Crime Rave (18 page)

John Doe, AKA DJ Fetish

Y
ou don’t understand why Liria won’t leave you alone. You’ve done what the dead bully wanted. You confessed. Shouldn’t she go into the light or some shit? Why does she keep taunting you with that laugh and the occasional poke in the chest?

And then you remember what really happened the night she died.

You were in the park. On ecstasy. Everything was perfect. You even thought you’d ask her to marry you, so filled with love and desire and respect for this gorgeous woman.

But she laid it out differently. Her father didn’t like the idea of his precious daughter dating some working class boy, a disc jockey no less. That her family thinks you’re a bad influence with her dying her hair blue and the tongue ring, tattoos. She’s supposed to date lawyers, doctors, engineers, respectable men with family names everyone recognizes and old money. This night was her goodbye.
Let’s leave it on a beautiful note,
she says.
I really do care about you. And I’m gonna miss you. So much you don’t even know.

But you won’t take that as an answer. Just as quick as the loving feelings toward her surged they morphed into a hatred so black you didn’t even realize you’d taken out your pocket knife, the one you keep in your jeans to open plastic vinyl covers, and stabbed her a dozen times. The face, the chest, over and over again. She didn’t even have time to scream. You come to and realize what you’ve done. The love of your life is dead. By your deejaying hand.

You pick her up and hug her close, you try to breathe life back into her body, but she’s gone. You dump her in the manhole, rewriting the story in your mind. You can’t accept what you’ve done, see? You can make it different. So all you keep is the holding her, hugging her so tight, so in love, so happy. She stops breathing. You panic. You tell no one.

With the remembering comes silence. Liria stares at you, her sad eyes asking why. You imagine the wonderful future she would have had without you, and for the first time, you feel the slightest tinge of a most unfamiliar feeling: guilt. You push it down. You know if it takes root, it’ll kill you for all the things that you’ve done. All the lives you’ve ruined in just a few fell and thoughtless blows, just a few turns of your records.

1:00 PM Spruce-Musa Hospital

O
ut in the hallway Günn’s phone rings. Patrol. One body in a manhole. Crime scene investigators on site.

“Unbelievable,” Günn says as she hangs up. “The DJ’s story checked out. But Tina found knife marks on the body. Liria Fairchild was not hugged to death.”

Special Agent Quatro nods. This is not news to her. But it is news to Günn, who didn’t smell the lie because the DJ didn’t think he was lying. Quatro knows because body memory trumps the brain.

“Well then,” Quatro says, “that and the long plane ride certainly worked up my appetite. Ready to eat?”

Red Feather is pensive. “Reminds me of this one time when I was still on patrol—we got a call that some Hell’s Angels were trashing an apartment complex. We get there and it’s just one guy. The PCP levels in his blood were the highest the LAPD ever clocked. He was acting out all the parts. His buddies were in the bathroom, throats slit.”

“Where’s he now?” Quatro has a real thing for multiple personalities.

“Psych ward. Belleville. With about a dozen more personas to boot. His mind just broke on the drugs.”

“Fascinating.”

“I thought so. Then again, I suppose a poltergeist trumps a drug-fueled male biker Sybil?”

“Could be.” Quatro likes this Red Feather.

“My appetite whet even further. Shall we?” Special Agent Quatro walks toward the elevator with Red Feather at her heels.

Günn sighs. The last thing on her mind is food, but her rumbling stomach disagrees.

Detective Atticus Red Feather

T
wo weeks ago you dreamed about the explosion. It seemed so out there, even for you, that you disregarded it. Like your partner’s talent for sniffing out lies, a dream don’t hold up in court. Talk of visions will get you an appointment with the LAPD shrink and a lot of funny looks. Might even get you out of the detective circuit. And after all your clawing to get in, you’re not giving up that hold. Not now, anyway. You’ve managed to keep your visions between your partner and you, and she’s only humoring you because you’re so often right. You know on some level she thinks that it’s coincidence upon coincidence.

As much as you’ve always believed in miracles and divine intervention, it’s a whole other thing to be faced with it. Literally. It doesn’t feel as validating as you would think. Like the unknown magical forces in the world now have faces, and as marvelous as they are, it still reminds you of the scene when Dorothy pulls back the curtain to find the Great and Powerful Oz is just an old man, from her own state no less, and a fraud to boot.

