Undead L.A. 1 (8 page)

“Do you have any leads? I mean who would have done something like this to her?”

“
We're working on it,” Gary said, trying to mask his disgust. He was fairly sure if he looked around he would find some kind of evidence linking Randy to the crime. Killers loved to keep trophies.

“
Will you let me know?”

“
It will probably be in the papers,” Arnold informed him, in a hurry to get out the door. Arnold was a big guy who liked to keep every part of his day on a schedule. It was getting late in the afternoon and Arnold was itching to get lunch. Gary had promised he'd take him out to Canter's Deli if he started in on the paperwork for the murder book. Arnold regretted it now because it would mean more time wasted sitting down and waiting to be served.

Gary felt for sure that he was close to something. It gave him a buzz he could feel all the way down to the marrow of his bones. The last thing he wanted now was to slow down. He would have to do his best to convince his partner to take a rain check on his corned beef and settle for a trip through the drive in at either Chick-fil-A or In-N-Out Burger on Sunset, depending on which one was more backed up. In the meantime, he needed to rattle Randy a little bit and see if he reacted.

“Do you mind if I use the bathroom?” Gary started to walk from the cramped living room toward the hallway as if he'd already been given permission. Randy stepped in front of him, arms akimbo to keep him from going further into the apartment.

“
It's broken,” he said. “The manager said she'd get a plumber up here sometime today.”

“
Broken?” Gary made no move to back away. “How do you relieve yourself?”

“
There's a Starbucks on the corner,” Randy said, pointing toward the front door. “They'll let you go if you buy something.”

“
Seems pretty inconvenient.”

“
It is. Matter of fact I'm going to call her about it right now, that is if we are done here.”

“
If we have any more questions we will let you know,” Arnold said, opening the front door and stepping outside. He gave Gary an impatient look. Gary followed him, feeling a little defeated. Something inside told him this was his killer, he just needed a little more time to prove it.

“
Good luck, Detectives. I hope you get your man.”

Gary looked up in shock to see Randy staring at him with the remains of a smirk slowly fading off his face.

“Don't worry,” Gary said, locking eyes with Randy. “We will. We always do.”

“
Well,” Randy smugly corrected him, “not always.”

Almost a month had passed since that meeting and in that time Gary had worked hard to learn everything he could about the five previous victims and their connection to Randy. He'd also put together a fairly extensive folder on his suspect, using every resource at his disposal. He'd been exceedingly thorough, knowing it could be the smallest detail that gave his killer away. He was proud of the work he had done, but also increasingly worried about what it suggested. Each of the victims had gone missing the day before and turned up a day later. Each and every one of them had been sexually assaulted, strangled, and then displayed in a precise manner. Last but most importantly, each of them had been murdered between four and six weeks from the previous victim. The first victim had been posed up in the mountains near a popular hiking trail in the hills above Malibu. The killer had plenty of time to do his work without detection. The last had been so brazen it was a wonder he wasn’t caught right in the act. Gary knew that killers grew more bold and more reckless as they continued to get away with their crimes. He also knew that the need to kill – the gnawing hunger working inside these depraved sociopaths – grew stronger over time as well, and that Randy wasn't far from his next feeding.

“I've got to play this just right,” he reminded himself as he prepared to go back into the interview room and face the man he knew in his heart was responsible for unspeakable evil.

He flipped through the folder once more to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He'd been able to pick up a great deal about his suspect’s childhood from just reading through the newspaper archives in several Florida publications. He added pieces that had been missing by making several phone calls to an old friend who had connections to the Florida Department of Juvenile Justice.

“You know you can't use any of this stuff,” his buddy, Ray Sanchez, told him. “Not officially, anyway. But there is stuff in here you should know about.”

Ray and Gary had partnered up during his first days on the force. Ray dropped out, opting for a quieter life in Florida, around the same time that Gary made detective. He'd married a woman who worked in Juvenile Records. A year later he was back on the force, unable to shake the call of duty: to protect and serve. He was now the same rank of detective that Gary was – third class. Ray worked a lot on sexually motivated crimes, so Gary had naturally wanted his input when it came to Randy.

“Just trying to build up a profile on my suspect,” Gary told him. “Wanna make sure I have all the pieces to the puzzle I can get my hands on.”

“
You should leave his profiling to the bureau. The Big G is gonna swoop in anyway if you connect all the dots. You know that, right? Don't bust your hump to give
them
extra credit.”

“
I'm not convinced this is a serial yet,” Gary lied, trying to downplay his hand. Friend or not, one slip up could mean drawing the attention of the FBI. Once they got wind of a case like this they came in and snatched it away without warning. ‘Bigfooting’ is what it was called. He'd had it happen once before and never forgot the sting. “But let's just keep it between us for the time being.”

“
Whatever you say, Wendell.”

But Gary's efforts to get information on Randy didn't stop there. He'd also made calls to several foster parents who had tried to help him in the past. None of them were still in contact or had even heard from Randy. None of them were all that surprised to have another cop calling about him either. They made it clear that Randy had been a troubled child, in and out of Juvenile Hall. One went so far as to suggest that he might be demonically possessed, and that she had personally witnessed him committing acts of Satan worship in her very backyard.

“I sent him packing that same day,” the elderly woman sternly assured Gary. “This is a Christian home and we don't have no patience for that kind of filth. May the Lord have mercy on his soul.”

