JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps (43 page)

“You okay?” Bernie Haskins was looking at him from the driver's seat as they headed down Interstate 10.

Daryl nodded and wiped his eyes with his fingers. “I'm fine."

“We're almost there,” Bernie said as they exited the freeway. “You sure you'll be okay?"

“Yeah.” Daryl took a deep breath. He patted his side to make sure his piece was still there, checked his pocket for his shield. He'd left the hospital so quickly that it was a wonder that he had remembered to get everything.

There was a squawk on the radio. Bernie picked it up. “Haskins here."

“East Homicide requests the presence of the Butcher Task force in a vacant lot in Highland Park on Highland Avenue and Forty-fifth Street. At least two unidentified bodies have been found. Over."

A sliver of ice dropped in Daryl's stomach at the news. Agent Haskins responded curtly. “Have Detective Hodge and Garrison been notified? Over."

“Affirmative."

“Tell them I'll be there as soon as I can. Over and out.” He replaced the radio and glanced over at Daryl who tried to avoid his gaze. He felt a sinking sense of dread. “We're going to check out Charley Glowacz first,” Bernie said as he piloted the car down Highland Avenue. “We're going to find her, Daryl."

“Yeah,” Daryl said. He wiped a pale, sweaty palm over his face. He turned back toward the highway unfolding in front of him. Bernie turned his attention back to driving.

Daryl leaned back in the seat.
At least two bodies found in Highland Park. That means
there could be more. Please dear God, don't let one of them be Rachael.

They turned down an older, lower middle-class residential neighborhood and Daryl noted the streets as they cruised slowly. Finally they came to the house. “Right here."

Bernie pulled to the curb and cut the engine. Daryl stepped out of the car and the first thing he saw was Rachael's Camaro parked at the curb. He immediately got a bad feeling about this as they drew up to the curb. A flicker of movement caught his attention and Daryl saw a pair of detectives from homicide division. Daryl recognized them immediately as Rudolph Espana and Carl Douglas. Detective Espana spoke first: “There's no time to explain, Garcia. Dickinson asked us to come out here to give you guys backup."

Daryl felt a slight flutter of pride in his stomach. Dickinson, that bastard! He still had faith in him. Detective Douglas nodded. “Nobody knows about this except for Dickinson and us. Got me?"

“Got you.” Daryl said.

Bernie gave the two detectives a brief recap. They were going to the residence merely to question Glowacz, but it was believed that Rachael Pearce might have gone there last night and may be in danger. Daryl shivered as this was mentioned. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as Bernie gave Detectives Espana and Douglas the gist of the assignment.
Please God, let her be all right. Let her be all right...

When Bernie was finished Daryl opened his eyes. Bernie nodded at them and said,

“Okay, let's go. You guys follow us."

“Yes, sir,” Detective Douglas said. Detective Carl Douglas was a light skinned black man with short-cropped hair, wide cheekbones, and a neatly trimmed mustache. He was slight in stature but had a penetrating glare in his brown eyes. His partner, Rudolph Espana, was an older Hispanic man with a head of thick black hair. Detective Espana wore black rimmed glasses and had a prominent scar on his right cheek as the result of a gunshot wound during a gun battle with a bank robber twelve years ago in Hollywood.

Detective Espana looked twelve years younger than his fifty years. Both men had solid reputations as good detectives.

“Let's go,” Bernie said, and the four of them headed up the driveway to the house.

Detective Steve Howe reached the scene at Highland and Forty-fifth Street thirty minutes after he heard the call. He had been on his way in to Parker Center when the call came through on his radio. When he pulled up to the scene, Steve saw that the vacant lot was already swarming with cops. He felt his pulse quicken. Looks like this is the real thing.

He had been thinking about the case on the drive over. He and Daryl had talked yesterday afternoon and both had agreed that with the incredible heat wave Los Angeles was currently facing, another Butcher killing of a gang member was sure to send the barrio into a frenzy. Tempers were already high, the remnants from the feelings that had boiled over during the spring when the last body had been found. It made no difference that the last victim had been a white female. The people of the East Los Angeles area were getting tired of the media scrutiny and the fact that the killer was still on the loose.

