Nocturnal

BMB, B & P Trade Notes

Pookie watched Bryan shovel a forkful of chocolate-chip pancakes into his mouth. Before even chewing, syrup still dripping from his beard, Bryan also crammed in two full strips of bacon.

“Yeah, Bryan,” Pookie said. “Now I see why a hot piece of ass like Robin Hudson can’t stay away from you. It’s the charm.”

“Fa you,” Bryan said, chewing with his mouth open.

“And dirty talk, too? You’re the total package, Clauser.”

Bryan grabbed a piece of toast with his right hand, smashed it into a ball and shoved the whole thing into his mouth.

“So sexy,” Pookie said. “Are you still sick?”

Bryan nodded, then shook his head. He took a big sip of coffee to wash down the obscenely huge mouthful of food. “I still hurt all over, but not as bad,” he said after a big swallow. “I’m not feverish anymore. I think I’m over it, whatever it is. Man, I’m so hungry.”

“Eat all you want, little fella, as long as you don’t hurl on me.”

Bryan answered by shoveling in more pancakes, more bacon, and another balled-up piece of toast.

Pookie felt a sense of relief. Bryan was clearly feeling better. He still looked tired and pale, but the spark had returned to his eyes. He really had to trim that beard, though. Despite the improvement, Bryan still wasn’t back to normal. Pookie wondered if normal was something Bryan could ever be again. Hell, had he ever been normal? Still, an alert Bryan was the Bryan that Pookie needed. The case wasn’t going to solve itself.

Pookie heard the roar of a motorcycle engine approaching. The sound lowered to a gurgle as a purple Harley pulled up outside. The driver backed it into a parking space, then took off a dark-purple helmet to reveal the bony face and mottled, bald head of one Black Mr. Burns.

“That bike looks awesome,” Bryan said. “He did that work himself?”

“I think so, yeah,” Pookie said. “The guy is great with mechanical stuff.”

“At least he’s awesome with something.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bryan slathered red jelly on a piece of toast and shrugged. “You and he went through the same shit. I don’t see you driving a desk.”

The comment pissed Pookie off and also stirred up his guilty feelings. Bryan was being dismissive of a friend and former partner. That made Bryan a dick. Pookie was probably an even bigger dick, because as much as he hated to admit it, sometimes he felt the same way about John.

“The guy got shot,” Pookie said.

“So did you,” Bryan said. “You’re out there every day, walking the line.”

Pookie didn’t really have an answer for that. “What the fuck do you want the man to do, Bryan? If he could be out there, he’d be out there.”

Bryan shrugged again, ate half the toast. “He’s drawing the same salary as you,” he said as he chewed. “Same salary as me.”

“Yeah, because he earned it,” Pookie said. “Here he comes, so shut up about this, you got it?”

Bryan crammed the rest of the toast in his mouth and nodded.

John’s dark purple motorcycle jacket matched his helmet. Both items looked fresh off the rack, but Pookie knew John had bought them about four years ago.

John started to slide into the booth next to Bryan, but Pookie stopped him.

“Hold on there, BMB. I think you should sit on this side, with me. Bryan is getting his grub on.”

John looked at the three empty plates of food, as well as the crumbs dangling from Bryan’s fuzzy beard. “I guess so.”

Pookie slid over as his former partner slid in. John’s gaze flicked to all corners of the diner, lingered on every patron in the place. Even here, even with two other cops, the guy couldn’t relax.

“And keep your hands off the table,” Pookie said. “I can’t hold Bryan responsible if he eats them.”

“Fa you,” said a chewing Bryan.

John took a deep breath and calmed himself. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he ignored the restaurant and focused only on Bryan and Pookie.

“I got something,” he said. “I looked at the Golden Gate Slasher file in the department’s archives, but tons of information was missing.”

“It’s an ancient case,” Pookie said. “That’s not surprising.”

“But what is missing is surprising,” John said. “Pictures of the perp? Nope. Pictures of the crime scenes, where we might see those symbols? Nope. Descriptions, anything with detail that could tie those murders to what’s going on now? All of it, gone.”

Pookie felt simultaneously disappointed and excited. Disappointed because he needed that information. Excited because — just like the missing symbols in the database — this was more evidence of a strategic cover-up.

Bryan started to talk, but the words caught in his throat along with his last piece of toast. He gulped coffee, then continued. “Why just take parts? Why not just chuck the whole case file and be done with it?”

John’s eyes narrowed. And a smile tilted up the left corner of his mouth. For a moment, Pookie saw a flash of the whip-smart inspector that Black Mr. Burns used to be.

“Because if the whole file was gone, someone might notice,” John said. “Remove the entire file for one of the biggest cases ever? Once someone realizes it’s gone, questions get asked.”

Pookie reached over to the sugar bin. He started piling packets, balancing the little rectangles of stuffed white paper. “What about cause of death? That article Mister Biz-Nass showed us said witnesses saw the Slasher was killed with an arrow. But in the same article, Francis Parkmeyer claimed it was suicide.”

John nodded. “The autopsy report also said suicide. Signed by the Silver Eagle himself, although I’m guessing he wasn’t silver thirty years ago.”

Pookie thought back to Baldwin Metz making a rare appearance in the field to process the body of Father Paul Maloney.

“It gets better,” John said. “Guess who else was on the Slasher task force with Parkmeyer? Polyester Rich Verde and Amy Zou.”

Pookie looked at Bryan, who nodded knowingly. Connections were coming together: Zou, Verde, Metz, all connected to a case involving the symbols some thirty years ago.

“Zou and Verde,” Pookie said. “Were they inspectors at the time?”

“Both were just newbies,” John said. “From what I could gather, Zou was basically a glorified gopher on the case. But get a load of this — six months after they find the Slasher’s body, she gets promoted to inspector. She was the youngest person ever to be promoted to that rank, a record that she still holds.”