Gary had even conducted a Skype interview with the former Director of Child Services, Maria Warner. She explained that it was believed that Randy had been born somewhere in Florida to a teenage prostitute, then given up as a ward of the State shortly after. He'd been in and out of several foster homes as a child, being removed for behavioral problems in some instances, but was ultimately removed due to abuse in the most disturbing case. Bruising and cut marks on his arms had eventually lead his social worker to discover his new father had not only been beating him, but forcing Randy to perform lewd acts on him while he took pictures of it with an instant camera. When the police finally brought the hammer down on his foster Dad they discovered a shoebox in the back of the closet filled with years worth of photos, over a decade of sad, naked children staring back at them from heavy white rectangles, all with the same dick in their mouths.

Little monsters come from big monsters.

His foster dad was sentenced to a few years in prison while Randy was sent to counseling and put right back into the system. His next foster parents worked with mentally retarded kids as well as troubled kids. Randy was fifteen by the time the Cohen's took him into their home in Sarasota. They had a thirteen-year-old daughter named Beth who suffered from slight mental retardation. Her parents had chosen to home school her. Gary easily tracked down Mrs. Cohen using the phone book. Mitzi talked about Randy being a shy, nervous boy with a gift for music. She also talked about how kind he was, how much time he spent looking after Beth and making sure nobody teased or took advantage of her.

Nobody but him
, thought Gary.

Mitzi told him that Beth had passed away a few years back in a car accident that took her husband as well. They had been going for a quick run to the store to get ice cream.

“She never did like to wear her seat belt,” Mitzi said, getting choked up at the memory of her daughter. “She said it made her feel trapped. She was such a sweet girl; a good girl. That's one of the reasons I will always be grateful for having Randy in our home. He saw past her condition. Maybe it was because of all the pain he'd experienced in life, or maybe because of how sensitive he is. He saw how special Beth was and he made other people see it too.”

Gary didn't know if he was right in his suspicions that everything had started with Beth, so he kept it to himself. He didn't see the point of shattering the memories of a lonely old widow, when they were the only things she had left. Randy didn't kill Beth, but he might have touched her. Gary wished he could have talked to the young woman and found out how they'd spent their time when Randy lived with her family.

After that, Randy had moved out to Los Angeles and started taking music classes at a center in Hollywood. When Gary tried to look up the records for the school, he learned they'd gone out of business. The building that once housed the so-called university didn't even exist anymore. It had been burned down, probably for the insurance money.

Randy had moved into a cheap apartment in a bad part of South Hollywood, in a gang neighborhood run by White Fence. He took a job washing dishes at a restaurant up on Sunset, but sold weed on the side to make ends meet. That's how he caught his first bust – possession with intent to distribute. He pled guilty and served six weeks in the Honor Farm up at Wayside.

Ranchero
, Gary smirked.
Nothing but a breeding ground for career criminals. They send them in over petty offenses and while they are there these dirtbags make all the connections they need to further their ambitions as career criminals. It's like a goddamn country club for creeps.

When Randy got out he agreed to teach music lessons to mentally challenged kids as part of his probation. He did so well he started his own tutoring company. He'd been in business for years and was highly recommended by all the parents of the kids he worked with. He even volunteered during summer at a camp for kids with special needs held in the Santa Monica Mountains – not more than a mile from where the first body was found.

That's probably where he met the other victims,
Gary thought, feeling a twinge of excitement. He was close now and he knew it.
All you have to do is get him talking and make him feel comfortable.

“
Hey! Snap out of it!”

Arnold was loudly snapping his fingers in front of Gary's face. Gary fought back the urge to break Arnold's hand. He'd been drifting off, lost in his memories. He had his suspect still waiting for him in the hot box and now it had nearly been an hour.

“You with us? Hello?”

“
Yeah, asshole,” Gary murmured. “I'm with you. Just boning up on my angle. I don't want to blow this.”

“
You better not fucking blow this,” Arnold said. “Get your head together, man. This is your chance to do some serious fucking good. Even if this guy appeals for the rest of his life and fights the death penalty – and on some liberal judges sensitive-pussy bleeding-heart-ruling gets life without parole, he's never gonna see the light of day again. That's not something you go into with your head half cocked. You understand old timer?”

The other detectives had taken to giving him shit every time he zoned out around the office, suggesting he had the early onset of Alzheimer's. It was the first time his partner had piled on him over his age. As the lead detective, Gary called all the shots and Arnold did what he was told. It didn't take an overpriced Beverly Hills headshrinker for Gary to figure out that Arnold resented the arrangement.

At six-foot-four and two hundred and fifty pounds, Arnold wasn't the kind of guy who was used to having anyone tell him what to do. He'd been a head cracker, working gang units in South Central, before making detective. His no-nonsense approach to the job earned him a lot of respect with their boss, Lieutenant Avery, a professional climber who lived and breathed politics, but it had begun to rub Gary wrong lately. He'd come up too fast. There was something suspicious about it.

A guy like Arnold Burns shouldn't be handed a job in Hollywood Homicide
, Gary thought.
He should have to work his way up to it, starting out in the Valley or maybe down in Southgate. He shouldn't just get a ticket to the big show on his first run
.

But if Arnold had a connection to Avery or anyone else in the department, it was unspoken. Gary suspected that the job promotion had been part of some cover up inside the department, an incentive for Arnold to keep his mouth shut about what he knew or what he had seen. Working down in gangland meant learning a lot of ugly secrets about the way things operate in Los Angeles. It was a murky world full of shadows and money, where what you kept to yourself was just as important as what you told your partner. If Arnold had made a deal to get into Hollywood, he knew enough to keep his trap shut about it.