Monster

Chapter 36

Milo wanted to examine the body closely and to go over the paperwork in detail. Figuring I could do without either, I left, bought scalding, poisonous coffee from a machine, and drank it out in the waiting area facing the autopsy room. The coffee didn't do much for my stomach, but the chill that had taken hold of my legs started to dissipate.

I sat there, thinking about Heidi, executed and mutilated on the 1-5.

Everyone associated with Peake and Crimmins was being discarded like garbage. It stank of a special malevolence.

Monsters.

No; Peake's moniker notwithstanding, these were people, it always came down to people.

I pictured the two of them, bound together by something I was really no closer to understanding, stalking, severing, hacking, shooting.

Crimmins's production, the worst kind of documentary. For the sake of what? How many other victims lay buried around the city?

Crisp, rapid footsteps made me look up. A perfectly groomed Indian in his forties passed me wordlessly and entered the autopsy room. Dr. Patel, I assumed. I found a pay phone, called Robin, got the answering machine. She was asleep. Good. I told the machine I'd be back in a few hours, not to worry. I finished the coffee. Cooler, but it still tasted like toasted cardboard sauteed in chicory gravy.

Heidi. A narcotics record. That started me off in a whole new direction.

Viewing life through a new set of glasses… The door swung open and Milo shot out, wiping his forehead and waving a sheet of paper full of his cramped, urgent handwriting. Body-outline logo at the top. Coroner's gift-shop stationery.

"Heidi's home address," he said. "Let's go."

We headed for the elevator.

"Where'd she live?"I said.

"West Hollywood, thirteen hundred block of Orange Grove."

"Not far from Plummer Park, where we met with her."

"Not far from my own damn house." He stabbed the elevator button. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon."

"Who's in charge?" I said. "Sheriff or Highway Patrol?"

"Highway Patrol on the killing itself," he said. "I reached Whitworth at the scene. He said feel free to check out her house. He's staying there, wants to make sure they scrape whatever physical evidence they can off the road before traffic thickens up."

"They shot her and butchered her right there on the freeway?"

"Turnoff. Wide turnoff. Far enough and dark enough for cover."

"Crimmins would know the road well," I said. "Growing up in Treadway. But still, it was risky, right there in the open."

"So they're loosening up-maybe losing it, like you said. Peake's massacre wasn't exactly well thought out. He left goddamn bloody footprints. Maybe Crimmins is starting to freak, too."

"I don't know. Crimmins is a planner. The escape says he's still pretty organized."

He shrugged. "What can I tell you?" The elevator arrived and he threw himself in.

"Did the coroner have anything to add?" I said.

"The bullet's still in there, he'll go digging. Ready for me to drop you off now?"

"Not a chance," I said.

"You look wiped out."

"You 're not exactly perky-fresh."

His laugh was short, dry, reluctant. "Want some chewing gum?"

"Since when do you cany?" I said.

"I don't. The attendant-Lichter-gave me a pack. Says he started doing it for any cops who come in. Says he's gonna retire next year, feels like spreading good cheer and fresh breath."

Outside the morgue, the air was warm, thick, gasoline-tinged. Even at this hour, the freeway noise hadn't abated. Ambulances shrieked in and out of County General. Derelicts and dead-eyes walked the street, along with a few white-coated citizens who didn't look much better off. Above us, on the overpass, cars blipped and dopplered. A few miles north, the interstate was quiet enough to serve as a killing ground.

I imagined the car pulling abruptly to the side-not the yellow Corvette; something large enough to seat three.

Crimmins and Peake. And Heidi. Riding along.

A captive? Or a passenger.

The dope conviction.

I thought of the meeting at Plummer Park.

My roommate's sleeping, or I would've had you come to myplace.

Would a live roommate be waiting for us at the Orange Grove address? Or…

My mind flashed back to the freeway kill. Heidi out of the car, surprised, asking Crimmins what was up. Or immobilized-bound, gagged-and terrified.

Crimmins and Peake haul her out. She's a strong girl, but they control her easily.

