JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps (23 page)

The last fourteen years flashed before him; the crime that had created the undying hate for Rodrigo's kind—gang members that murdered innocent people; the crime that had taken his wife and unborn baby, the anguish he had felt for months, years on end, the pain he had lived with, the pain others had experienced because of this man and others like him.

He had waited so long for this moment.

The room grew tense. Daryl felt as if he was in a vacuum. His mind focused on the man cowering before him, staring at him with eyes that showed no signs of recognition.
The bastard doesn't even recognize me
!

Daryl's finger tightened on the trigger.

Steve Howe's voice burned in his mind as he spoke behind him. “I wouldn't shoot him if I were you, pal. We got a dozen FBI agents here and we don't want them involved.

Get the motherfucker out now and we'll deal with his ass later. Let's not fuck things up now, okay?"

It was that which cut through Daryl's system and snapped him out of his haze. He blinked back the fantasy of Rodrigo Arroyo's splattered brains on the back wall of the closet and took a deep breath, composing himself. Steve was beside him a moment later, gun trained on Arroyo. “Get your fucking wetback ass out of that closet now! Put your hands out and over your head and crawl out of that closet on your knees, motherfucker.

Do it
now
!"

Rodrigo Arroyo was shaking in fear. He complied, his limbs trembling. Daryl took another deep breath, refocusing his attention: place Arroyo in custody with the rest of the home's occupants in the living room and let the FBI handle the processing. He walked toward the wall quickly and turned back as Rodrigo finally made his way out of the closet. He lay flat on his stomach at Steve's instruction, and Daryl kept his piece trained on him as Steve quickly slapped the cuffs on and hauled him to his feet.

“Remember me?” Daryl said, approaching Arroyo. The suspect only looked at Daryl as he shook his head mutely.

“Then remember this,” Daryl said, driving a fist hard into Rodrigo's groin, crushing his testicles. Rodrigo doubled over in pain, gasping for breath. Steve cast a warning glance at him and Daryl met his gaze.
Don't fuck with me on this
. Steve looked away and led Rodrigo out of the room, who was doubled over gasping for breath, paralyzed with pain.

Leaving Daryl in the back bedroom. Alone.

And seething with rage.

God, he had wanted to pump all twelve rounds of his magazine into that pathetic piece of shit. How he had wanted to drag that bastard out of the closet and personally beat his skull in with his bare hands. He felt such immense rage and hatred now, that he wanted to go somewhere and vent. The pressure was building. With the Butcher case going nowhere, with everybody chasing their own goddamned tails, his relationship with Rachael all fucked up—she had recently told him she thought they needed a break from each other, can you fucking
believe that
?—and now finally seeing that long ago hated face of Rodrigo Arroyo, Daryl had to vent. He couldn't go back out on the streets and pick on some puny gang banger like he used to. The department was really starting to crack down on cops who abused civilians, and Daryl had already come close to being investigated once. He had to be careful now, but goddamn, he had to let all the rage and pain and hate out somehow—

“Daryl, you still back there?” Steve's voice, calling back to him. Daryl bristled at the sound of it, but deep down he knew Steve was simply looking out for him. He took a deep breath to compose himself, replaced his piece in his holster and headed out the room to join the rest of the Task Force in the living room.

Detective Daryl Garcia had just gotten back to Parker Center and was just about to sit down at his desk when Sergeant Dickinson called him. “Garcia! I need to see you please."

The tone of voice that Sergeant Dickinson used told Daryl that he meant business.

He wanted to see Daryl
right now
.

His mind still on the raid and his confrontation with Rodrigo Arroyo, Daryl headed toward Dickinson's office. The Sergeant looked up from his desk as Daryl entered. “Close the door, please."

Daryl closed the door, a small sliver of worry in his gut. He crossed over to a chair and sat down in front of Dickinson's desk. The hairs along the back of his neck crept up; it felt that everybody was watching them through the glass walls of Dickinson's office.

Private meetings behind closed doors with Sergeant Dickinson usually meant only one thing: you were fucked.

Sergeant Dickinson looked across his paper littered desk with red rimmed eyes.

