Wild Card

by Michael Brandman

  “Meet me at the football field.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you want to as much as I do.”

  She walked away without comment, but later, as I was sitting nervously in the bleachers, I spotted her heading in my direction. Soon thereafter, we were inseparable.

  We confessed our love for each other, but stopped short of physically consummating it, which created a frustrating barrier between us that in the long run drove us apart.

  In later years, when we caught up with each other during holidays or homecomings, we admitted how naive we had been. How frightened we were of sex and its potential impact on our lives.

  In hindsight we acknowledged that while we shared a fervent attraction, and should have lovingly surrendered our respective virginities to each other, it wasn’t fear of the sexual experience that prevented us from consummating our love. It was, rather, the dread of a first-love commitment from which neither of us believed we could escape unscathed.

  Which laid the groundwork for what was to become the pattern of my life. Hooking up but not settling down. Commitment panic.

  “What’s so neurotic about that?” I was asking myself when the intercom buzzed me back to consciousness.

  “Speak,” I answered.

  “Trouble,” Wilma Hansen responded. “Line three.”

  “Buddy Steel,” I said picking up the call.

  “We got another one, Buddy,” Buzz Farmer announced.

  “Tell me.”

  “Same M.O. Downtown.”

  “Where?”

  He told me.

  “I’m on my way.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The crime scene was on Market Street, located in the newly renovated part of downtown that had been designed to replicate what the area looked like at the turn of the twentieth century.

  A tourist destination, the main part of the thoroughfare was closed to all but pedestrian traffic. Shoppers and tourists crowded the myriad restaurants and high-end boutiques that fronted the roadway.

  A late-model silver Land Rover Discovery had just pulled out of a permissible parking space at the far end of the street when its driver, a stylishly dressed woman who appeared to be in her early forties, was shot to death through the driver’s-side open window.

  As was the case with the earlier killings, the inside of the Discovery was a bloody mess. There were no discernible clues.

  Deputies Farmer and Striar were on the scene, their investigative process already underway. Norma Richard, the county coroner, had also arrived as had a forensics team and an ambulance, all of them hoping to avoid the approaching rain.

  A tent had been set up across the street from where the murder occurred. Members of the press, including TV reporters and technicians, were setting up inside. One or two of the reporters shouted questions at me, but apart from offering them a friendly greeting, I ducked them.

  Farmer and I studied the crime scene, walking the length and breadth of the area, hoping to discover anything that might aid in solving what was an increasingly alarming series of murders.

  Farmer conducted himself with the confidence of someone whose past had been littered with random killings. While he paid lip service to the emotional impact of these tragedies, he appeared bereft of emotion. He walked through the investigations with self-possession and assertiveness, but also with an odd detachment that I found disquieting.

  “What do you make of this, Buddy?” Buzz inquired.

  “I wish I had something concrete to offer. What jumps out at me is the killer’s expertise. These weren’t just randomly chosen locations. As was the case with the first two, there are no security cameras here. Hence, we have no photographic information to assist us.”

  “So, what does that tell you?”

  “That the killer was more concerned with finding the location than in choosing the victim. Our perpetrator is pretty crafty. He or she spends whatever time it takes to find an appropriate location and then, once selected, he or she stakes it out until the moment is exactly right. And, given the constraints of this particular location, finding the right combination of time and victim presented the killer with a singular challenge.”

  “You think it’s like a game for him.”

  “Or her,” I added. “I do. And it’s a far more complicated game than what meets the eye. Pulling off murders of this kind without leaving even a shred of evidence is exceptionally difficult. We may be dealing with some kind of criminal mastermind here. These killings represent a deadly combination of impeccable planning and ingenious execution. No pun intended.”

  “So, how do we find this so-called mastermind?”

  “Beats me.”

  “I’m serious, Buddy. How do we go about finding this person?”

  “On a wing and a prayer?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “It’s bothering me,” I said to Marsha Russo.

  We were sitting in my office, listening to the rain as it pelted the windowpane, the storm having already reached its peak, diminishing now as it moved south.

  “What is?”

  “There’s something about these murders that keeps gnawing at me. Maybe it’s their meticulousness. The huge amount of planning in order for the conditions to be just right.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know, Marsha. It rankles. It feels…I don’t quite know how to say it cohesively…it feels like the killer has been doing this for a while. A number of times. My gut tells me it’s less about the actual killings and more about the fastidiousness of the crimes. Does that make any sense?”

  “Go on.”

  I stood and began mindlessly pacing the office. “Let’s assume the perp has satisfied his need to kill. We know he’s done it before. But what if he didn’t totally appease his psychotic needs? What if he’s now raising the stakes of the game.”