They walk her as far as they can from the freeway. To the edge of the turnoff, everyone swallowed by darkness now.

Last words or not?

Either way: pop. A searing burst of light and pain.

What was the last thing she'd heard? A truck whizzing by? The wind? The racing of her pulse?

They let her fall. Then Crimmins gives a signal and Peake steps forward.

Blade in hand.

Summoned.

Camera. Action.

Cut.

My guts pogoed as I got in the unmarked, wanting to sort it all out, to make sense of it before I said anything to Milo. He started up the engine, sped through the morgue lot, and turned left on Mission. We roared off.

Orange Grove showed no signs of ever having hosted citrus trees. Just another L.A. street full of small, undistinguished houses.

The house we came to see was hidden behind an untrimmed ficus hedge, but the green wall didn't extend to the asphalt driveway and we had a clear view all the way to the garage. No vehicles in sight. Milo drove a hundred feet down and we returned on foot. I waited by the curb as he made his way up the asphalt, gun in hand, back to the garage, around the rear of the wood-sided bungalow. Even in the darkness I could see scars on the paint. The color was hard to make out, probably some version of beige. Between the house and the ficus barrier was a stingy square of dead lawn. Sagging front porch, no shrubbery other than the hedge.

Milo came back, gun still out, breathing hard. "Looks empty. The back door's Mickey Mouse, I'm going in. Stay there till I tell you."

Another five minutes, ten, twelve, as I watched his pen-light bounce around behind shaded windows. A single firefly. Finally, the front door opened and he waved me inside.

He'd gloved up. I followed as he turned a few lights on, exposing a poverty of space. First we.did an overall check of the house. Five small, shabby rooms, including a dingy lavatory. Grimy yellow walls; the window shades crazed, gray oilcloth patched in spots by duct tape.

Colorless rental furniture.

Where the space allowed. The bungalow was filled with crisp-looking cardboard boxes, most of them sealed. Printed labels on the outside. THIS SIDE UP. FRAGILE. Scores of cartons of TV's, stereos, video gear, cameras, PC's. Cassettes, compact discs, computer discs. Glassware, silverware, small appliances. Stacks of video cartridges and Fuji film. Enough film to shoot a thousand birthday parties.

In a corner of the larger bedroom, squeezed next to an unmade queen-size mattress, stood a pile of smaller boxes. The labels claimed Sony minirecorders. Just like the one Heidi had used to tape Peake.

"The movie stuff's out in the garage," said Milo. "Dollies, booms, spotlights, crap I couldn't identify. Tons of it, piled almost to the ceiling. Didn't see any saws, but they could be buried under all the gear. It'll take a crew to go through it."

"She was in on it," I said.

He'd moved into the bathroom, didn't answer. I heard drawers opening, went over to see him remove something from the cabinet beneath the sink.

Glossy white shoe box. Several more just like it stacked next to the pipes.

He lifted the lid. Rows of white plastic bottles nesting in Styrofoam beds. He extracted one. "Phenobarbital."

All the other bottles in that box were labeled identically. The next box yielded an assortment, and so did all the others.

Chlorpromazine, thioridazine, haloperidol, clozapine, di-azepam, alprazolam, lithium carbonate.

"Candy sampler for a junkie," said Milo. "Uppers, downers, all-arounders."

He inspected the bottom of the box. "Starkweather stamp's still on here."

"Uncut pharmaceuticals," I said. "It ups the price." Then I thought of something.

Milo was looking the other way, but I must have made a sound, because he said, "What?"

"I should've figured it out a long time ago. The missing dog, Buddy. He was sticking in my head because I've seen him before. That day in the park, a tall man in black came by walking a Rottweiler mix. Passed right by where we were sitting with Heidi. Heidi was aware of him. She watched him.

He was her roommate. The one she'd claimed was sleeping. Their little joke. They were playing with us right from the beginning. So much for powers of observation. Lot of good it does us now."

"Hey," he said, recording the drug inventory in his notepad. "I'm the so-called detective, and I never noticed the dog."