He was a big man, with a barrel chest, a square jaw, and a crew cut that was rapidly turning gray. Prior to joining the LAPD, he had served in the Army and had done two tours of duty in Vietnam. He had brought his military expertise to the LAPD and he ran his division like a drill sergeant as well. Some of the other guys in the department thought Dickinson was a hard ass, but he wasn't any more strict than other supervisors Daryl had had in the past. It took a hard ass to do the job well.

“Do the names Rudy Montego and Frankie Rodriguez mean anything to you, Daryl?” Dickinson looked at him with cold, gray eyes.

Daryl felt his stomach sink. He tried to keep his composure strong in Dickinson's presence, but his heart was hammering hard in his chest. “Of course,” he said slowly.

“Steve and I busted them last year for the murder of that little girl in Echo Park. It was a drive-by thing, they—"

“I already know the case, Garcia, spare me the explanation.” Dickinson leaned back with a scowl. He looked pissed off. “What I don't seem to understand is why these two young men would suddenly level charges of police brutality against you and your partner? And furthermore, that you had planted evidence which implicates them in this crime!"

Daryl felt his blood boil and he fought to control himself. He felt that everything was falling apart around him. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the uphill battle.

He managed a smile. “I'm surprised at you, Dickinson. You actually believe a couple of twice convicted felons?"

“In this case, I don't know what to believe,” Dickinson said, his voice gritty. “All I know is that after sitting in the LA County Jail for almost a year, the DA has decided that they can't prosecute this case because they feel there is not enough evidence to convict.

Furthermore, defense attorneys for both defendants have brought it to our attention that the only reason they were singled out for the crime was because they bore a slight resemblance to the actual killer, that you—"

“There's more than that, Dickinson, and you know it,” Garcia said, feeling his blood boil. “They were picked out of line-ups by three witnesses to the shooting, the spent casings matched the gun found in their apartment, physical evidence in the vehicle they used to commit the shooting matches the crime, and—"

“They say you beat a confession out of them and that
you
planted a gun on them,”

Dickinson said, his square jaw set in anger.

Daryl sighed. “Look, they came at us, Dickinson. Yeah we might have roughed them up a little bit, but they resisted arrest, one of them actually assaulted Steve, and yeah, we bashed them a bit to get them under control. What the hell did you expect us to do?"

“I expect you to follow department procedure and give people the respect they deserve when they are being placed in custody!” Dickinson thundered. “I do
not
need a bunch of rogue cops in my department!"

“Rogue cops, huh? You think I like kicking ass on gang members because I ain't got nothing better to do?"

“I don't know what to believe,” Dickinson said, his face turning red. “But I
do
know that in the last year-and-a-half, I've received more complaints about you abusing people in your charge than any other officer in the field."

“Really? Why is this the first I've heard of this?” In reality, Daryl was only aware of one complaint against him, but that was three years ago and Dickinson had told him privately that the charges in question were bogus and that they weren't being pursued.

Daryl believed, however, that Dickinson knew he got medieval on some gang members asses at times, but looked the other way. Why he was suddenly confronting Daryl with this now was beyond him.

Dickinson leaned over the desk, his voice lowered. “The reason I haven't slapped your ass with charges before this is because I like you, Garcia. You're a hell of a detective. I respect the hell out of you, and the work you've done for the department has been exceptional. I've done all I can to cover your ass, but I can't do it anymore. I've got the DA breathing down my neck to have you brought up on charges of criminal abuse and—"

“You can't be serious?” Daryl suddenly felt sick.

“You bet your ass I'm serious!” Dickinson hissed. He jabbed a finger at Daryl.

“They're royally pissed at you and Steve, and for good reason, too. You and I both know that you kicked the shit out of those two punks to get them to confess to the crime. I know you planted that gun on Rudy, too. Despite the fact that the evidence you presented is a clear match to the crime, the fact is that the tactics you used in apprehending them is a clear violation of their rights as—"

Daryl felt himself growing angrier by the minute. “What about the rights of that little girl who got her head blown off while she was sitting in her fucking living room!"

