Chapter 8
The neighborhood they were staking out was a relatively lower, middle-class one in Alhambra. Five blocks ahead of them the hum of Huntington Boulevard could be heard as Detectives Daryl Garcia and Steve Howe sat in their unmarked sedan at the edge of the curb. The neighborhood consisted mostly of apartment complexes ranging from small six unit buildings to two massive ones that sported security systems, swimming pools and weight rooms, and underground parking. Both of these large apartment complexes were across the street from each other, both with signs staked in the front advertising that units were available to rent. Must be some competition.
“Are you sure he's coming down here?” Steve asked Daryl, bored. It had been three weeks since he'd escorted Rachael Pearce to the Eighty-first Street bridge, and the amount of leads pouring into Parker Center hadn't slowed down.
“I'm sure,” Daryl said. He glanced at his watch, annoyed at Steve, who was growing less interested in the case as the weeks went by. “Judy Butler over at Florentine Gardens said that he comes here every Friday evening around this time. He has a standing appointment."
Steve chuckled. “A standing appointment? Shit, you make it sound like what these girls perform is a legitimate medical service."
Daryl ignored the comment. “These girls take their work seriously. They make good money at it, and they have to treat it as a legitimate business if they want to avoid trouble with the law."
“So why isn't somebody from sex crimes vice down here with us? I mean, even if the guy who's supposed to show up here tonight isn't the Butcher, we can at least make some arrests."
Daryl wanted to respond with a smart-assed remark, but he held his emotions in check. Frankly, he wasn't interested in busting chicks that gave over-priced massages to their male clients and capped them off with hand jobs afterward. He gestured at the apartment complex, the larger of the two big ones that sported a tan coat of paint and a better topography. “Our only objective is to nab this guy when we see him. He should be arriving any minute. You got that?"
Steve looked at him with the beginnings of a spoiled brat pout on his face, then turned toward the apartment complex and sighed. “Yeah, whatever."
“Good.” Daryl resumed his stance, silently wishing Steve would be taken off this case. He liked the guy fine, but he was so law-and-order that sometimes it really got on his nerves.
“What is it about this guy that has you so worked up anyway?” Steve asked. “I mean, we've got hundreds of tips about suspects in the last few weeks and we've checked out quite a few of them, but of all the others that I think are good solid leads, why this freak?"
Freak was an accurate description for George Van Patten, the man they were waiting to take in for questioning. Daryl had gotten a tip on George while investigating a tip on another suspect, an older Hispanic man that kept a home in the East L.A area who was an alcoholic and a paranoid. The Hispanic man had an arrest record, mostly of public drunkenness and DUI, but had once been arrested for carrying a knife and for misdemeanor assault. When he drank too much he liked to harass the neighborhood kids with a big butcher knife and threaten to cut them up. The fact that he had gotten into a recent tiff with members of the Los Compadres Mafia over graffiti they had painted on his garage door and that his most recent arrest had been for soliciting the services of a prostitute (one of those streetwalkers that was actually male rather than the females they were impersonating), he had come across as a good suspect. And it was through questioning the people who knew the Hispanic man they had arrested—neighbors, gang members, family, and the whore he had been caught with—that they learned about George Van Patten. In fact, they had learned about George from the whore.
Apparently George's fetish was to solicit the services of a prostitute, either from a massage parlor or from one of the many whores that advertised their services in the many sex papers in Los Angeles. He would show up at their place of business carrying a chicken in a bag and a very large butcher knife. After stripping nude, he would instruct the hooker to strip. Then he would instruct her to decapitate the chicken with the knife.
He would masturbate while she performed this act, which usually took no more than five minutes. If this failed to bring him to climax, he would instruct the girl to rub the bloody blade along his neck until he achieved orgasm. Due to the extremity of his fetish, few prostitutes were willing to accommodate him, but there were some that were willing to do anything for money.
They were at one of those places tonight. The transvestite that had given them the tip told them she used to work as a masseuse at this massage parlor, which was run out of a luxury apartment in Alhambra. George Van Patten had been one of the clients and none of the girls would work with him except for one, a middle-aged Hispanic woman named Maria Perez. The other girls were afraid of him.
Why? Daryl had asked the transvestite.
The transvestite nervously crossed her legs in the interrogation room and took a hit off the cigarette she had been allowed to smoke. Her Adam's apple bobbed when she spoke. He's a big guy. Weird. I don't know how to describe it. All the girls have that feeling about him.
The fact that all the girls had an uneasy feeling about him was enough for Daryl to check this character out. Daryl was a firm believer in a sixth sense, and his told him that this George Van Patten guy was a likely suspect. If these women had an eerie feeling about this man, then there was probably something wrong with him. Jacking off to decapitated chickens notwithstanding.
“I agree that he certainly shows the potential to have committed these murders,”
Steve said. “I mean, you gotta be warped to yank your crank as a hooker cuts off a chicken's head. Jesus."
Daryl said nothing, focusing instead on looking out for their man. They had obtained a driver's license photograph from the DMV—since he lacked a criminal record—and sized him up. George Van Patten appeared to be in his early forties with brown hair turning gray that flopped over his ears and forehead. He had a chubby face, a pug nose, and beady little eyes. He looked like he could be a truck driver or a longshoreman. His driver's license stated that he was six foot seven and weighed two hundred and seventy five pounds. Judging from the photo not all of it had to be fat.
Daryl felt Steve tap him on the shoulder and he looked to see Steve motioning down the street. “There's our man."
