracheal tube and she was now breathing on her own. Jim could not believe that he could ever be happier than he was right now. He stood up to stretch when he felt something in his back pocket. He removed a piece of paper; it was the cheat sheet that Captain Jones had given to all the members of his task force. Jim sat down and read through the lyrics that had caused such terror over the past week. The words were so innocent, so symbolic to the church and Marty had tried to ruin them forever.

  He was reading the list, focusing on the days that Marty had fortunately missed, when he saw it. He saw what had been bothering him for so long. He turned to Lisa.

  She was suddenly awake, and looking at him intensely, like she was reading his mind. When she saw the panic in his eyes, she whispered,

  “I told you I was sorry.”

  Jim found his next breath stuck in his throat. She was talking about Milt. Mickey Deus never reacted when Jim brought up Milt’s name. The killer looked confused when Jim told him that there were nine murders. Mickey/Marty thought that there were on
ly eight. He had been so meticulous in his planning. He would never have put the number eleven in drumsticks next to Milt’s dead body because there never were eleven drummer’s drumming. It was “twelve drummers drumming” and “eleven pipers piping.” The screenwriter turned killer wouldn’t have made that mistake.

  Lisa, his beloved Lisa, had killed Milt Adams and tried to make it look like Marty did it. Why didn’t he see it earlier? How would Marty know that Milt played the drums, even air drums? He and Lisa watched Milt play that morning in the editing bay. The quicklime and the plastic sheet; that was Lisa’s attempt to delay the discovery of Milt’s body just like Buffalo Bill had done in Silence of the Lambs. Jim put his head in his hands. He heard Lisa whisper the same question that he couldn’t answer before.