"Crimmins stole him from Mrs. Leiber. Taking what he wanted. Because he could. For him, it's all about power."

He stopped writing. "No sign of any dog here," he said. "No food or bowl anywhere in the house."

"Exactly."

"Heidi," he said, suddenly sounding tired. "It casts a whole new light on her story,"

I said. "Peake's prophecy. Peake's supposed prophecy."

His hand tightened around his pen. He stared at me. "Another scam."

"Has to be. The only evidence we ever had was Heidi's account."

" 'Bad eyes in a box.' 'Choo choo bang bang.' "

"The tape, too," I said. I led him back to the larger bedroom. Pointed at the stack of Sonys. "The tape was nothing but mumbles. Unrecognizable mumbles, could've been anyone. But we know who it was."

"Crimmins."

"Dubbing the soundtrack," I said. "George Welles Orson. Like I said, he's an auteur: produces, directs, acts." He cursed violently.

"He murdered Claire," I went on, "then set Peake up as a phony oracle to spice up his story line-who knows, maybe he thought he'd be able to use it one day. Write a screenplay, sell it to Hollywood. We took it seriously-great fun, once again he's screwed the Law. Just like he did back in Florida. And Nevada. And Treadway. So when he eliminated the Beatty brothers, he did it again. Used Heidi, again. Once again, no risk; nothing he does with Peake bears any risk. No one's heard Peake talk in almost two decades-who's to say it's not his voice on the tape? The first time we met Heidi, she let us know she was going to quit the hospital. That allowed her to do you a favor by sticking around. Gave her instant credibility-personally invited by the police. From that point, no one was going to suspect anything she did with Peake."

"Except maybe Chet."

" 'Cherchez la femme,' " I said. "Maybe Chet noticed something-something off about Heidi. Maybe the way she related to Peake. Or he saw her steal dope from the nursing station. Or get a little handoff from Dollard. But once again, who'd pay attention to his ramblings? Heidi was free to continue as Crimmins's inside woman. She was there in the first place because Crimmins wanted her-she joined the staff right after he left. He gave her multiple assignments: work with Dollard to keep the drugs flowing, make sure Dollard didn't rip them off, and attach herself to Claire so she could report back what Claire was saying about Peake. Because he had to have discussed Peake with Claire. That was the basis of their relationship."

" 'Cherchez la femme,' " he said. "The guy collects them" He looked around at the piles of contraband. "Heidi traveling with him and Peake tonight probably means she was in on the escape. Her being the inside woman would smooth the escape, wouldn't it? Yesterday, the last time we ran into her, she was walking Peake right near that service elevator. Dry run for tonight."

"Has to be. She and Crimmins needed to rehearse, because whatever the state of Peake's psyche, he'd been cooped up for sixteen years, was unpredictable. It's also possible the timetable for the escape was sped up because you were getting too close. That same day, you asked Heidi if Peake had mentioned Wark's name, and she hesitated for a second. Probably shocked that you'd gotten on to the alias, but she stayed cool. Said it was a funny name, didn't really sound like a name. Edging us away from Wark and diverting our attention to Dollard by letting us know he'd been fired for malfeasance. Because Dollard had become a liability. He'd always been the expendable member of the dope scam. Crimmins and Heidi came up with a kill-two-birds plan: get rid of Dollard and break Peake loose. Something else: right after Heidi told us about Dollard, she returned the conversation to Wark, started asking questions. Who was he, was he actually Peake's friend? Why would she care? She was trying to find out exactly what we knew, and we didn't notice because we saw her as an ally."

"Actress," he said.

"Calm under pressure-a very cold young woman. The moment we were gone, she was probably on the phone to Crimmins. Informing him you were on to his alter ego. He decided to act."

"Cool head," he said. "Lot of good it did her head."