Fifty yards ahead of them a large man had just emerged from a battered Chevrolet pick-up truck and was trudging to the apartment complex where the massage parlor operated. He cradled a large burlap sack beneath his right arm. He was dressed in a blue ski jacket, a plaid shirt, and blue jeans. He headed for the stairs of the apartment complex and punched the massage parlor's phone number on the gate keypad to be let in.
“Let's go.” Daryl opened the door and got out of the car, Steve following suit.
They headed down the street toward the complex, not wanting to rush their suspect and scare him off, but not wanting him to slip away from them either. By the time they reached the top of the steps that led to the lobby, the massage parlor had activated the buzzer and George was opening the double glass doors, heading inside. Daryl and Steve trotted up the stairs after him and caught the doors just shy of shutting them out. Daryl paused for a moment and nodded at Steve. “What apartment is it again?"
“Two forty-one,” Steve said.
“Okay"
They walked toward the elevators and Steve hit the UP button. When the elevator opened they got in, and Steve pressed the button for the second floor. The doors whisked shut.
The elevator deposited them on the second floor. They emerged, checking out the apartment numbers around them, and saw apartment two-fifteen. Daryl motioned along the north side of the building. “Up this way,” he murmured.
They headed along the upper hallway of the complex. The apartments looked out over a wide open courtyard, the edges well kept up with the appropriate topiary and shrubbery; there were areas set apart for outdoor barbecues, complete with large gas grills, tables and chairs. Beyond the concrete walkways that meandered between the barbecue areas and the grassy areas was a large swimming pool and Jacuzzi. It was a classy building. Daryl and Steve walked along the hallway, reaching their destination, which turned out to be at the end of the building.
Each apartment had a small patio that was situated beside the front door; the patios were fenced off by a four foot brick wall, leading into what was presumably the living room of the apartment. Beside each complex was a small walkway that led to each respective apartment. Daryl and Steve stepped into the walkway and knocked on the door to Two Forty-one.
There was silence for a moment; they knew they weren't expected and they had worked this plan out well in advance. Judging from the apartment complex this particular massage parlor was set up in, and the sophisticated system of setting up an appointment, these people would be on their guard. There would be at least one girl, possibly two, in the front part of the apartment. And she would most likely be wary when she opened the door, might even have ready access to a weapon. If there was a second woman (or man, Daryl reasoned) that person would most likely be hiding within easy earshot ready to call the police or come out blazing with a gun should their unexpected visitors be troublesome. Daryl knew they would open the door. They would have to. Unfamiliar people at your doorstep when you weren't expecting them usually meant one thing to these people: the police.
The door opened a crack and an attractive Hispanic girl peered out at them with big brown eyes. Her smile was wide and false. “Can I help you?"
Daryl and Steve had their shields out before the door opened. “LAPD, ma'am,”
Daryl said. “Can we come in?"
Feigning puzzlement, the woman opened the door and stepped aside to let them enter the apartment. “What's the trouble, officer?"
Ignoring her, giving the dimly-lit living room a quick survey, Daryl answered:
“We're looking for George Van Patten, ma'am. Which room is he in?"
The girl closed the door behind them and stood barefoot on the clean burgundy rug. She stood about five foot two, had shoulder length black frizzy hair, was dressed in blue jeans and a red sweater. She had a great body, wide hips, full breasts, a very pretty face that would have looked pretty even without the make-up she wore: blue eye shadow, red lipstick, rouged cheeks. She was smiling in wide-eyed innocence, the damsel playing the ignorant Barbie-doll. The living room they had stepped into was completely bare of furniture, the drapes over the windows drawn. “I don't understand,” she said, “I don't know any George—"
Steve interrupted her. “You're not in any kind of trouble, ma'am. But if you don't tell us which room he's in, we will bust you and the other girls working here tonight."
“In fact,” Daryl said, quick to add, “we'll have this place shut down before your boyfriend is able to bail you out of jail."
Steve smiled softly at the girl, his voice smooth and diplomatic. “We really don't want to bust you or your girls, miss."
“What's your name, ma'am?” Daryl asked. He was still checking the apartment out and was convinced that the attractive Hispanic woman who let them in was the only girl working the “lobby” tonight. There would be at least two other girls working in the bedrooms.
The girl's smile faded; she looked worried. “Sylvia,” she said, apprehensively.
From the kitchen, just around the corner of the living room, came the faint sounds of a small television where Sylvia probably camped out while the other girls earned their living.
“Sylvia, we aren't here to bust you or your girls,” Daryl said, addressing her directly. Still holding onto his shield, he stood before her, hands on hips, trying to look more like a fatherly figure than authoritative. Sylvia looked no older than eighteen. “In fact, if you tell us which room George is in, I'll guarantee that this establishment will never be targeted for a raid by LAPD. Never. You won't have to worry about a bust as long as you operate at this location. I won't be able to guarantee that same protection if you decide to move your operations to another facility, but you can operate here free and clear. Okay?"
That seemed to settle it for her. She nodded down the hall. “He's in the bathroom at the end of the hall with Maria,” she said, her voice a throaty whisper.
Daryl smiled warmly at her. “Thank you, Sylvia."
They headed down the hall toward the bathroom, which was visible at the end of the hall. The door was closed.
The two bedrooms along the hall and the one off the bedroom were closed, the faint sound of music emanated from behind the closed doors. With the additional job going on in the bathroom, it appeared that Sylvia and her girls did a brisk business.
Daryl and Steve positioned themselves on either side of the bathroom door. Steve pulled his gun and held it up. Daryl had his badge ready; his hand reached for the doorknob. He looked at Steve. “On three,” he whispered.
