Sons of a Brutality

by Daniel Jeudy

  “Are you Angela Brown?” Addison asked in a sympathetic tone.

  She nodded slowly. “Yes … Yes, I am.”

  “I’m Detective Addison Mowbray, and this is my partner, Detective Jed Perkins. Would it be all right if we came inside to speak with you, Angela?”

  “I guess so,” she replied. “Come on in.”

  The detectives followed her down a narrow hallway and into a spacious living area where they watched her slump down into a mahogany chair.

  Addison took a seat on a sofa opposite and pondered whether he should make arrangements to come back another time. The woman’s heartache was inescapable. Her only available options were to ride with the pain or ingest something to circumvent her mind.

  Angela appeared waifish and unkempt as if she’d spent the past few months couch surfing. Her purple nail polish, nose piercing, and handcrafted silver jewelry displayed the neighborhood’s alternative sway. Dressed in a pair of faded track pants and a black T-shirt, she seemed indifferent to how she presented herself.

  The living room was decorated with an Asian flair. A Japanese wall mirror was encircled by Shinto dancing masks and charcoaled sketches of geisha girls. Photographs of flooded rice fields were displayed on a bookshelf, and a red rug covered a large portion of the white tiled floor. A coffee table that divided the space between them was littered with magazines and papers, diverging from the neatness so prevalent throughout the house.

  Addison studied the various artworks, wall hangings, and ornamentation on display, thinking of the good times shared here. He waited while Angela gained a small portion of composure, prepared to give her as much time as she required.

  “I can’t believe any of this,” she finally managed. “Like, maybe it’s just a bad dream, and I’m going to wake up to find Kath walking through the front door.” Her voice wobbled with instability as she combed slender fingers through her hair.

  Addison glanced at his partner. The kid had been distant on the drive over. “Is it all right if I start with some questions?” he asked, watching while Angela dabbed at her eyes and nodded her head.

  “When did you see Katherine last?”

  “Monday morning, before I left for the office. It was around eight o’clock.”

  “Was she going to work, as well?”

  “Unh-unh. Kath didn’t work,” Angela replied, dabbing her eyes once more. “Her daddy deposited an allowance into her account at the end of each month.”

  Addison offered a compassionate nod of his head. “He’s a lawyer over in New York, is that correct?”

  “Not just a lawyer; he owns a big firm right in the heart of Manhattan.”

  “Do you happen to know where Katherine may have been going?”

  Angela’s eyes filled with tears, and she dropped her head into her hands. “She was headed up to the hills to do some modeling for an art class.”

  Jed stirred on the couch, but Addison maintained his focus. “Do you have an address for the place?”

  “Give me a second; it’s written down on a card in the kitchen.”

  Angela appeared stiff as she got to her feet and shuffled out of the room.

  “A rich nonconformist with a German surname,” Jed said evenly.

  Addison was surprised by his partner’s ignorance about Katherine’s Jewish roots. “German?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Schneider sure sounds like a German name to me.”

  Addison regarded Jed with a quizzical smile. “Schneider is also a common Jewish surname, and Jewish she certainly was.”

  Jed started to reply but checked himself when Angela reentered the room.

  “The address for the art class is two-twenty-four Mount Hollywood Drive,” she said, falling back into the mahogany chair. “It’s up by Cathy’s Corner. I drove to the house yesterday when she didn’t return my calls. There’s just an old guy living there who we’ve both known for quite some time. Jerry told me the class ended at noon, then Kath had a coffee with him before riding off on her Vespa.”

  Addison jotted everything down in his pad.

  “Did you provide the detectives with the registration and licensing details for Katherine’s Vespa this morning?” he asked, not wanting to waste time going over particulars they already had on record.

  “Yeah,” she replied, “I did.”

  “Do you have reason to believe Katherine may have gotten herself mixed up with bad people? Could she have become involved with anything unsafe?”

  “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “Kath grew up on the Upper East Side of New York; she went to the best schools and never had to do a single thing her whole life. Experiences are what mattered to her, and she was always chasing something new. Her daddy pestered her about finishing her degree, but Kath loved the freedom here in Los Angeles. California was worlds away from the influences she contended with back east. It wasn’t unusual for her to fly off for a few days, but I knew something was amiss when my calls were still going unanswered by the following afternoon.”

  “Have either yourself or Katherine socialized with people who practice any pagan forms of spirituality in recent times?” Addison asked.

  “Well, we’re gay, so there’s that.”

  It was easy to hear the defensiveness in her voice.

  “Sorry, Angela, that’s not what I meant at all. I’ll be more precise. Did Katherine associate with anyone who adhered to the principles of satanism or Black Magick?”

  Angela wrinkled her nose. “Not that I know of, and if Kath had any dark spiritual leaning, she would have definitely spoken to me about it.”

  Addison smiled kindly. “What about brothers, sisters?”

  “She had a younger brother, Anthony, but they weren’t very close.”

  “Were there troubles between Katherine and Anthony?”