  “The game?”

  “Forgive me for using that term. But in truth, it feels to me as if, with regards to this particular killer, it is a game. I believe it’s less about the need to kill and more about the logistics. A psychotic need to commit the perfect crime. Repeatedly.”

  I sat back down and listened to the rain for a while. “Let’s assume you’re right,” Marsha said. “How do you go about solving it?”

  “Good question.”

  “And the answer?”

  “Are you up for some added responsibility?”

  “Who, me?”

  “Of course you. Who else am I talking to?”

  “What kind of added responsibility?”

  “Legwork.”

  “What legwork?”

  “Helping me find the killer.”

  “You know something, Buddy? You’re very skilled at talking in circles.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t mean that as a compliment.”

  “So, what’s your answer?”

  “My answer to what?”

  “Doing legwork.”

  “What exactly is it you want me to do?”

  “Make use of your exceptional technological skills.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, Buddy.”

  “Listen to me, Marsha. If I’m right, this killer has a history. Somewhere out there are a number of unsolved, serial-style murders. They could be anywhere. I want you to research and locate these unsolveds and see if we can find any kind of pattern that fits the profile of our guy.”

  “Or girl.”

  “Her, too.”

  Marsha sat silently for several moments. Then she said, “I can do that.”

  “There’s every chance it will be time-consuming and possibly even fruitless.”

  “I’ll still do it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, Buddy. It certainly isn’t out of any measure of devotion or
kiss-ass need to please you.”

  “How depressing.”

  “But I like your train of thought.”

  “And?”

  “I’m a glutton for punishment.” Marsha stood and headed for the door.

  I stopped her. “One thing more.”

  “It’s always something.”

  “Let’s keep this to ourselves.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Just that. Only you and I can know about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Call it my coply intuition.”

  “Which means?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The hearing was to take place in the San Remo County Courthouse.

  When I arrived, I spotted a larger than usual crowd assembled outside. The press contingent stood in a roped-off section along with a number of local TV reporters and their crews.

  I stepped quickly through the melee and was on the courthouse steps when one of the reporters recognized me and began firing questions.

  “Do you have any suspects in the killings?”

  “Are you going to hold strong on the beach access issue?”

  “Where’s the Sheriff and why isn’t he in charge?”

  I slipped inside the courthouse without answering and took a moment to gather myself. Then I entered the courtroom and found a seat at the back of the amply filled gallery.

  A handsomely dressed, middle-aged man was standing in front of the witness stand questioning a nerdy-looking man while Marielle Lemieux, in her judge’s robes, sat at the bench intently listening.

  I presumed the questioner was Craig Leonard, the lead attorney of Boris Petrov’s legal team.

  Jordyn Yates sat alone at the defense table. At one point, when she looked around to check out the attendees, we made eye contact. She winked at me.

  Leonard finished questioning the nerdy young man, then called a solemn-looking, thirty-something woman to the stand. Prior to her being sworn in, Judge Lemieux motioned for Leonard to step to the bench.

  I could barely make out their conversation but it appeared he was indicating this would be the prosecution’s last witness.

  The judge nodded and Leonard went on to ask the woman a series of questions relating to bird species and their sanctuaries. When Leonard seemed satisfied with her testimony, he thanked the witness and said, “No more questions, Your Honor.”

  Judge Lemieux turned to Jordyn, who waived any cross-examination. Then, in answer to the judge’s question, she said, “Just one witness, Your Honor.”

  “Please proceed.”

  Jordyn called me and as I made my way to the witness stand, Judge Lemieux made eye contact with me and despite herself, broke into a large grin.

  Once I was sworn in, Jordyn asked, “What is your association with Boris Petrov?”

  “Very little, actually. I’ve only met him once.”

  “But you’ve had some interaction with his staff.”

  “Yes. The San Remo Sheriff’s Department was empowered by the California Coastal Commission to enforce the beach access laws as they pertained to Boris Petrov’s property.”

  “And what exactly did that entail?”

  “The removal of permanent fencing that had been constructed at the four access points which had previously afforded beachgoers a right-of-way.”

  “Did you meet with any resistance to this undertaking?”

  “A handful of Petrov’s goons accosted me and my deputies on two different occasions.”

  Craig Leonard stood and averred.”We object to the term goons, Your Honor.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Please find different nomenclature for Mr. Petrov’s employees.”

  I nodded and smiled.

  “And what were those occasions?” Jordyn asked.

  “Once, when we were bulldozing the permanent fencing that was then blocking a previous access point. And again as we were removing the new fencing that Petrov’s goons…uh, I’m sorry, Petrov’s men…had constructed elsewhere to prevent public ingress to the beach.”