From within the bathroom came the muffled sound of rustling and the squawk of a chicken. A man's voice followed it. “Oh yeah, that's it, Maria. Do it!"
Daryl nodded on three, turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, Steve bursting in ahead of him, gun held out. Daryl held his shield up. “LAPD, stay where you are!"
The chicken that had made the squawking sound fell from Maria's lap where she had been sitting in the bathtub. It fluttered on the floor, short wings flapping. She held her hands up, her heavy breasts falling to her stomach like two pendulous udders. George Van Patten had been sitting naked on the toilet seat, his right hand already stroking his limp member when Daryl and Steve burst in, and now he jumped back in surprise. Daryl flashed the shield so that both of them could see it, then motioned to George. “Put your clothes on. We're going for a ride."
“Why, what did I do?” George protested, his voice stammering. Despite his size, his voice was soft, almost effeminate.
“That's what we're going to find out,” Daryl said. “Now let's go."
“We weren't doing anything,” Maria said, standing up in the tub now. She looked like she had once been a beautiful woman but had let her looks go in favor of high fat foods and beer. She had a fat ass and a flabby belly. “He's my boyfriend, we were just—"
Steve had replaced his service revolver in its holster and had already produced a pair of handcuffs. He turned to her curtly: “If you don't shut up we'll haul you in for not only prostitution but cruelty to animals."
“Cruelty to—” Maria stuttered.
Daryl brought out the butcher knife used for George's chicken fetish out of the folds of his clothes. He held it up to George, a faint smile playing on his face. “Cruelty to animals,” he said, echoing Steve's statement. “You know damn well, Maria, that you'll be off this evening if we bust you for prostitution. With animal cruelty you're looking at a minimum two years in jail. Hell, the law protects animals more than it does human beings, Maria. I thought you knew that?"
Maria stopped protesting.
Once George got his clothes on they escorted him out of the massage parlor and into Parker Center for questioning.
It had taken her almost two weeks to get a date with him, but when she finally did Daryl Garcia proved to be every much the gentleman that she thought he was. Once they connected via telephone the last weekend of October and she asked him if he'd be interested in going out for dinner, he was completely agreeable. In fact, he was almost too agreeable. But then so was she. Because for the last three weeks she had been thinking about Daryl Garcia almost constantly.
It surprised her; thinking about Daryl Garcia at all hours of the day, all these thoughts coming suddenly and without warning. It was like being back in high school again when you became infatuated with the cutest boy in school and spent all of your downtime fantasizing about what it would be like if he just noticed you. Back then her heart would melt at the mere thought of such a thing happening. Now that she was older and much wiser she simply wondered what it would be like to spend an evening with Daryl Garcia immersed in intelligent conversation. With the hopes to see where it would lead.
Therefore, when she finally talked to Daryl after a week of playing phone tag, he was more than agreeable to a date. The problem was getting their schedules to match: he had a meeting Wednesday evening on the 7th, she had a session with her personal trainer on Friday evening. He was driving up to Cambria over the weekend to visit his father, who owned a house up there-Daryl's mother succumbed to breast cancer, and Dad had retired up to the small coastal town. The following Monday through Thursday were no good for her due to a looming deadline; likewise for him, since he was flying to Indiana to check out a lead in the Butcher case; Friday night wasn't good for him as well because he had a prior engagement of dinner with a friend from the department. But they both had the following Saturday evening open.
So Saturday it was.
Rachael wasn't comfortable playing the traditional submissive female who waited at her place while her date picked her up. She told Daryl that she would pick him up at his place. He said that was perfectly fine. She asked him what kind of food he liked. He said he liked pretty much anything, but he loved Italian. That worked fine with her because she knew of a good Italian Restaurant called Dominicos that was right in Daryl's neighborhood. She made reservations for seven p.m. on Saturday evening and requested a booth in the back of the restaurant.
On the Saturday of their date, Rachael rose late in the morning and spent the early part of the afternoon reading the newspaper and drinking coffee. When she felt fully alert and awake, she worked out for about an hour to the brutal assault of Slayer pumping through the stereo. Then she took a shower. When she was finished showering she sat in front of her computer in nothing but a pair of panties for an hour and a half working on her book—she had just started her piece on the Eastside Butcher and was already on the first chapter. Then she went into the bathroom and spent the next hour and a half getting ready for the evening. She spent twenty minutes agonizing over what to wear, and changed outfits four times. Finally she settled on something she felt comfortable with; a pair of loose fitting black pants, black heels, a white low-cut blouse, and a black blazer.
She left her condo at six-fifteen to pick up Daryl.
Rachael lived in South Pasadena, so it would take her only a few minutes to reach Daryl's place in Pasadena. As she turned down his street and began searching for the street address she noted that most of the cops she knew that worked for the LAPD lived either in the Valley or in the outer conclaves of Los Angeles—Santa Barbara or Simi Valley. No wonder some of them felt such a sense of despair at times, leaving the peaceful tranquility of the suburbs and driving into the jungle every day to soothe the savage beasts.
Daryl met her at the front door of his home, which was a nice three bedroom tract home in a middle class neighborhood. He looked stunning in dark khaki's, a loose black shirt, and black shoes. His hair was combed back nicely, his mustache neatly trimmed. He smiled warmly at her. “My don't you look nice. Hope you didn't get lost.".
“Not at all,” Rachael said, blushing from the compliment. “Finding my way around places is second nature to me. It comes with my journalism training."