“I understand how you feel about the victim, Daryl,” Dickinson said, less intense now then before. “Believe me, I'd like to see nothing more to have those two little bastards locked away to rot forever. But there is protocol we have to follow, or the DA can't do a thing about it. When they started looking at the evidence, they found that they could probably convict. But when it came to their testimony on how they were apprehended, it differed vastly from your deposition. At first they didn't say anything, but later after some encouragement they told us what really happened back at Rudy's apartment. Then it all fit."

Daryl felt himself sinking. First Rachael telling him she wanted to take a break in their relationship a few weeks ago, then almost blowing up at that raid when he finally saw Rodrigo Arroyo for the first time in God knew how long, and now this. He felt that his entire world was collapsing around him. “What happens now?"

Dickinson regarded him from behind the massive desk. “I don't know. Technically I should put you on administrative leave, but with this Butcher thing going on I can't lose you. We're short on men as it is, and you're one of my best detectives. I just wish to God you had used better judgement last year in following up on the Montego lead."

“What's done is done,” Daryl said, his voice hollow and empty. Time to face the music. “If you want me to turn in my badge now, I will."

“You know I don't want that,” Dickinson said, leaning forward again, his face serious. “What I
do
want is for you to lay low. Let me talk to the DA. I don't know what the fuck I'm going to tell them, but I'll think of something. I can't have you taken off the Butcher case—you guys are doing a great job on that, and I can't even begin to think of who I'd replace you with. The FBI guys really like you, and I want to keep that working relationship between the Feds and us open. Is that clear?"

Daryl nodded.

“For now, lay low. Rudy and Frankie just got released three days ago, and the DA is dropping charges against them. I've got to try to convince them not to press charges against you and Steve. In the meantime, there is the possibility of a civil suit against you and Steve for this little stunt."

Daryl raised his eyebrows. “I didn't know street hoodlums retained high-priced lawyers."

“Can the bullshit, Garcia. Their defense attorneys will only be too happy to refer them to some ambulance chaser that will sue you at the drop of a hat. Frankly, I'm surprised you haven't been sued before."

“Just my luck I guess,” Daryl mumbled.

“And just your luck that I'm stepping up to bat for you again,” Dickinson said. He leaned back in his chair. “Lay low, Garcia. Not a word of this to anybody. I'm keeping you on this Butcher thing until it's over, and when that happens we'll talk."

Daryl stood up and headed for the door. “Thanks."

“Oh, and Daryl?"

“Yeah?"

“Send Steve in here, please."

With a heavy feeling in his chest, Daryl exited Dickinson's office and headed toward his desk, feeling lucky that he wasn't being fired, but at the same time feeling a huge sense of despair.

Chapter 14

Night.

With the smell of blood in the air, he took a deep breath, willing the trembling in his body to calm down.

The trembling in his limbs was of both excitement and fear.

He had gone and done it again.

Stretched out on the floor of the bathtub before him was the body of a male Hispanic with dark black tattoos along his chest and arms. He had engaged the man in conversation earlier that evening—had used the same technique in getting this man to feel comfortable enough to come to his home in fact—and when the man had been good and intoxicated, he had struck. In fact, he had struck when the man was in a very prone position; on his knees in the bathroom, vomiting in the toilet.

They had both been drinking. That much was evident. He had tried holding back on the drinking, but his victim had insisted they keep drinking up, and persisted in pouring shots of Tequila for the both of them. He had complied and now he was reeling from the affects. It was a wonder he had been coordinated enough to carry out his plans.

As it stood, he almost didn't get his chance. He kept waiting for a chance to emerge, but none came until his host became ill and stumbled toward the bathroom. That was when he knew he had to act.

He had followed his guest in the bathroom with the butcher knife behind his back.

Bent over the porcelain toilet bowl heaving his guts out, his victim didn't have a chance. He stepped behind him as he was vomiting into the toilet. With a quick motion he grabbed the man's head with his left hand, pulling it toward him to expose the throat, and with the right hand drew the knife across the tight skin, spilling blood into the toilet bowl and down the front of the man's white t-shirt. The man immediately began to flay in pain.