"Cool but also reckless," I said. "A coke conviction didn't stop her from stealing dope at Starkweather. Flirting with danger was also behind her attraction to Crimmins. She told us she was a thrill seeker. Rock climbing, skydiving off power stations-making sure to let you know that was illegal. Think of it: telling a cop she'd committed a crime. Smiling about it. Another little game. Getting off on clanger is probably also the way she hooked up with Crimmins in the first place. Castro told us Derrick and brother Cliff were thrill chasers, liked speed. Derrick and Heidi probably met at some kind of daredevil club."

"Going for the adrenaline rush," he said. "Then it gets old, so they move on to a different kind of high."

"Crimmins's crimes have a profit motive, but I've been saying all along that thrill's the main ingredient. Crimmins's thing is creating a twisted world and controlling it. He scripts the action, casts the players, moves them around like pawns. Gets rid of them once they've finished their scenes. For a psychopath, it would be pretty damn close to heaven. Heidi had similar motivations, but she wasn't in Crimmins's league. It was a fun ride for her, but her mistake was thinking of herself as a partner when she was just another extra. She must have been confused when Crimmins pulled off the I-Five and told her to get out."

I didn't feel like laughing, but there I was, doing it.

"What?" he said.

"Just thought of something. If Crimmins had been lucky enough to really break into Hollywood, maybe none of this would've happened."

He took in the room and I followed his eyes. Cramped, dingy, nothing on the walls. For Heidi and Crimmins, interior decorating had meant something else, completely. Cruel puzzles, bloody scenes, embroidery of the mind…

"Let me sort out the escape," he said, very softly. "Double entry to Starkweather: Crimmins enters the grounds from the back, through that hole in the fence; Heidi drives right in through the front gate, like she would any other night. She waltzes right on to C Ward, heads over to Peake's room, gets him ready. All the techs are at the weekly meeting, except Dollard, who's patrolling. Heidi lures Dollard into Peake's room-no big challenge, all she has to do is tell him Peake is sick, or freaking out-assuming the Jesus pose again. Dollard goes in, locks the door behind him-basic procedure- goes over to check on Peake. Maybe Peake jumps him, maybe not. In either case, Heidi gets Dollard and cuts his throat. Or she distracts Dollard and Peake does the cutting… She makes sure the coast is clear, hustles Peake over to the staff elevator, no floor guide to tell anyone where it's going… Down to the basement, over and out."

"And Crimmins, hiding in one of the annexes, or nearby, meets up with them," I said. "Heidi and Crimmins lead Peake out the back fence. Heidi returns and leaves the hospital the way she came in, through the front, while Crimmins and Peake escape into the foothills, where they've got a vehicle waiting that can handle the terrain. Peake's not in great condition, but Crimmins is a climber, already knows the hills; it wouldn't be a problem dragging Peake along. Heidi as Dollard's cutter would also explain why the artery was only nicked, not slashed clear through. She was a strong girl without much of a conscience. But if she'd never actually cut anyone's throat before, her inexperience could've showed. It takes will to saw through someone's neck. And there's the gush factor. She would've wanted to avoid getting bloodstained, had to coordinate cutting and stepping back in time-I can see Cfimmins rehearsing her. So she wounded Dollard just deeply enough to open the jugular. Dollard collapsed, so she thought she'd finished him off. He went into shock, lay there draining. Once again, they were lucky-no one found him soon enough to save him."

"Crimmins seems to have lots of luck."

"No sin unrewarded," I said. "That's why he keeps doing bad things."

"The nick could also mean Peake did it," he said. "Atrophied muscles from all those years in the loony bin."

"Not if he chopped up Heidi's face. Those gashes took force. What do you figure, a hatchet?"

"Patel said that, or some kind of cleaver. Yeah, you're probably right… Heidi cut Dollard, and Peake cut Heidi."

"Her murdering Dollard would serve another purpose: no need to hide a weapon in Peake's room, risk discovery. Techs carry. You just proved that."