They made small talk on the drive to Dominicos. Once seated and with drinks served—white Chablis—they seemed to settle into conversation easier. Rachael had gotten over her initial nervousness that had befallen her earlier on the drive to Dominicos.
For a moment she felt tongue-tied, as if she had nothing to say and was facing a long night that would only end in disaster. What should she say to get conversation going?
What could she do to make herself sound like she wasn't such a fumbling idiot?
Best of all, how could she make it appear that she was attracted to Daryl without coming off like a slutty tramp?
Thankfully there was an easy answer to the third question. The twinkle in Daryl's eye, the smile on his face, the way he paid attention to her every word, told her that Daryl was interested in her. This put Rachael at ease. From there, conversation went easy.
They began dinner conversation with Daryl telling Rachael the latest developments in the Butcher case. “...so after six hours of interrogation it was obvious to me that George Van Patten wasn't the Butcher. We did a thorough check on the guy.
Checked his house, his car, place of employment. Hell, we even checked his parent's house. He isn't the killer, even though he seemed like a very likely suspect. You would think that anybody capable of ... well, doing what he liked to have these prostitutes do for him would surely be capable of some of the things the killer did to his victims. But when we showed George morgue photos of the Butcher's victims he actually became visibly ill."
Rachael bristled. “Hell, I think even I'd become visibly ill at the sight of those photos."
“Well, trust me, they're not pretty. And George's visible illness at the sight of them, and the opinion of our police psychologist who observed the interrogation, assured me that George isn't the Butcher."
“Anything new come up since you've ruled him out?” Rachael asked, sipping a glass of wine.
Daryl shrugged. “Not much.” He sipped at his wine and picked up a piece of bread from the basket that had been placed at their table. He broke the bread in half before taking a bite. “We have a special hot line set up with four detectives checking out the tips that come from calls. Most of the calls coming in are from a paranoid public.
Neighbors suspecting neighbors, women suspecting their husbands, that sort of thing.
People are also suddenly finding bones all over the city."
Rachael perked up. “Bones?"
“Yeah, bones,” Daryl said, a slight grin cracking his rugged features. “Damnedest thing. People will call and say that they've found a pile of bones in a field or in a parking lot or garbage dumpster and claim that they're human, usually coming up with some story about suspicious activity being seen in the area shortly before the bones turned up. In every case the bones turn out to be the remains of animals—usually chicken bones. A hobo's meal or something. In one case we found the bones of what turned out to be a St.
Bernard. In another, a Chimpanzee."
“A Chimp?” Rachael exclaimed.
“Yeah. Don't ask me how, or why, but it's true."
“What about your trip back to Indiana?” Rachael said.
“Ah yes, that,” Daryl said. “That has proved most interesting.” His dialogue was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter.
They ordered their meals—chicken marsala over pasta for Daryl, vegetarian lasagna for Rachael. When the waiter left Daryl took another bite of bread and resumed.
“That's the strangest thing about this case, the four murders that don't exactly fit the profile we have."
“And what's that?"
“Here we have seven people, nine if you count that black kid who was killed in
‘89, and the Riverside county victim, and all of them but the Riverside victim and the still unidentified number six have gang ties. They're all decapitated, and in some cases dismembered. Furthermore, all of them had pretty much resided within a ten or fifteen mile square area of each other. All of them showed some signs of being sexually violated post mortem—sorry, I didn't mean to get so graphic."
“No problem,” Rachael said. At the mention of sexually violated she had spilled wine in her lap. She grabbed a cloth napkin and dabbed at the front of her blouse and slacks, chastising herself silently for being so clumsy. Thank God the slacks were dark.
“I'm just naturally clumsy."
Daryl smiled. It was enough to melt the anxiety right out of her. “The basic thing is that all eight murders within the last two years are related. There's also a possibility that our unknown killer may have actually started this series back in ‘89 with the murder of our lone black victim. With me so far?"
“Yep,” Rachael said. She dabbed at the last of the wine on her blouse, folded the napkin up and replaced it on the table. She smiled at Daryl to show him that everything was all right.
“The FBI has linked the Riverside victim killed in June to our man, as well as three unsolved murders in South Bend, Indiana. These killings occurred in 1985, maybe 1984. A hiker found the first body, partially buried beneath some bushes in a wooded area about one hundred yards from the main road. The victim was male, naked and decapitated. He had been dead for about a month. A search was launched for the head but guess what they found instead?"
“Another body?"
Daryl shook his head. “A head, but not the head of their victim. What they found was the head of a pretty blonde girl who had gone missing three days before. She had been a prostitute. She had been dead about three days. They never have found her body, or the head of the first victim."
“Did they identify the first victim?” Rachael asked, breaking off a piece of bread and taking a bite.
“He turned out to be a male hustler. Can't remember his name now, but his story was familiar. Was kicked out of his home when he was a teenager because he told his parents he was gay. He tried making a living at legitimate jobs for awhile, but dipped into male prostitution. Got involved with drugs. He had a minor police record. Nothing much else distinguished him from other murder victims like him who often fall prey to serial killers. The homeless and the destitute, as well as prostitutes, are always a serial killer's favorite victims."
“I know,” Rachael said, slowly chewing her bread. “It's so sad."
“Six months later another body was found,” Daryl continued. He finished his wine and set the glass down on the table. “This was found by some Girl Scouts who were scouring the area on a field trip. The remains were found about half a mile from where the first two victims were found."
“My God, Girl Scouts found it?” Rachael was horrified; she had once been a Girl Scout, and the thought that a pack of them on an innocent afternoon of botany studies or some such could come across such a gruesome find was disturbing.