You find yourself thinking about Grandfather again today. You miss him. He’d have a story to tell. He’d have an explanation for all of this. He’d probably even know right away what’s eating Günn that’s escaping you. He’d know a healing ceremony for the survivors.

All
you
can do is leave little bits of tobacco in your wake, sending up prayers and hoping for answers.

1:05 PM Spruce-Musa Hospital Cafeteria

“I
thought you were joking about the Zagat rating.” Special Agent Rosario Quatro is surprised that the cafeteria is a Michelin-starred joint rather than the run-of-the-mill hospital desperation centers that don’t have the good sense to be in Beverly Hills. High ceilings, big windows, outside seating, warm earthy tones in its interior design. The smells of made-to-order Mongolian barbeque assaults Günn’s nose and she feels her stomach turn. Red Feather and Quatro, on the other hand, salivate over the extensive sushi and salad bar as well as the assorted hot meals and daily specials like rack of lamb
persillade
and scallops in a garlic cream sauce.

“Have whatever suits your fancy, detectives. My treat.” Quatro heads for the lamb. Red Feather nods in thanks, his eyes on the Mongolian barbeque. Günn orders a plain baked potato, steamed vegetables, and a Sprite to settle her stomach. She hopes she’ll get through the meal without barfing over her colleagues’ lamb and meat plates. She hopes Red Feather doesn’t notice her carnivorous appetite is in remission.

After paying, they take a seat next to a window overlooking the hospital’s small pond. Two of three tuck into their food with gusto.

“So,” Quatro says wiping her mouth, “start from the front and fill me in.”

Red Feather appreciates her idiomatic error, English not being his first language either. His father made sure all the kids learned to think in Lakota first, English second.

Red Feather tells Quatro about the body parts impossibly found at the vaporized site and how the limbs grew in front of their eyes. The wolf girl who was missing a leg that also regenerated before she turned back into a human. The bird girl who flies and has lost the ability of human speech, but not the ability to write or eat gummy worms. The older woman in an induced coma because of an apparent internal scream that short circuits hospital machinery. A pale gentleman with very sharp incisors who claims to be a three-hundred-year-old vampire and cannot be captured on film.

Next, the DNA lab results collated by Stacey Chang: The three alien women and the so-called Roswell Institute. Their warning that mercenaries would be en route to re-incarcerate them. Their tale of the vulval pink ooze that killed Charles Wallace Crane, owner of the destroyed mansion and Hollywood hill.

The giant fifteen-year-old cyclops with the power to turn people to stone, allegedly. The woman connected with a castration murder, with only circumstantial evidence to link her to the crime. Quatro says nothing but the word “interesting” over and over.

“And that brings us to DJ Fetish, girlfriend-killer and mass murderer, now in the custody of the LAPD awaiting trial. I wouldn’t be surprised if they reinstate the death penalty for this bastard.” Red Feather’s food cools. He’s lost his appetite.

Günn never had an appetite in spite of her stomach’s protestations to feed it. She manages to squeeze down a few bites of potato without gagging.

Agent Quatro turns to Günn. “And you, detective, anything to add? You do seem a bit distracted.”

“Yeah, sorry, this has been an exceedingly strange day.”

“Strange is the new normal,” Quatro says. Both detectives agree. Red Feather chuckles around the food in his mouth. The food is too good to lose one’s appetite, as unsavory as the topics may be.

Günn pushes her plate away and sips on her Sprite. “I get a feeling that Karma Devi is lying. Or at least holding something back,” Günn says.

“Why do you say so?” Quatro responds, cocking her head to the side.

“Just a hunch,” Günn shrugs, avoiding Quatro’s penetrating gaze.

“But her hunches are rarely wrong.” Red Feather chimes in, mouthful of beef, appetite restored by the perfectly marinated and grilled meat.

“I’m the same. So how do your hunches work? Tingles? Hives?” Quatro asks, eyes twinkling.

“Actually,” Günn looks embarrassed, “I can smell them. Lies, I mean.”

“Hmm.” Quatro doesn’t look even the slightest bit surprised. “That must be very useful. I would think in relationships also.”

“Not so much. Sometimes it’s better to not know every little thing. I can even smell white lies, but they’re a little sweeter.”

“So tell me, detective, why do you have such a problem believing in the werewolf and vampire when you yourself are a bit supernatural?”

Günn fidgets, not having known she could be even more uncomfortable.