Gang violence had gone down slightly, but the tensions were higher than ever, just waiting for something to release it. If this was really another Butcher killing and the victims were gang members, all hell was going to break loose.

The feeling that the bodies reported found at the vacant lot might be the work of the elusive killer had grown stronger and stronger on the drive over. Now seeing the yellow police tape up at the scene, and the growing mob of spectators crowding the lot around from all sides, only reinforced his feelings. He swung out of the car, shut the door, and headed toward the middle of the vacant lot where the majority of on-lookers and police officers were congregated. He looked around for Daryl or Bernie Haskins. Where the hell were they?

As he approached the scene a pair of uniformed officers approached him. Steve reached for his shield and one of the officers nodded. He was a young kid of about twenty-six with short black hair and an olive complexion. He looked excited and sick to his stomach. “I'm glad somebody from the task force is finally here. This is a butcher killing all right. Jesus Christ!"

“Let's have a look,” Steve said, leading the way.

The officer led him through the throng. “A homeless man called it in,” he explained. “He was walking through the lot looking for returnable bottles when he smelled what you're smelling now.” The warm air was rife with the scent of rotting flesh; Steve noticed it right away, having come across it so many times in his career as a law enforcement officer. It was a smell you never really got used to. “He saw this,” the cop indicated a cardboard box and what appeared to be a pile of clothes on the ground in the center of a small patch of weeds and debris. They were now in the center of the maelstrom now, and the crowded onlookers of cops and detectives parted from the scene to let them in. “And his foot accidentally kicked that down there.” He pointed and Steve followed the officer's pointing finger to the severed head on the ground. The head had long black hair that was matted and dirty, but through the dirt and grime he could make out the features as that of a woman. Daryl had told him that he believed that one of the missing women that fit the victim profiles, a Miss Carmen Aguirre, was one of the most likely to be a victim of the Butcher. The description in the file indicated that Carmen had long black hair. Was this Carmen Aguirre's remains they had stumbled upon?

Steve nodded toward the debris near the head. “What's that other stuff?"

One of the officers on the scene answered; he was an African American man in his mid-thirties with a muscular build and wide cheekbones. “It looks like the box and that quilt contain the rest of her, detective."

Steve surveyed the area. The area the remains were found in was about an acre of bare earth with patches of weeds sprouting here and there. The surrounding land was made up of long grass and weeds, now turned yellow from the hot summer sun. The bare area consisted of rocks, crumbled pieces of concrete from whatever had been demolished that once stood on this site, and pieces of old newspapers, cans and bottles. The police crime scene tape was already in place and the area seemed pretty secured. He nodded at the cop. “Any other detectives here?"

The African American cop motioned to a pair of detectives who were making their way toward them. Steve didn't recognize them; they were probably from the East Los Angeles Division. Both detectives were in their forties and were Hispanic.

Introductions were quickly made. Detectives Manuel Sanchez and Rick Guiteirez were quickly introduced to him. Steve turned to the two detectives. “What else have you found?"

Detective Gutierez pointed down at the head, which was nestled by some newspapers. “There's what appears to be bones over here, about five yards away from this victim. We're still trying to secure the area."

“Any ETA on when the coroner will be here?” Steve asked.

Detective Gonzalez answered: “It was called in when the first officer arrived, which was fifteen minutes ago. They should be here any minute."

“What about more officers for crowd control?” Steve said, checking out the crowd of onlookers who had come to gawk. They ranged in age from the very young to people in their sixties, most of them Hispanic, many of them talking excitedly about the discovery of the body. Steve could very faintly make out conversations in Spanish opining that it was another Butcher victim, that the police weren't doing anything to protect them, that nobody cared what happened to them. The people stirring up this kind of talk were younger males, clearly of the gang-banger pumped-up testosteroned level kind. If they kept this crap up they would work this crowd up and there could be trouble. “I think we may need some crowd control here,” he said, turning back to the police officers who had met him at the site.