  “No, there was nothing like that. They weren’t tight, but it wasn’t as if they disliked one another. Anthony works in the family business and takes his career seriously, while Kath was very much the opposite.”

  “Do you know where Katherine may have gone after the class?”

  “No, I don’t.” Angela was blubbering now, leaning forward to cradle her head in her hands. “That’s why I drove up to speak with Jerry at Cathy’s Corner—”

  Angela glanced over her shoulder when an incoming call filtered into the room.

  “I’m sorry, is it okay if I answer that?”

  Addison nodded. “Of course, it is.”

  Angela smiled languidly before exiting the room again.

  Jed stretched his arms over his head. “An art class, hey.”

  “Yeah,” Addison replied. “We’ll need to get someone to head up there.”

  His partner focused on something across the room. “My first time was three years ago, man,” he said.

  “Three years ago? What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking out loud is all.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “It was three years ago when I walked into my first homicide case. Old Jason Connolly was the lead detective, and I remember being excited,” he said sarcastically. “Can you believe it? I was fucking thrilled to be in the room with the Scottish prick.”

  “What are you saying, kid? You don’t want to be here?”

  Jed laughed with disdain. “No, what I’m saying is I’d prefer to be just about anywhere than where I am, man. I mean, how many inquiries end up being stuffed inside some cardboard box and deposited away as evidence? It’s not like we get the satisfaction of giving the sons of bitches a good tune-up at the station like they did in the old days.”

  “You want a day of reckoning?” Addison countered.

  Jed exhaled with frustration. “Sure. I mean, why the hell not? Maybe the vigilante has got it all right, brother, and we don’t even fucking realize it.”

  Addison had been involved in similar conversations over the years because, at some point, every cop got to feeling this way. The arm of justice could be excruciatingly slow in its execu
tion. Whenever they apprehended a suspect, it marked the beginning of a drawn-out judicial process while waiting for the case to go to trial. Then there was the task of gathering witnesses and conferring with the attorney general, not to mention the time they spent doing nothing as the prosecution and defense went back and forth with their plea deals.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Addison agreed. “But doing our best to ensure there’s not another Katherine Schneider will have to be retribution enough.”

  “Yeah, man, I know the freakin’ score, but it would be kinda sweet if we could send some of ’em to County all busted up instead of smelling like fuckin’ roses.”

  The sound of shuffling footsteps ended the discussion, and they waited for Angela to reenter the room. She looked fatigued as she padded back to her chair.

  “Sorry,” she said. “My phone’s been running hot all morning. I made a couple of calls when I found out about Katherine, and word spread really fast.”

  Addison offered another understanding smile. “So, is there anything else that comes to mind about Katherine? Changes in her patterns, or new people she started seeing in the last few weeks?”

  Angela appeared to give the question serious consideration while reaching for a fresh tissue. “No, it’s like I’ve said already; Kath had a very cruisy lifestyle and the freedom to do just about anything she damn well pleased. The modeling started a few weeks back as a favor to Jerry, but apart from that, there was nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Addison scribbled something down before looking over at Jed. “You all good?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Angela’s eyes remained down in her lap, and Addison waited until she raised them again before speaking. “Thank you for meeting with us at such a difficult time. I hope you manage to find a way to get some rest. We’ll be in touch when there is any information to pass on. In the interim, if anything fresh comes to mind, then please give me a call.” He extended an arm across the table and handed her his card.

  “Thanks,” she replied as her focus returned to her lap.

  Addison got to his feet. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Angela didn’t respond, seemingly lost inside a memory that would never be built upon as the detectives left the room and walked back down the hallway.

  “What the hell is going on with you, kid?” Addison asked once they were outside.

  “Nothing, why?”

  “I know you can be quiet at times, but you didn’t speak a word to her in there.”

  “What did you want me to say, Ad?”

  They continued back down the path in brooding silence. Addison waited as Jed unlocked the doors before climbing into the passenger seat and checking the time.

  “You hungry?” Addison asked.

  “Yeah, I guess I could eat,” Jed grumbled.

  “How about we order a couple of burgers and debrief. We’ll be standing in front of the cameras with Collins later, so I guess we should at least try to be prepared.”

  “For what? It’s not like they’ll be asking me anything.”

  “Yeah, hopefully we’ll both remain invisible. You feel like sharing a whiskey with this old hound?” Addison suggested, knowing his partner would never knock back an opportunity to have a couple of lunchtime shots.

  “Sure thing, what about the burgers?”

  “You okay with drive-through?”

  Jed nodded. “But I’d prefer Taco Bell.”

  “Taco Bell it is, then.”

  Truth be told, he didn’t even feel hungry and would have been happy enough to skip food altogether. Whiskey was their go-to play whenever things got tense, because a seedy bar and a few glasses of liquor rarely failed in raising the mood.

  Six

  Coniglio breezed into her kitchen on naked feet, where she poured her leftover tea down the sink before walking back toward the sunroom. She was dressed in a yellow vest with matching boxers to combat the heat; however, the temperature continued to rise as streams of perspiration trickled down from her hairline. Another day like this, and she would have to consider purchasing a second air conditioner for the bedroom.