“My nose is not admissible in court, ma’am. It’s just a guide. And if the person believes the lie, then I can’t smell it. Case in point: The DJ. He didn’t believe he stabbed her so I didn’t smell it.” Günn looks from Red Feather to Quatro. “Vampires, werewolves, the blob? That’s the stuff of bad horror movies. There’s going to be another explanation for all this.”

“And if there’s not?” Quatro persists.

“There has to be.” Günn’s blind insistence bothers her lunchmates.

Quatro smiles. “I have a gift, too.” She raises her hands, palms up. “I touch and I get stories.”

Red Feather and Günn understand her eyes-closed handshake now.

“
That
must be difficult,” Red Feather says, not even wanting to imagine what it would feel like. He’d never touch anyone again.

“Not when I embrace it as my power.” Quatro looks neither sad nor lonely. “All the lives I’ve saved, the criminals I’ve taken down with these two at my sides. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Quatro looks at Günn. “Maybe you’d be interested in joining my team when then is over?”

Günn is flattered. “Appreciate the offer, but I don’t really know what these next months will bring.”

Red Feather looks puzzled.
Why wouldn’t she know?

“And speaking of ‘powers,’” Günn does air quotes, “Red Feather here has dreams that solved cases. Mostly cold ones.”

Interest piqued, Quatro forgets all about her lamb and looks at Red Feather with her intuitive eyes. “Tell me your favorite solve.”

Red Feather considers. “Last year I dreamed I was investigating the disappearance of four girls. Günn and I were driving along this twisty lane lined with apple trees to a run-down hotel near Victorville, ‘bout an hour from here. The last place the girls used their credit cards. In the dream Günn and I go there, the owner of the B&B is an old prostitute: gaunt, eaten up by things she’s done, terrible things done to her, all the awful she’s seen. I ask her about the girls. She tells me they came in to the restaurant bar, sexy, tipsy, wanted to sleep in the woods after a few more drinks. Two of her regulars were the other patrons. The town drunk and his deformed son. The girls are nice to the son—they’re just nice girls, you know? Daddy takes this as some sort of invitation.”

“Still the dream?” Quatro interrupts.

“Yes, ma’am. The old hooker tries to get the girls to stay in her place. She knows what that drunk and his son are capable of. She’s seen mutilated animals around. Knows it’s
that mongoloid
. Her words. The girls go off into the woods. Nobody sees them again. I wake up. At the time we had a caseload lull so Günn and I drove out there, she’s pissing and moaning the whole time.”

Quatro laughs, not surprised. Günn shoots him a scathing look.

“We found the B&B just as in my dream. The old prostitute. Our conversation, almost word for word. We go and find that man and his son, who local police never bothered even questioning. The word of an old whore worth about, oh, just less than less of nothing. The old man was a smug bastard. High on secrets. Desperate to confess, I could feel it. ‘We’re here to ask you about some missing girls,’ I say. He takes us to a clover field behind his house, a well in the middle. Lifts the top—the stench of blood and gore was ridiculous. Body parts. Some still bloody. By the time forensics was done they’d IDed thirty-six different donors. All young women. We don’t even know how far back he started, but carbon dating on the oldest bones dated back to the seventies. And one of the bodies was his wife, mother of the deformed son. She was probably the first.”

“Why’d he confess?”

“He had cancer. Terminal. Wanted his son in jail where he’d be cared for.”

Quatro nods, thoughtful. “How often do you dream like this?”

“Often enough. I don’t always have the liberty to follow up, but when there’s a quiet time I look into what I can. I actually dreamed about our explosion, couple weeks back. Thought it was too far-fetched to warrant a mention.” Red Feather knows there’s nothing he could have done to stop it, but feels guilty regardless.

Quatro takes a bite of lamb. “So, did you find the alien women’s statements to be trustworthy?”

Red Feather is surprised by the sudden change of topic, and a twinge of regret he’d shared something so intimate. He wonders why he too didn’t get an offer for Quatro’s team.

Günn nods, “Absolutely. Anyway, I smelled nothing. And they’ve no reason to lie. Unless my gift as you called it doesn’t work on extraterrestrials. I just don’t see why they would lie if they’re prisoners in what sounds like a torture chamber. It’s in their best interest to stay out of there and in our custody.”

“You think the LAPD will treat them better?”

“At least until you people or the Pentagon or whomever takes them to another facility like the one they escaped from. Or they free themselves.”

“Very cynical of you, detective,” Quatro smiles.