Daryl nodded grimly. “Unfortunately, yes. Fortunately for them though, the victim was already reduced to bones, which was all they found. Almost the complete skeleton, which was lying in scattered pieces along a fifty-yard area, some partially buried. A group of detectives aided by park rangers spent the next two weeks sifting through the field to find evidence and clues. They never did recover the skull."
“And it was the work of the same killer?” Rachael asked.
“That seems to be the opinion of the coroner,” Daryl said. “According to the South Bend medical examiner's findings, all three victims had been decapitated with crude efficiency by somebody who had a knowledge of anatomy. Although it was hard to tell how the last victim had died, the first two victims were killed the same way. And this is the strange part about this whole case."
“Which is...?"
Daryl poured himself another glass of wine from the carafe. “The woman was strangled to death—lack of oxygen in the blood and brain cells pointed to that, as well as slight bruising on the remaining neck area and lower chin. The first victim found had been stabbed to death."
Rachael saw the connection right away. “They didn't die as a result of decapitation as the victims here had."
“Exactly!"
“But the FBI still thinks they're connected?"
“They have a reason to.” Daryl took a sip of wine. “Whenever a crime like a murder occurs that could possibly be a serial killing, the FBI puts the information down in the VICAP computer database. You know what the acronym VICAP stands for?"
Rachael shook her head.
“Violent Criminal Apprehension Program,” Daryl said. “It's a large database that police departments all over the country enter data into when they input information about violent crimes committed in their cities. This program matches up certain ordinarily undetected similarities between different crimes. They note every single characteristic about the murder: who the victim was, what kind of sociological background they came from, their age and gender, physical appearance, that sort of thing. They note how the victim was killed, what kind of weapon the killer used, whether the victim was raped or sexually mutilated before death or after, whether the victim was tortured, and if so, how and with what instruments ... if this is too much for you, please—"
“No, no, it's okay,” Rachael said. She smiled, raising her glass of wine to her lips.
“I'm fine. This is interesting.” And it was. Morbid maybe, but she could handle morbid.
She'd handled it before hundreds of times during her tenure as a journalist. Daryl was just trying to be a gentleman.
Daryl continued, slowly, as if unsure of whether to remain on such a grisly subject. “They note all this stuff, as well as other things that may seem minor. Like whether the victim was killed indoors or at the spot they were found. They note the spot the victim was discovered in. Many serial killers dump their victims in certain locations after killing them, and some stick to a definite pattern. So they note the patterns and enter all this in the VICAP's computers. And when another murder gets entered into the computer with some of the same characteristics as another, the program flags it. The Indiana murders were all flagged for several reasons. One, the beheading of all the victims. Two, the evidence that the same type of weapon was used in the decapitations.
Three, the dumping site the victims were left in, and four, the class of victims the FBI characterized the victims as, being the lower strata—prostitutes and the homeless—two of which lived within the same general vicinity of each other. The unidentified victim was placed in that category as well, being that he was most likely homeless."
“What makes the FBI think these murders are related to what we have going out here?"
“Promise not to write about this in the paper?"
“Cross my heart.” Rachael traced an X over her chest and leaned forward over the table, listening eagerly.
Daryl held his fingers up, counting the reasons off. “The decapitations are one, as well as the social status of the victims. Those are the most obvious choices. The choice of murder weapon is another. The fact that the Indiana killer murdered his victims elsewhere and dumped them in a wooded area outside the city limits is another strong factor."
“But our killer isn't doing that,” Rachael protested. “He's disposing them in burlap bags and placing them in alleys, and leaving them in gullies."
“Which the South Bend killer would have done if South Bend was the same geographical size as Los Angeles,” Daryl said, sipping his wine. “Think about it. L.A.'s a big place. If our killer disposed his victims in a wooded area outside the city limits as the South Bend killer had, he would have to drive at least two hours to reach it."
“Okay, I can buy that,” Rachael said. She finished her wine and reached for the carafe to pour herself a second glass. “But why the long gap between killings? Surely the FBI would have been able to find other killings between ‘85 and ‘94 if other murders had been committed that fit the same profile."
“Correct,” Daryl said. “Only none have been found. There was a series of decapitation murders in Texas in the late eighties, but they don't fit the profile at all. The next time our killer makes another appearance with the same MO is the murder of Leroy Brown, the black victim killed in ‘89. The one after that was the victim from ‘94, the young woman from the East LA area, that seemed to be the beginning of his current spree here in Los Angeles."
Rachael took a sip of her wine, her mind whirring with a thousand thoughts. “I've read that serial killers often start out slowly, sometimes retreating into their ... oh, what do you call it? ... their self-deluded world of fantasy for years after their first killing, reliving it over and over in their minds. Sometimes they try to battle with the urges that makes them kill, and it's only when these urges grow larger that they finally succumb to them again. When they finally get on a roll and the police catch on that they've dealing with a serial killer, he's already been killing longer than they've thought."
“Exactly,” Daryl said, his eyes fixing on hers with a look that she thought was one of admiration. “Many times the authorities don't find out about the earlier murders until after the killer has been caught and he's confessed to them. And even with our latest techniques, we're still unsure of when a serial killer begins to murder people. The FBI estimates that there are at least two serial killers operating in every major city in this country today. Think about that; that's a lot of mayhem. A lot of bloodshed."
Rachael sipped at her wine. It was a very scary thought. Frightening.