  “And how exactly were you accosted?”

  “The first time was just after we had successfully restored an original access point. One of the Petrov thugs shoved me and their leader, a Mr. Volya Koskoff, made a menacing gesture toward me.”

  Leonard stood and said, “We object to the word thug.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Lemieux said. “Sheriff Steel?”

  “I apologize, Your Honor. These Petrov employees behaved like thugs.”

  “Objection,” Leonard said.

  “Overruled.”

  Jordyn seized the moment and quickly went on. “What was your response to this so-called thuggish behavior?”

  “One of my deputies tasered them both.”

  “And the result of the tasering?”

  “Wet undies and jail time.”

  Judge Lemieux could barely stifle her laughter.

  “Objection,” Leonard shouted. “These men are highly trained members of Boris Petrov’s security task force.”

  “And illegal immigrants, as well,” Jordyn said.

  “Objection,” Leonard said.

  The judge turned to him. “To your knowledge, Mr. Leonard, are either of these assailants in the country illegally?”

  “It’s possible,” Leonard said sheepishly.

  “Possible?”

  “They’re in custody until such time as that determination is made.”

  “Objection overruled,” Judge Lemieux said.

  Leonard sat down heavily, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

  “Excuse me,” the judge said. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

  “Nothing, Your Honor.”

  “I should hope so,” she said sternly.

  “And the second assault…?” Jordyn asked me.

  “It was at the same location. We were confronted by another pair of Petrov’s…employees. We were in the process of tearing down the new fencing they had just finished erecting when one of them attacked me physically.”

  “And?”

  “I put him down.”

  “You did what?”

  “I immobilized him.”

  “How?”

  “Superior martial arts training.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “The men were arrested and are currently being held without bail awaiting a deportation hearing.”

  “I’m led to believe there was another incident,” Jordyn said.

  “There was.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “I was attacked from behind by another of Mr. Petrov’s security officers. He struck me twice with a tire iron.”

  “And?”

  “I shot him.”

  “You shot the Petrov employee?”

  “In the hip.”

  “Objection,” Craig Leonard protested.

  “What is the objection this time?” the judge asked.

  “We don’t deny the fact that Mr. Steel was assaulted by a member of the Petrov security contingent. But we want to go on record as to Mr. Petrov’s involvement in this attack. He steadfastly denies any knowledge of or participation in this event. He apologizes for the unsanctioned behavior of one of his employees.”

  “Duly noted,” Judge Lemieux stated.

  Jordyn addressed the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Judge Lemieux turned to Craig Leonard. “Any questions?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  He approached the witness stand and stood directly in front of me. “You referred to Mr. Petrov’s staff as…let me get this straight…goons and thugs.”

  “I did.”

>   “Because?”

  “Because that’s what they are.”

  “For the record, that’s your personal opinion.”

  “Correct.”

  “They’re actually top-notch, highly qualified security personnel.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  “Correct,” Leonard said.

  “But if the laws of the land are upheld, these qualified security personnel will soon be on their way back to the cesspool of a country they crawled out of.”

  Leonard turned to the judge. “As you can see, Your Honor, this witness has no respect for Mr. Petrov’s security detail nor their place of birth. As a result, his credibility should be discounted.”

  “Thank you for your opinion, Mr. Leonard,” Judge Lemieux said.

  Leonard nodded. “Thank you, Your Honor. No further questions.”

  After I was dismissed, I returned to my seat at the back of the courtroom. The judge had summoned both attorneys to the bench and they were engaged in a three-way conversation.

  When they finished, Judge Lemieux banged her gavel loudly. “Injunction denied,” she said.

  Then she headed for her chambers.

  I made my way to Jordyn, who greeted me with a warm smile.

  “Congrats,” I said.

  “Aw, shucks,” she chided. “The judge asked if you might stop by her chambers.”

  I nodded.

  “Forgive me,” Jordyn said.

  “For what?”

  “I have to scoot back to L.A.”

  “You mean now?”

  “Tragic, isn’t it?”

  “You mean before…?”

  “There’s no need to belabor the point, Buddy. I get it.”

  She stepped up to me and kissed me quickly. She searched my eyes. “I can hardly wait for this dinner of ours.”

  I smiled. “Me, too.”

  “Liar.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The door to her chambers was opened by Judge Marielle Lemieux’s bailiff, who held her finger to her lips and pointed to the judge who was at her desk, engaged in what appeared to be a lively conversation with Craig Leonard.

  When she spotted me, Judge Lemieux excused herself to Leonard, then stood and approached me. After a warm hug, she led me to a small sitting area. “I’m sorry about this, Buddy. He asked to see me and now I’m stuck with him.”