“I’ve never been inclined toward the softer side of life. That’s his job,” Günn points her thumb at Red Feather.

“Interesting. So you’re okay with aliens, but not vampires and werewolves?” Quatro looks from one detective to the other, chewing her lamb.

Günn’s shackles rise. “There’s long been empirical evidence of alien life forms.”

“But according to your interviews you have empirical evidence of vampires and werewolves upstairs along with the aliens.”

Before Günn can fire back, Quatro’s phone rings, breaking her momentum. “Special Agent Quatro here,” she says with a piece of meat still tucked in the side of her cheek.

Assistant Chief Gabriel Ortiz is on the other end. “You need to return to the station immediately. We’ve had a development.”

“What is it, Chief?”

“Charles Wallace Crane’s ex-wife is here with a letter. You want to be here when we question her.”

“I’m on my way.” Quatro hangs up. “It seems the illustrious Charles Wallace Crane had some last words for us. His ex is at the station with a letter.” Quatro folds up her napkin and places it over her plate. “This is where I leave you. May I take the videos of the interviews you’ve already done?”

“Sure, no problem.” Günn digs into her bag and hands the carefully bagged and tagged tapes to Agent Quatro.

Quatro hands over her business card to both detectives. “Please call me right away with any new information as you finish the interviews.”

“Of course.” Red Feather pockets Quatro’s card. “Good luck. And thanks for lunch.”

Quatro nods. “I appreciate all the help and insight. I hope to chat with you two again before I’m back on the road. Dinner? Tomorrow night? Something exotic we can eat with our hands. Ethiopian food? Indian?”

The detectives agree, though Günn feels her stomach turn at the thought.

Quatro strides out of the cafeteria, the tapes banging against her side as she walks, turning several heads in the process and not because of the noise.

“She’s a trip,” Red Feather says, chuckling.

“Yeah, if she said ‘interesting’ one more time,” Günn complains.

“English isn’t her native language. It’s common behavior speaking in a foreign tongue,” Red Feather shrugs. The thought never occurred to Günn.

“And how she got us to tell her all that stuff before we even realized we were doing it,” Günn shakes her head. “She totally played us. That’s why they pay her the big bucks, I guess.”

“Good food, though,” Red Feather says.

Günn deconstructs her baked potato and pushes it around her plate. “So, why are
you
so okay with all this crazy shit?”

Red Feather smiles. “I guess I always believed in magic. Now I’ve got proof.”

“This isn’t magic, this is,” Günn pauses, searching for the right word, “madness.”

“Depends on how you look at it. Lakota history is filled with people coming back to life all the time. Iktomi, the trickster, is always getting hurt, losing limbs, and they come back.”

“But he’s a god. And he’s only a story.”

Red Feather’s shackles rise. “It’s not a story, it’s Lakota history. One way my people have been undermined constantly and consistently through American history is from white people saying our ancestry, our experiences, are only stories. Or worse, myths. Iktomi is real, just as those women up there are real.” Red Feather pauses. “And who knows, maybe
they
are gods. I never heard of a mortal who could turn someone to stone with her eyes, have you?”

“We don’t even have proof she can do that. I didn’t see it.”

“And if you did? Synthia, you have a background in forensics. You of all people should know that the evidence doesn’t lie. And all the evidence points to these things being true. And if they
are
true, then the world is nothing like we ever thought it was, and never will be again.”

Günn doesn’t want to live in a world where body parts grow into monsters, where ghosts bully a man into confessing his crimes, where vampires and werewolves exist.

“Why are you being so stubborn anyway?” Red Feather throws back.

Günn has no answer.
Fucking pregnancy hormones! Dammit! I’m not acting like myself.
Irrational thoughts flit through her mind as she works to maintain her stance of disbelief.
What if. What if. What if.

“I dunno. Probably getting my period.”
I wish.
“Come on. Let’s hit the road. We still got eight of these bad boys to do.” Günn throws her napkin over her picked-at food.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about who the other survivors might be or what they can do? Why they came back?”

“I just want to do my job and get the hell out of here.” Günn stands, pretending to brush crumbs from her lap just so she doesn’t have to meet his inquiring eyes.

“As you wish.” Red Feather grabs their trays and puts them on the cart. “Aho! It’s a good day for a brave new world.”

Günn scrunches her mouth, scowling and wondering when the hell—or if ever—she’s going to break it to him about their baby.