The African American cop nodded, noting the growing crowd. He gestured to another cop, a female in her twenties who had just arrived at the scene. “Call in for crowd control, Becky, but for God's sake don't make it sound like a riot's brewing. These people see officer's in riot gear, that'll only get them more riled up."

Becky nodded and extracted her radio from her belt and called in the order to headquarters.

Detective Gutierez was standing about ten feet from the patchwork quilt with a strange expression on his face. He wrinkled his nose and looked up at Steve and Detective Gonzalez. “Excuse me, Steve, Manuel! Will you come over here for a minute?"

Steve and Manuel walked over.

Steve was struck by the severity of the stench as they reached Rick. The detective's face was scrunched up from the pervasive stench. He had caught the scent before, but upon seeing the remains of what was probably a woman, he assumed the stench was from her. The detective who called him over looked at Steve, wide-eyed with disgust. “Christ, it smells worse over here."

Manuel had his hands over his mouth and nose and Steve could see the alarm in his eyes. He looked around and saw something in a patch of weeds.

He walked over to it and was forced to cover his mouth and nose with his shirt, the smell was so bad.

The three detectives followed him over and Steve heard Manuel gasp as they almost stepped on the source of the smell.

It appeared to be a second victim. An assemble of bones lay in the grove of weeds: an ulna and a pair of femurs and tibulas, a mass of short little bones that looked like if they fit together would form a spinal column, some long bones that looked they were arm bones, and over a dozen curved bones that looked like ribs. Some of the bones were wrapped in newspaper; some had slimy gelatin remnants of flesh still clinging to them. The stench that rose from the small pit was overpowering; it was like a physical invasion that pushed them back from the small grave.

Detective Gutierez gagged and stepped back, bumping into the African American cop who had come up to take a look. Behind them the collected crowd gasped as some of them saw what lay within the weeds and passed the word to the others. Excited voices in Spanish rose above the din of conversation and officers calling out orders to each other.

Steve could feel the tension rise. Where the hell was the coroner? Where the hell were more officers to control this crowd?

Where the hell were Daryl and Agent Haskins?

“Secure this scene right now and get more detectives from the task force here
now
!” Steve Howe said, eyes darting around. The crowd was getting to him as well, and Steve could make out what was being said in the anger of the rapidly flowing Spanish: another body had been found, the killer was going to keep killing in the neighborhood and the cops weren't going to do a thing about it and—

Across the lot Steve saw more police cars pull up to the scene. He heaved a sigh of relief. One of the vehicles was the white non-descript van of the coroner's office.

And as more back-up officers arrived to control the crowd, the more excited the onlookers became and the more Steve wished this nightmare would end.

How he wished it would end.

Chapter 28

They headed to the front door of the home Charley Glowacz shared with his mother with service revolvers and shields out and ready. The four of them raced up the driveway in a crouched position, moved up to the porch, and Daryl knocked on the door loudly, gun held up and ready. “Open up! LAPD and FBI!"

When nobody answered the door, Daryl signaled to Douglas who was positioned slightly behind him. Douglas stepped back and gave a fierce kick to the door. The door cracked and Douglas kicked it again, snapping the lock. Daryl pushed the door open and the three men burst in, guns drawn, adrenaline running a mile a minute, pumped up with the energy to take this bastard in.

As they rushed in, the first thing Daryl saw was the blood spatters on the far wall.

He tensed up, a million bad thoughts running through his mind. He motioned to the left of the house. “Check the kitchen,” he said to Douglas. “Espana, cover me."

The two men crept forward, guns ready. Haskins trailed Douglas, covering him.

The living room was dark. Daryl reached toward the wall and flipped the light switch.

The room was bathed in light. The cream colored walls made the bloodstains more stark in contrast to the rest of the room, which was small, but tidy. Homey. It was obvious from the knocked over lamp and the turned over chair that a struggle had ensued. Douglas and Haskins came out of the kitchen. “Clear,” Agent Haskins said. His face was tense and pale.