Bryan shook his head. “Wait a minute. You’re saying you think she did something during the Slasher case that got her the promotion?”

“Maybe,” John said. “Hard to tell with all the information that’s missing, but the timing fits. Now, here’s the really messed-up part. You also asked me to look into the Chronicle’s archives on the case. I did, and I didn’t find anything.”

“Wow,” Bryan said. “You really knocked that one out of the park, John.”

Pookie glared at Bryan, but John didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm.

“It’s not that I didn’t find anything, there was nothing to find,” John said. “There should have been all kinds of stuff. All the back issues that covered the Slasher turning up dead, they’re gone. Hard copy, microfiche, scans, electronic copies of the stories — anything to do with that case is nowhere to be found. And before you ask if the Chron archive is missing a lot from that time period, it isn’t. Just like with the Slasher case files, the removal is targeted and specific. I also checked the library’s archive and found exactly the same thing. On top of that, I tried to find info on that gangster killing the fortune-teller showed you — that’s missing as well, from both places.”

Pookie leaned back. The SFPD files, the Chron archives, the library … this wasn’t just keeping something quiet, it was an effort to wipe history clean of anything involving the symbols.

“Doesn’t make sense,” he said. “The Slasher was a serial killer. Mister Biz-Nass says the symbol was found with the Slasher. Now it looks like we have a new serial killer that’s also using the symbol. Why would anyone cover up clues that could help stop a goddamn serial killer?”

No one answered. Bryan looked at Pookie’s plate, then at Pookie, then raised his eyebrows.

Pookie slid the half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs across the table. “Go crazy, Mister Pigerson.”

Pookie’s cell phone rang. He answered.

“This is Inspector Chang.”

“Inspector Chang, Kyle Souller.”

“Well hello, Principal Souller,” Pookie said.

Bryan stopped chewing. He waved his hand inward: let me hear.

Pookie thumbed up the volume and held out the phone. Bryan and Black Mr. Burns leaned in.

“Mister Souller,” Pookie said, “hopefully you’re not calling to give me detention. Unless, of course, I’m detained in a room with a naughty schoolgirl.”

“Inspector, that might not be the best joke to use on a man who’s responsible for the safety of actual schoolgirls.”

“Good point,” Pookie said. “The jury is instructed to disregard that remark. How can I help you, sir?”

“I asked around as you requested,” Souller said. “I got something from Cheryl Evans, our art teacher.”

“Do tell.”

“She said she’s seen drawings by a student named Rex Deprovdechuk. The drawings showed Rex chopping up Alex Panos.”

Son of a bitch. A new lead. “The same Alex Panos that is in BoyCo with the former Oscar Woody and the former Jay Parlar?”

“That’s the one.”

“This Rex, Deprov … what was that last name again?”

“Dee-prov-deh-chuk.”

“Right. He a big kid?”

“Hell no,” Souller said. “Tiny. Couldn’t weigh more than eighty pounds, tops.”

“Is he rich?” Maybe Rex had hired someone to take out Oscar.

“Strike two,” Souller said. “Single mom, I don’t know if she works. His teachers said Rex wears secondhand clothes, sometimes has body odor the other kids complain about. I doubt he has two nickels to rub together. I’ve had him in the office a few times. I know he’s had run-ins with BoyCo, but he refused to name them.”

Pookie started to ask for Rex’s address, but stopped himself. “Mister Souller, I told you I’m no longer on the case. Have you contacted Inspector Verde, by chance?”

“I did,” Souller said.

Pookie gave the table a little bang with his fist. If Verde knew about Rex, Pookie and Bryan didn’t dare talk to the kid.

“I called you anyway,” Souller said. “In the education business, we have a technical term for people like Verde.”

“Which is?”

“Fucking douchebag,” Souller said. “I was hoping you were still on the case along with him. He rubbed me the wrong way.”

Pookie laughed. Polyester Rich couldn’t rub the right way if there was a neon arrow flashing the proper direction. “Inspector Verde might be a little brash, but he’s very good at his job. Thank you for letting me know, though.”

“You’re welcome,” Souller said. “I can tell that you actually care, Inspector Chang. I think that’s pretty uncommon. I hope you get put back on this case.”

“Thanks for calling,” Pookie said, then hung up.

Bryan’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Pooks, you didn’t get the kid’s address.”

“Because Verde already has it, and he already tattled on us once to Zou, remember? And you heard Souller — Rex is small and poor. He couldn’t have done the killings and couldn’t have hired someone to do them. Is he a valid lead? Yeah, but Verde already knows about him. It’s Verde’s case, Bri-Bri, there’s only so much we can do.”

Bryan leaned back and glared. He wasn’t happy. Pookie couldn’t blame him for that.

“How about this,” Pookie said. “We give Verde a day or two to talk to Rex, then after Verde moves on, you and I find a way to accidentally run into the kid.”

Bryan looked out the window. “I’d rather get on it now.”

“And I’d rather collect a paycheck,” Pookie said. “The chief … of … poh … leece told us to steer clear, Terminator. Unless you want to end up out of a job, we need to play the hand we’ve been dealt.”

Bryan paused, then nodded. Pookie tried to relax. The better Bryan felt, the more stubborn he would become. Pretty soon, Pookie wouldn’t be able to talk him out of following his instincts.

Terminator wasn’t the only one feeling frustrated. The cover-up involved murderers. At least two kids were already dead. If Zou hadn’t been playing these games, would those kids be alive? And whatever was going on, Verde was neck-deep in it — Verde, who knew about the case’s only remaining lead.

Pookie started making a new stack of sugar packets. All he could do now was wait. Wait, and hope that Rich Verde wasn’t covering up for a psycho.