He pulled out his phone, called Ron Banks, told him about the drugs and the stolen goods, Heidi's involvement. "Yeah, looks like she was… Listen, I'm gonna snoop around her house some more, but it's West Hollywood, so you might as well get some of your guys over here to tape it off. Tell 'em I'm here, what I look like, so there's no misunderstandings… Thanks. Anything new over there?… Yeah, sometimes the job is boring…Yeah, I think I will. Chippie's still over there.… Whitworth. Michael Whitworth."

Milo started to search in earnest. The bedroom closet held blue jeans, blouses, and jackets in women's small and medium sizes, and men's black jeans, 34 waist, 35 length, black XL T-shirts, sweaters, and shirts.

"Home sweet home," he said, shining his light on the floor. Three plastic cartons full of rumpled underwear and socks sat next to a jumble of battered running shoes and several pairs of thick-soled, dirty-looking boots. In the corner were four olive-drab packages the size of seat cushions, festooned with straps. U.S. Army stencil. Next to them, scuba gear, a single set of skis, a box of amyl nitrate-poppers. Another box full of polyester hair. Four woman's wigs: long and blond; short, spiky, and blond; raven black; tomato red and curly. Three male toupees, all black, two curly, one straight. Labels inside from a theatrical makeup store on Hollywood Boulevard.

"Toys," said Milo. "When you were over at Fairway Ranch, see any good climbing spots?"

"The entire development is backed by the Tehachapi mountains. But a short walk through foothills is one thing, serious climbing's another. Crimmins would be limited by Peake's condition. Even if Peake's vegetable act's a fake, he's no Edmund Hillary. Also, if Crimmins has returned to Treadway, it's because it has psychological meaning for him. So maybe he'll stick close to home."

"What kind of psychological meaning?"

"Something to do with the massacre-maybe he's reworking it. For his movie. Rescripting-reliving-a major triumph. Back when he lived there, Treadway was essentially divided between the Ardullo and the Crimmins ranches. Wanda Hatzler told me the Mexican girl Derrick and Cliff threw out of their car ran toward the Ardullo property. On the north side. That could narrow things down."

"But which way would he go? To the Ardullo side because that's where the massacre went down, or to his daddy's place?"

"Don't know," I said. "Maybe none of the above."

"What's there now? Where the ranches were."

"Homes. Recreational facilities. A lake."

"Big homes?" he said. "Something that might remind Crimmins of the Ardullo place?"

"I didn't get that close a look. It's an upscale development. Whether or not that will trigger anything in Crimmins's head, I can't say."

"Any obvious place to hide out?"

"It's pretty open," I said. "Two golf courses, the lake. If they break into someone's home, there'll be plenty of cover. But even if Crimmins is loosening up mentally, that seems downright stupid… Maybe outside the development.

Somewhere at the base of the Tehachapis. If Derrick climbed as a kid, he could have a special hiding place."

Milo got back on the phone, called Bunker Protection. Once again, his side of the conversation was tense. "Idiot rent-a-cops. No sign of any disturbance, no disreputables have driven through tonight, yawn, yawn… Okay, let me toss the rest of this palace."

The second bedroom, the space where Heidi and Derrick Crimmins had slept, was narrow, also devoid of personal touches, with barely enough space for the queen-size mattress and two cheap nightstands. In the top drawer of the stand on the right were a half-empty box of tampons, three gold-wrapped Godiva chocolates, two energy bars, a baggie of marijuana. The bottom compartment held woman's underwear, an empty Evian bottle, some white powder in a glassine envelope.

"The 11351.5 didn't make much of an impression," I said.

"First offense-she probably got probation. If that."

"More fuel for her confidence. Coke and poppers would've helped, too."

He checked under the mattress, in the pillowcases, moved around to Crimmins's nightstand. Pack of Kools, two foil-wrapped condoms, two matchbooks, and a thin red paperback book entitled Finding Fame and Fortune in Hollywood: Writing Your Screenplay, "by the editors of the Fame and Fortune Series."

The publisher was an outfit called Hero Press, FOB address in Lancaster, California. The flyleaf said others in the series included Buying Real Estate with Nothing Down, Options and Commodities Trading with Nothing Down, Start Your Own Business with Nothing Down, and Live to 120: The Herbal Way to Longevity.