“A perfect example of this is the Green River case in Seattle,” Daryl said, picking at another piece of bread. “I have a friend who worked for the Seattle PD when that case was all the rage. He told me that during the FBI's preliminary investigation into all murders that resembled those of the Green River killer, they came up with something like sixty-three unsolved murders between 1973 and 1982. These murders resembled the MO
of the Green River killer. Sixty-three! The Green River killer case file officially begins with murder victims being killed in the summer of ‘82—at least that's when Seattle PD
began making connections between all the murdered prostitutes showing up around the city. Think about that—if the FBI was correct in these findings, and if we assume that most serial killers begin killing well before the police even know they have one on their hands, this maniac could have already been killing for almost a decade before anyone even caught wind of him."
Rachael sipped at her wine, listening to Daryl. The implications of what he was saying scared her. “Assuming the Indiana murders are the work of the same killer,”
Rachael proposed, “do you think it's possible that he's from that area?"
Daryl sipped his wine, pondering the question. He was silent for a moment.
Finally, he answered. “If we go on the theory that serial killers start close to home, yes, I believe he might be from the South Bend area. As to why the four year gap between those murders and the murder of Leroy Brown in ‘89, I don't know. But if you think about it, it still makes sense. Here you've got a killer who has maybe started killing people in his hometown of South Bend, Indiana. He's horrified about what he's done, but he can't help it. He fantasizes about what he's done, which fuels his obsession. After the third murder, which would have been the prostitute, he stops for awhile in an attempt to control his urges. And he's successful at it for four years. He thinks he has it beat. He lives a normal life. In time, he moves out to Los Angeles. And sometime in the months before he moves out here and when he actually arrives, those long buried urges began surfacing again. He acts on them with the murder of Leroy Brown. How does he get Leroy? Who knows. We know Leroy Brown was a known drug dealer, as were several of the gang members and ex-gang members that have fallen under the Butcher's knife. Maybe our killer is a drug user. In either event, he kills Leroy Brown and is again shocked and horrified at what he's done. He tries to suppress those urges again, and this time manages to control them for the next five years. Then he kills the woman, the victim we've come to refer as The Lady of the Ocean. Maybe she was a prostitute or a runaway. Who knows? In either case the urges were probably coming on strong again, and he was trying to suppress them. He came upon this victim at the right time and acted on them."
“Only this time he kept her,” Rachael said softly.
“Right.” Daryl looked at her, his gaze intense. “He kept her for at least three months. This helped him relive the fantasy of the hunt again. It may have also helped to satiate the urge to go out and get another victim for awhile. Because no sooner than a few months after he dumps her, actually a year or so later, he acts on those urges again and kills Lorenzo Cardena. The urges are coming more frequently now and his loss of control is apparent. He can't control himself."
Daryl was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter with their salads. He looked away for a moment while the waiter set the salads down, and they placed napkins on their laps and prepared to eat. Rachael felt her heart pounding; Daryl was really into this guy's mind. It was a little scary, but it showed that he was really dedicated to apprehending this killer. It was both a scary and an admirable thing to do.
They started eating their salads, which were delicious. Silence reigned for a minute while they ate until Rachael broke it. “So how do you think you're going to catch this guy?"
Daryl didn't answer for a long time. For a moment she was afraid that their conversation on the Butcher case had been the wrong thing to talk about; he was less focused on her and their date and was more focused now on the topic at hand, which was his job. His eyes had that intense look one gets when concentrating on an extremely difficult task. Finally he looked up from his salad and shook his head. “Hard work and a lot of luck. A lot of luck."
The rest of the evening went well. At first Rachael thought it was turning into a disaster. During the entire time they ate their salads, Daryl didn't speak. She silently cursed herself for using the Butcher case as a springboard to start conversation. She should have known that this was a big deal to him, and that his career depended on it.
Daryl was silent and introspective as he ate, pausing momentarily to smile at her and trade pleasantries on how good the salad was. By the time they were finished, the main courses were being served and they found themselves making small talk over how fast it arrived. This led into another track of dialogue—favorite restaurants, followed shortly by hobbies and family life. They ate slowly, and Rachael was relieved to discover that this new train of conversation was drawing Daryl out of his shell more. Halfway through the meal, he was his old self again. She relaxed. No more asking about the case, she told herself. Besides, he may think you're just using him to get info on the case so you can write about it in the paper.
The fact that the original reason she had flirted with him was to gain inside information and help on the Butcher case didn't bother her. That was then, this is now.
Now I'm really interested in him as a person, as a man who I am interested in seeing on a social level. I am not going to let our professional lives mix with our personal ones. I will not use our relationship to advance my career as a journalist.
For the next hour Rachael learned a lot about Daryl that she rather liked; he had graduated Magna Cum Laude from Long Beach State as a Psychology Major. He had an avid interest in history, particularly the Civil War and the Western Expansion. He loved the films of Sam Peckinpah, and had a soft spot for the old Gunsmoke Television show.
He was three years older than she was, having graduated from high school in 1979. He had been a fan of the rock band Styx in high school. Now he liked to listen to jazz fusion and classical music mostly, but he still loved classic rock and roll. He had a pit bull named Petey that he had rescued from a breeder who was planning on training the animal for dog fights—Rachael was especially touched by Petey's story. He loved to read biographies, history, or mystery novels. Blame that on the sleuth in him.
