12 Days (24 page)

He gave the Captain the address and explained the situation, how the killer had struck Lisa. The Captain told Jim to stay with her, that he would be on his way. Jim hung up and stroked Lisa’s blood-soaked hair.

“Don’t die, Lisa,” he said quietly as the crowd gathered around and the sirens drew closer. “Please don’t die.”

Chapter Eleven: Paying the Piper

Day 7: 10:18 p.m.

The man the police knew as Marty Lord drove towards the 10 freeway, constantly checking his rearview mirror for the flashing lights that never showed. That was as close as he’d gotten to being caught. He knew that the situation had spiraled out of control and he didn’t like it. He wanted to be remembered as an extraordinary killer with a plan, not a maniac who killed people to protect his own skin. First the meter maid, now the girl from the dark-haired cop’s car. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Now he could not go home, he would have to live in his truck, which the police were looking for everywhere. And he still had Phyllis under a tarp in the back.
Where are my pills?
he wondered. He found some in the center console and swallowed them dry. He had to lay low until the morning, find a place to rest, and figure out what to do with Phyllis.
Where to go, where to go?
His decision was made for him when he saw the freeway signs for Griffith Park.

Day 7: 10:31 p.m.

“Hold on baby. Hold on, please God.”

Jim was at Lisa’s side as they rode in the back of the ambulance. Her left lung had dropped, probably from a fractured rib that punctured the pleural sac, so the EMT had performed a needle aspirate on the effected side. She also was having difficulty breathing, meaning intubation was necessary. Jim gladly volunteered to work the “ambu” bag. Lisa was in bad shape; the emergency medical team was unable to clear her cervical spine; she was immobilized with a neck brace and it looked like she had a fractured femur in her left leg as well. She had two large bore intravenous lines running and from what Jim could tell from the monitor, her blood pressure had dropped to an uncomfortably low level. Jim worked the bag with his right hand and checked his watch for the time. At most, they were five minutes from the hospital.
Hang on, honey
, he thought,
please hang on
.

That motherfucker Marty Lord was a dead man. Jim didn’t care if he was a cop, detective, or what. He was going to put a bullet in that bastard’s head. One way or another, Jim Jovian was going to end the “Birdman’s” life and put a stop to this madness once and for all.

Day 7: 10:33 p.m.

Marty, who really was Mickey, found a quiet spot to park his car, not too far from the Observatory. It took him a few minutes to calm down and get his bearings. He searched the glove compartment and found some pills, as well as the lipstick case that he had removed from Giselle’s purse as a souvenir. He swallowed an Oxycontin and closed his eyes. What was the next move? It was going to be hard to finish his script at this point, but he had made a commendable effort. The dark-haired cop had turned out to be a very clever and formidable adversary. He still had Phyllis in the back of his truck; maybe he should just end the thing and let her go. Phyllis had been kind to him; he could return the favor. He opened his door and made his way to Phyllis, who had been laying very quietly under the tarp. When he removed the tarp, it became obvious as to why. Phyllis Crenshaw was duct taped to the wheelchair, which was on its side. Problem was, she was ashen and lifeless. He quickly realized he had put the tape too close to her nose and poor lonely Phyllis had suffocated on New Year’s Eve. For a second he felt a pang of remorse; all she wanted was a little company.
Well, she will have plenty of friends in Heaven
, he reasoned.
They will love her up there.
It made him feel much better.

Day 7: 10:45 p.m.

Jim sat in the surgery waiting room in a state of utter helplessness. Lisa had been taken straight to the operating room upon arrival at Huntington Memorial Hospital, a level 1 trauma center located in Pasadena. He replayed the moments before the crash again in his mind. He could see her waving the invoices in glee, standing outside the front passenger door. He could see the flatbed strike her and send her flying through the air.

It was sickening to remember, but there was nothing he could have done, except maybe leave her at home. It was police business; there was no reason to take her with him. It was his fault, he knew it. She should have stayed at the apartment and waited for him but she was so excited. This was on him. The guilt made Jim want to scream at the top of his lungs, but he knew that it wouldn’t make Lisa heal, or stop the killings. He had to pull his shit together fast. Marty Lord was still out there, and like a cornered animal, he was going to be that much more dangerous. Any criminal that knows that the end is near has nothing left to lose, and in such a state, he was capable of absolutely anything.

Day 7: 11:58 p.m.

Rod Babakhanian was not in a good mood. It was New Year’s Eve and he was alone, again. For the third straight year after his divorce, Rod was on track to celebrate the onset of the coming year without a companion. The only thing to keep him warm on this night was the tequila that filled the bottle in his right hand. The preceding year had been particularly difficult for Rod. He lost a good paying job, his condominium in Glendale, and his will to live. This night he set out from his parents’ home for the Hyperion Bridge with the intention of jumping into the Los Angeles River at the stroke of midnight. As he approached the bridge’s midpoint, he saw the woman in the wheelchair, perched beneath the streetlight.
Fuck
, Rod thought,
how am I supposed to do this with that lady sitting there?
He approached what he assumed was a sleeping vagrant and briefly touched her shoulder.