"The scammer finally gets scammed," said Milo, kneeling in front of the lower compartment.

Inside was a black vinyl looseleaf. He pulled it out, turned to the title page.

Typed at the top was

BLOOD WALK

A TREATMENT FOR A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE

By D. Griffith Crimmins***

***PRESIDENT AND CEO, DGC PRODUCTIONS, THIN LINE PRODUCTIONS, ENTERPENEUR, DIRECTOR, PRODUCER, AND CINEMATOGRAPHER

The next page, soiled and smudged, bore several up-slanting lines written in ballpoint. Curious, sharp-edged penmanship, full of angles and peaks that reminded me of hieroglyphics.

Equip: Noprob. Obviosly.

Casting: wrd ofmth?Ad? Pickups?

Special effects: fakeout, double-bluff, Figure out the cameras or use video? Worth the hassle? Viedo can work good enough

Titles: Blood Walk. Bloodwalkers. Walk of Blood. Blood-bath. The Big Walk

Alternetive titles: 1. The Monster Returns 2. Bagging the Monster 3. Daredevil Avenger-justice for all. 4. Saturday The 14th 5. Return of the Master 6. Horror On Palm Street 7. Maniac 8. Psycho-Drama 9. The Ultamite Crime 10. Genius and Insanity 11. The Thin Line-whos to say whos crazy and whos not.

"Another plot outline, just like in Florida," I said. "Reads like a twelve-year-old's diary-look at the third alternative title. 'Daredevil Avenger-justice for all.' Superman fantasies. He sees himself as a risk taker, is thinking of himself as the hero who saves the world from Peake."

Milo shook his head. "Number eleven's the one he actually used for the name of his company-who's to say who's nuts asshole? I say. And you are." He turned to the next page. Blank.

"Guess he ran out of ideas," he said. "This kind of brilliance, he definitely could've gotten a legit job at the studios."

The light changed in the room. Something yellowing the window shades.

Headlights. A car idling next to the house. In the driveway.

I thought of Marie Sinclair, cranky and paranoid. Pays to listen to everyone.

Milo moved quickly, killing the room lights, replacing the looseleaf, pulling out his gun.

The headlights dimmed; the engine dieseled for several seconds before quieting. The whoosh-and-click of the car door closing. Footsteps scraping the driveway.

Diminishing footsteps.

Milo raced through the house, made it to the front door, said something to me.

Stay put, he explained later, but I never processed it and I stayed on his heels.

He cracked the door, looked outside, flung it open, ran.

In the driveway sat a lemon-yellow Corvette.

We ran past the ficus hedge. A man was fifty feet up the street, to the north. Walking casually, arms swinging.

Tall man. Thin. A too-big head-much too big. Some kind ofhat.

Milo set out after him. Closed the gap, bellowed.

"Policefreezedon 'tmovepolicefreezefreeze!"

The man stopped.

"Stay right there hands behind your head."

The man obeyed.

"Lie down slowly face to the sidewalk-get your hands back there again-up up behind your head."

Total compliance. As the man lay down, his hat fell off.

In a flash, Milo had his cuffs out, was bending the man's arm behind his back.

That easy.

Time for someone else to have some luck.

"Where's Peake?" Milo demanded.

"Who?" High, tight voice.

"Peake. Don't fuck with me, Crimmins-"

"Who-"

Keeping his gun trained on the back of the man's head, Milo fished out the penlight and tossed it to me. "Shine it on his face-lift up your face!"

Before the man could respond, Milo grabbed a handful of hair and helped him along. The man gasped in pain. I moved around in front and aimed the beam at his face.

Thin face. Framed by long blond hair. He had hat head from the watch cap that lay a few feet away on the pavement.

A few lights went on in neighboring houses, but the street remained quiet.

Milo held the man's chin as I illuminated scared pale eyes. Weak chin, cottony with fledgling beard growth.

Pimples.

Adolescent acne.

A kid.