  Her apartment was situated on Sunset Boulevard in Echo Park, a scruffy East Side neighborhood known for its live music, great food, and quirky boutiques. It was completely different from the coastal town in Oregon where she’d been raised. Florence was a place where children played unattended after dark and chased fireflies along the Siuslaw River.

  She remembered searching the trails near Heceta Lighthouse with her brothers and how the sound of laughter was as familiar as a cool ocean breeze. A blue sky always lured her to the water, where the Sea Lion Caves provided a glimpse into the marvel of nature. There were lasting experiences contained within each season. Those magical days had promised to last forever before quickly passing by. It sure was an amazing universe for an adventurous little girl to begin learning about life.

  Coniglio’s father was a first-generation Italian American and possibly the only migrant to be found within a hundred miles. Frank was a loving man with a kind heart and easygoing manner that made everybody feel entirely at ease. She couldn’t think of a single person who didn’t end up head over heels in love with him.

  Her mom was a totally different story, though, always awkward in shared situations because of the impediments she chose to surround herself with. She could reveal many things about her dad, like how generous he was or the commitment he had to his family. But whenever she thought about him, what first came to mind was the steadfast way he held to the American flag, even in circumstances where patriots might consider his faithfulness less than deserving.

  If she ever found a guy with half his devotion, her life would be a portrait of happiness. Her marriage came to an abrupt conclusion in 2010 after she discovered her husband in a motel room with a younger woman. She’d participated in the occasional fling after the divorce, but her experience of sex without love was underwhelming. It was the very reason why she felt so comfortable with being single until the right man came along.

  Her philosophy in life was to absorb every piece of grandeur that came her way, although it wasn’t about running toward anything obvious. Countless hidden surprises were waiting to be encountered in everyday living, like the sugary aroma of a freshly baked donut or the color of the evening clouds in July. Transient beauty was almost everywhere; it just floated by most people unnoticed.

  Coniglio nestled into the cushions of her daybed and closed her eyes. The sunroom was her favorite spot inside the apartment, where she came to absorb the sounds of activity as they drifted up from the street below. She began reflecting on Detective Mowbray and his plaintive undertones.

  There was something about the guy and his tangled presentation which appealed to her. Mowbray might be a little bowed and broken, but there was also completeness to his complication, a precision to the manner he carried out his duty and picked up on the stuff others missed. She certainly had never met anyone more underrated on the job.

  She thought back to the previous night when he was stretched out inside his truck and how he appeared to be lost in the fizz of his own thinking. Johnny Cash was playing softly on the radio as he puffed absently on a cigarette. It was as if he’d been awaiting an echo of the victim’s voice to start calling from the darkness or a spectral flashback that captured the moment of her murder. She recognized the presence of historical pain inside him and presumed his scar ran deeper than just policing. Coniglio was conscious of his marriage breakup, but whatever was responsible for his hurt seemed to have been with him for much longer. There was a softer side to him as well, an edgy warmth that draped his manliness, which was evident in the way he connected with his incredibly good-looking younger partner.

  The sun illuminated motes of dust in the air, so Coniglio straightened her leg into the light. Her skin appeared youthful as if the secret to agelessness might be found within its ancient glow. She was in excellent condition for her age, something she never took for granted. Her
work demands could quickly get in the way of a healthy lifestyle, and the odd hours sometimes affected her sleep patterns. It was difficult to discuss her profession with everyday folk; many of her friends questioned why she’d even decided to become a forensic pathologist at all. Dinner parties were the worst because she could rarely explain herself in a manner that satisfied people’s curiosity.

  Coniglio turned her head and scanned the living room with genuine appreciation. Her complex consisted of twenty-one apartments over three floors. The other tenants were mainly young professionals who kept to themselves. A caretaker attended to the pool area each week, and there were never many noise complaints. It provided a different vibe to the bungalow she’d rented in Venice Beach, and the change of scenery had proved to be refreshing.

  She began thinking about the victims from the Hollywood Hills and felt a shiver working down her spine. Her angst didn’t have anything to do with what the bodies looked like; she was no longer traumatized by the condition of a corpse. It was more the reality of them being conscious while their body parts got hacked away that tightened her belly. The homicides of the two young women had managed to subvert her core. She understood the ketamine would have alleviated a significant portion of their pain, although it likely just made things feel more misrepresented in the process. There had to be a fundamental reason why the perpetrator was administering the drug, but she remained clueless as to what it might be.

  Forensic pathology evolved in leaps and bounds over the last few decades to provide the dead with an opportunity to speak from the grave. Alger Mortis disclosed how Katherine Schneider died roughly four hours prior to them arriving at the carousel, which enabled Coniglio to determine the location of the primary crime scene to be somewhere within a ninety-minute driving radius of the reserve. It was easy to identify the common denominators between each of the victims, and the LAPD made a quick decision to go public with the details. There was nothing to be gained by keeping a lid on the circumstances.