“Miss, miss,” he said, to no response.

It was then that Rod saw the duct tape and the lifeless eyes.
Oh shit
, he thought,
could this year get any worse?
Rod knew that his plans were essentially over so he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. Besides, he’d been presented with the face of death, and he didn’t like it. He heard car horns blare in the distance, signaling the New Year. He took a swig of alcohol then a deep breath, shocked at what he had almost done and, too distracted to notice, didn’t see the number eight written in red lipstick under the sweaty bangs on the dead woman’s forehead.

Day 8: 2:36 a.m.

Captain Jones sat next to Detective Jovian in the surgery waiting room, considering his next move. Jim had provided a full report on the previous evening’s events, from his trip to Dairy Farms to the ambulance ride to the hospital. The Captain was once again impressed by Jim’s ability to get into the killer’s mind but very dismayed that Jim had put the woman in danger. And she wasn’t just any woman; she was a witness to the first murder. Why did Detective Jovian have that woman in his car while he was pursuing a potential victim? It seemed that Jim had shown an incredible lack of judgment. He was about to ask Jim a question when his phone went off.

Day 8: 4:06 a.m.

He took his last pill and considered his options. He could not go on without the narcotics but he wasn’t sure that he could safely go home and replenish his supplies. If the police were there, he would be arrested and die in a jail cell on their terms. He could take his own life and go down in a blaze of poetic glory but he wanted to accomplish one last task before he died. He wanted to meet the dark-haired cop, the man who had gotten so close, the one whom somehow seemed to be just one step behind him. Moriarty had Holmes, the Joker had Batman, and Mickey known as Marty had his dark-haired detective. He had to look into this man’s eyes. He had to have the big showdown. It was the only appropriate way to end such an epic story. He put his truck in drive and headed for the Fruit streets.

Day 8: 5:41 a.m.

“She’s going to live.”

Dr. Rooney’s words washed over Jim like a warm shower. The doctor was exhausted from the hours of work, but he had saved Lisa and that’s all that mattered to Jim. She had a pneumothorax on the right lung, which required a chest tube, and a ruptured spleen, which had cost her a lot of blood. The orthopedic surgeon confirmed that Lisa had not suffered a spinal cord injury but the fractured femur necessitated intramedullary nailing. Translated: a real mess, but a good chance of a full recovery. Lisa was being wheeled directly to the Intensive Care Unit for monitoring and they would know more over the next few hours. The surgeon told the detective that he would not be able to talk to her just yet and that if he wanted to get some rest this was the time. Jim thanked the doctor and promised to be back in little while.

There was an important matter of picking up some invoices in West Covina.

Day 8: 5:45 a.m.

Dawn was breaking on the eighth day. He parked his truck behind the football field at West Covina High School and began the quarter mile walk to his home in the early morning light. The sun had not yet fully risen and he hoped that the darkness would prevent the casual observer from noticing the man with the limp who had become a celebrity in Los Angeles over the past week. He made the turn at Apple and was surprised at the lack of police presence in front of the Crenshaw residence and the absence of law enforcement in front of his own home. There appeared to be a single black and white in Phyllis’ driveway, along with the car with the missing door. They must have found her body on the bridge, he thought, a lucky break for him.

He opened the side door and entered his lair. He went straight for the bathroom to grab some pills, which he ate voraciously. He needed to lie down for a while. He changed his shirt, threw himself on the couch and closed his eyes, praying for sleep that, for him, was so elusive.

Day 8: 6:01 a.m.

Jim had left his car at Phyllis Crenshaw’s house. He was certain that it would have been towed but a call to impound revealed they had been instructed to not touch it because it might disrupt a crime scene. He called his old buddy Roy Winston from the West Covina police department for a ride. When Roy was apprised of the situation, he came without question, on his day off, to pick Jim up at the hospital.

“Look, Roy, I know that you and the guys were upset about the detective thing. But I want you to know; I didn’t ask for a promotion, I mean that.”

“Relax, man, we’re cool,” Roy said. “I don’t need that pressure in my life anyway. I like it out here in West Covina. I don’t have any ladder to climb.”

They turned onto Apple and stopped in front of the Crenshaw home. The signs of carnage were all around. The passenger side door to Jim’s car had been ripped from its hinges and was now laying on the milk maid’s front lawn. Jim did not look at his car; he was focused on the street. Dried blood was everywhere; Lisa’s blood. He was frozen in place, unable to move from the anger and shock at seeing Lisa’s blood splattered on the street, by a madman that Jim was going to kill, once he found him.

“You were right about the Crenshaw woman,” Jones added. “We found her on the Hyperion Bridge, bound and gagged. She suffocated. Lord duct taped her mouth and nose; she didn’t stand a chance.”