Rachael matched each bit of personal data with some of her own; she touched on her achievements at the Times; she made a brief mention of her first marriage to Bernie Jackson, skimming over the details. Daryl nodded, and something in his eyes told her that perhaps he had once gone through a similar experience. She told him she had a strong interest in films, mostly the arty kind that showed at art houses, but she did enjoy the latest blockbusters. She liked to read as well, mostly biographies of actors and actresses, but she enjoyed an occasional suspense novel or two. She claimed to be a fitness buff, confessed to her martial arts training. She also admitted her vice of listening to heavy metal while working out—Daryl got a good laugh out of that one—but the music she most enjoyed nowadays were the singer-songwriter musicians like Tori Amos, Sheryl Crow and John Mellencamp. When she had the time, she loved to cook. She had a pet, although it was a rather unconventional one: she was the proud owner of Nanka, a six foot ball python.
Daryl grinned at her over his half-eaten dish of pasta. “Somehow I can picture that,” he said. “Beautiful woman and snake. Very striking image."
Rachael felt herself blushing. “Thanks. I like Nanka because she's the only animal I've had as a pet that hasn't been selective-bred for the past two thousand years for the sole purpose of sucking up to us humans."
Daryl laughed. Rachael joined him, surprised at the spontaneity of her remark.
“Where did you grow up?” Daryl asked.
“In the south bay section,” Rachael said, picking up a piece of bread. “What about you?"
“Torrance,” Daryl said, grinning. “Small world, huh?"
“Yeah, really."
“What high school did you go to?"
“What high school did you go to?"
Daryl regarded her, grinning as he dug into his food. “North High School."
Rachael smiled. “You're right. It is a small world. But then again, you are three years older than me."
At that, Daryl tried to pump her for more information on her childhood. Rachael's comments were to the point and sparse. “I pretty much had an unremarkable childhood. I grew up there, hung out at Del Amo mall and Manhattan Beach when I was a kid, all the usual things. I left home after I graduated from high school to go to college and I really haven't been back since. When I moved back to LA, I settled first near South Pasadena, then I moved to Studio City. Been there ever since."
The rest of the evening went by quickly. After dinner, they paid their bill (Daryl had insisted on paying but Rachael refused, saying it was on her—she owed him one, remember?) and wandered down to San Fernando Road where they walked slowly up and down both sides of the busy thoroughfare, talking earnestly, window-shopping, pausing now and then to stray into some of the local shops. San Fernando Road in Burbank, south of the mall, was the latest hot spot for those seeking entertainment, especially on weekends when movie goers attended the Mann's multi-plex, and restaurants along the street had an overflowing capacity of patrons. Record and bookstores lined the boulevard along with art galleries, coffee shops, nightclubs, bars, tattoo parlors, and clothing stores.
It was a nice middle-class crowd, less trendy than Melrose or Sunset Boulevard, and definitely more relaxing.
They spent the better part of an hour wandering the ten blocks of San Fernando Road, eventually heading to the other side of the mall where the Superstores were; Barnes and Noble Bookstore, Ikea, Virgin Record Store. They spent thirty minutes at Virgin Records, browsing.
It was almost ten o'clock when they pulled up in front of Daryl's home. Daryl noted this with a laugh. “My, look at the hour! So late!"
Rachael grinned. “I never thought the day would come when ten o'clock feels late."
“You tired?"
“Not in the least."
“You in the mood for some coffee?"
“Of course."
“Good.” He led her to the house, which she liked quite a bit. The entryway opened to a modest living room, furnished with earthy sofas and chairs. The walls were cream colored, decorated with framed pieces of artwork and photos. The furniture was all neatly arranged and clean. Rachael set her purse down on the black sofa as Daryl went into the kitchen and began rummaging through the cupboards. “Cappuccino okay?"
“I love cappuccino."
“Great."
Rachael noted movement on the patio, and approached the den. A large pit bull was on the back porch looking at her through the glass door, his entire hindquarters swishing back and forth in happiness. The dog whined. Rachael turned to the kitchen.
“Your pit bull must think he's another breed or something."
“What do you mean?"
“He's not leaping at the door trying to kill me.” She laughed, bending down to be eye level with the dog, who started licking the glass door where her face was. She laughed again. “I'm afraid that if you open this door he's gonna slobber all over me."
“You're correct about that,” Daryl said, emerging from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. “Petey is actually a typical American Pit Bull Terrier because he's been raised and trained properly. Pit Bulls are really loyal, dependable, loving animals. Unfortunately their loyalty has been destroyed by people who have exploited their physical strength and endurance, which is why they've been bred as fighting dogs. They are so loyal to their owners that they'll fight to the death, all to please their masters.” He sat down on the couch and motioned for Rachael to have a seat. Petey stopped wiggling and lay down on the patio, looking inside the house smiling a doggy smile. “If I hadn't rescued Petey when I had, he would have been brought up aggressively, and even if he had been rescued at some point and later adopted out to a family, that tendency would have remained with him. That's why so many of these dogs wind up mauling children; they've been hardwired through breeding and training to attack and kill other animals, and a small child appears as another animal to these dogs. If you encourage that part of their psyche during training, or if you don't work at keeping that part of it down, you wind up with a potentially dangerous animal.” Daryl sipped his coffee and looked out the sliding glass door at Petey, who cocked his head at him questionably. “The kids next door love playing with Petey.
He loves playing with them as well."
“I'm sure they're supervised when Petey is playing with them, though,” Rachael surmised.
Daryl laughed. “Of course. That's where being a responsible dog owner comes in.
I keep Petey in the backyard during the day, and I play with him everyday after work, or we'll go for walks. He gets plenty of exercise and physical interaction with me. Pit Bulls need that kind of activity or they quickly grow bored, and with boredom comes aggression. A pit bull chained up in the backyard all day with nothing to amuse itself with becomes a very dangerous animal."
“Is it true about their jaw power?” Rachael asked, looking out at the backyard at Petey. “That they can really crush bones?"
Daryl nodded. “They're noted for the incredible strength of their biting power.
Once they grab on, nothing can make them let go. They also have an extremely high tolerance for pain. An officer I know had to pry one off of a guy in the Wilmington area and he actually shot it twice at point blank range with a shotgun before it let go of the guy's arm. The poor guys arm was so badly mangled it had to be amputated."
“Jesus!"
“Now that you know that, you'll probably have a heart attack when you see Petey grab my hand in his mouth and pull me outside when it's play time."
They spent the next hour and a half sitting on his sofa sipping coffee and talking more, mainly about the books that were crammed in his bookshelves. Rachael had noticed them while Daryl made the coffee: books on the civil war, various aspects of world and American history, archeology, genealogy, sociology and psychology. There were a few books on crime and serial murder which were resting on the coffee table that she assumed were brand new—probably bought as a result of the case he was currently working on.
There were also several books on street gangs on his bookshelf.
But the book they spent the evening talking about was Graham Hancock's Fingerprints of the Gods, a hefty volume that Rachael at first mistook for a book on ancient mythology. As she picked it up and began leafing through it, she saw that it was actually about lost civilizations. Daryl noticed the volume, and the topic of conversation centered on the book. The subject of the book sounded fascinating: using data from archeology, astronomy, and the lore of ancient writings and religions, the author hypothesized that prior to modern civilization, there was a previous, more advanced civilization that was wiped out by a catastrophic natural disaster, and that our present civilization was headed toward another one very soon. It was a fascinating subject, and Rachael found herself lost in it as she leafed through the book as Daryl pointed out various aspects of the theory to her.
And it was a mighty long discussion, too; by the time Rachael thought to check her watch it was closing in on midnight. “Well, I've really had a wonderful time, Daryl."
“So have I,” Daryl said.
“We need to do this again."
“Absolutely."
Rachael felt awkwardness coming, and rose from the sofa. She picked up her cup and Daryl rose to his feet, following suit. She put the cup on the cupboard by the sink, smiled at Daryl as she walked past him to the living room. “Mind if I use your bathroom?"
“Go right ahead,” Daryl said, beginning the task of rinsing the cups in the sink.
“Just down the hall and around the corner."
Rachael peed, then washed her hands. She felt a trifle nervous and with good reason. She really liked Daryl, and the nervousness she was feeling was that good old fashioned one she got when she was a young school girl; that feeling of being tongue-tied around whomever she had a crush on. She felt that way with Daryl and she did enjoy the feeling.
She forgot to bring her purse in the bathroom, so she grabbed a tube of toothpaste resting on the sink. She squeezed a dollop of it out on her index finger and rubbed it in her mouth, rubbing it in her teeth to freshen her breath. She replaced the toothpaste where she found it, rinsed her mouth out, then dried her hands on the towel. Then she inspected herself in the mirror one last time—she looked fine. Nervous, but fine.
When she came out of the bathroom Daryl was starting the dishwasher. Rachael picked her purse up off the couch and smiled. “Well, I don't mean to be so forward, but would you like to go out again sometime?"
“You bet I would,” Daryl grinned.
“Great!” She slung her purse over her right shoulder and together they walked to the front door. “You're in the office all next week?"
“I am so far,” Daryl said. She could detect a hint of nervousness in him as well.
“I'll give you a call."
“I can call you,” Daryl said.
She stopped at the door and turned to him. He stood there, looking rather cute, like a little boy expecting a piece of candy. She smiled at him. “I'd like that."
Daryl smiled back, and she went to him and lightly kissed his mouth. He returned the kiss, and she put her arms on his chest and kissed him again. This time he met her kiss with an equal level of passion and they moved with the kiss, his arms around her waist, her body pressed lightly into his. His mouth tasted like coffee, and she nibbled at his lips with light, playful kisses. She nuzzled his neck and hugged him. He felt strong and warm.
“I'm really glad we went out,” she said.
“Me too,” he murmured.
She felt a sense of warmth rush through her, a tingling along her arms and legs.
She drew back and looked at him . “I'll talk to you during the week?"
“You'll talk to me during the week,” he said, a dog-eared grin on his face.
“'Kay.” She smiled and they kissed again, once, but just as passionately. Then she was saying goodbye, he was opening the door for her, and she was heading outside.
She was almost halfway down the walkway to the driveway when he called out after her. “Wait a minute! How dumb of me."
She stopped. “What?"
He emerged a moment later and closed the door to his house, a sheepish grin on his face. “Let me walk you to your car."
She smiled. She hadn't even thought that he would offer to walk her to her car—
both of them had been so wrapped up in their passion for each other that such things like romantic trivialities almost went forgotten.
He walked her to her car, which was parked at the curb. The street was relatively quiet as they walked to the driver's side door of her car, a black Camaro. She unlocked it, opened the door, and threw her purse on the passenger seat. Then she turned to Daryl again. “Well, goodbye again,” she smiled.
“Goodbye,” he said.
They hugged again and kissed, and this time it felt as if this was the most significant kiss in her life. This moment was the singular, most important one of her life.
It was grand. Exquisite.
“I'll talk to you next week,” she said.
“Okay. You drive carefully,” he said.
She got into the driver's seat and he closed the door for her.
She started the car, let it warm up, and looked up to see Daryl standing on the sidewalk watching her with a boyish smile on his face. Rachael waved at him. Daryl waved back. Then she put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. Feeling more content than she had in a long time.
That feeling of contentment followed her and stayed with her throughout the weekend.