Authors: Chris Frank,Skip Press
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #mystery, #Hard-Boiled
“Oh good,” Deus said, “The press is here too. Perfect. Now we can get started.”
He moved slowly towards the railing on the bridge’s south side. He was taking off his jacket when he heard a deep baritone voice advancing up the bridge.
“Marty, Marty Lord. This is Captain Robert Jones from the Los Angeles Police Department. It’s over, Marty. Come on in; it doesn’t need to end like this.”
At this point, Deus had completely removed his jacket. He stood proudly, wearing a bright white shirt with some stencil work on the front. In a striking shade of black, emblazoned across Marty’s shirt was the number ‘ten’. Marty climbed to the edge of the rail and turned to the Captain.
“Of course it does, Captain; just listen to the song.”
The killer waved at the KVTM helicopter, beckoning it to come closer. As the copter pilot heeded the request, Deus pointed to his shirt and then turned to Jim.
“Detective Jovian, it was a pleasure meeting you. I am truly sorry about the girl in your car, but in war there is always collateral damage.”
“She’s going to be all right,” Jim said calmly, beginning to walk toward the man with the gun. “But how about you?”
“Jovian, stay back!” yelled the captain.
Jim shot him a smile and a wink, then turned back to Deus as he approached.
“Mickey, think about this…” He called out to his boss, “It’s Deus, sir. His real name is Mickey Deus.”
The killer was getting confused, not sure what to think about the detective’s approach. Waving his gun back and forth from Jim to the Captain, he somehow managed to balance himself on the southern rail of the bridge.
“You didn’t catch me, Detective Jovian! It’s over only because I say it’s over!”
Jim was within a couple of steps.
“But Mickey, think about it! You could go to prison for life! You’d be able to watch the movie about you. Like Charles Manson, man! Famous!”
Through the throbbing haze of pain and insanity in the drugged-out cancer riddled brain of Marty Lord, the thought gave him pause. For a fleeting instance, the lure of Hollywood took hold, the greedy claws of infamy masquerading as fame and importance wrapped around his brain.
That was all Jovian needed. He leaped with both feet, screaming like an infuriated beast, and drop kicked the killer off the railing and toward the sea below, the Luger going off but bullets hitting no one. Jim landed on his back on the railing, his body teetering toward oblivion as he scrambled for balance. Then the strong hands of the police captain grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to safety.
“You crazy son of a bitch!” yelled Captain Jones. “You could have killed yourself!”
Jim caught his breath and struggled to his feet as the captain unlocked the handcuffs. Jim rubbed his raw wrists as he looked up with a satisfied smile.
“Sir, I was trying to capture his gun with my feet. Sorry about that.”
The captain stared at his detective.
“Why in the hell did you do that?”
“Accuracy,” Jim responded.
He stepped to the edge of the bridge and looked over. Mickey Deus’s body was floating below.
“What!?”
“Lord’s a leaping. His name wasn’t really Lord, so I couldn’t let him leap. He needed to be pushed.”
Roy had managed to hop over to their location, but his face was wracked with pain.
“Thanks, Jim,” he said, then promptly passed out onto the pavement.
The camera in the KVTM copter caught the killer’s entire downward journey, including the explosion of the body against the icy cold Pacific Ocean. Several Coast Guard vessels rushed in to quickly collect the remains of the “Birdman of West Covina” who had proven he couldn’t fly.
The squad car Roy had been driving was being towed away, back down the bridge. An officer directed traffic, clearing the cars and trucks that had been stalled. At the bottom of the bridge, traffic was being directed away.
“The madness is finally over,” the Captain said as emergency medics rolled Roy on a stretcher toward an ambulance. Jim followed as the Captain spoke to Roy before he was loaded into the ambulance.
“Good work today, Officer Winston.”
Roy grimaced.
“Thanks, Captain, all in the line of duty.”
Jones smiled.
“Take care of that foot. If L.A. ever gets another pro football team, they’ll need a kicker.”
Roy smiled.
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Jones shook Roy’s hand then fixed his gaze upon the emergency medical technician.
“Take him to Huntington Memorial. He lives in West Covina. I want his family close by.”
The technician nodded.
“You got it, Captain.”
Roy was loaded up, the rear doors of the ambulance were closed, and off they went.
Jones turned to Jovian.
“How are you holding up?”
Jim shrugged as he rubbed his wrists.
“Not bad. Can’t hear much out of my left ear from the gun shot in the car. Wrists are sore. I never knew how uncomfortable these things are.”
Captain Jones laughed.
“What did you expect, Jovian? They’re for the bad guys. They’re supposed to be uncomfortable.”
They were walking toward Jones’ squad car.
“You got here fast,” Jim said. “Guess you found the house.”
Jones nodded.
“Officer Levins helped. He found your cell phone ringing on the living room floor there.”
The Captain got in the backseat of his car. Jim got in behind him.
“So my phone, where is it?”
The Captain’s driver reached into the glove compartment and retrieved Jim’s phone. Jim grabbed it and checked the call logs. He sighed when he saw that he had not received any messages from the hospital. He turned to his Captain.
“Have you heard anything from Huntington?”
The Captain shook his head.
“I could check with my office but I haven’t heard anything.”
“How did you know about the bridge?” Jim asked as they pulled away. “How did you know to come here?”
Jones smiled as the car negotiated through the police barricades.
“Levins found some pictures of bridges in the creep’s bedroom. I was looking at the photos when I remembered that nine was the last number on the wall. Then it dawned on me; Marty
Lord
was number ten. Marty was the ‘lord a leaping’ and it had to be a bridge tall enough to get the job done, ergo the Vincent Thomas Bridge.
Jim was impressed.
“Nice work, Captain.”
“You think I made this rank for my classic good looks?”
Jim smiled for the first time that day. There was a pause before he spoke again.
“What about number nine, the dancer? Is she okay?”
Jones smiled.
“She’s fine. I got the call on my way here. A couple of the boys found her at home with two screaming kids in the backyard.”
“Well, that’s good news,”
“Yes, it is,” Jones agreed.
Jim sat in silence and looked out the window.
“Something bothering you, Detective?”
“Something doesn’t add up.”
“What’s that?” the Captain asked.
“Milt Adams,” Jim began. “Number eleven. There were no pictures and no eleven on that board in the killer’s house.”
Captain Jones thought for a second.
“I didn’t see any pictures of Alice Edwards, either.”
“Well, she was an add-on.”
“So was Adams,” Jones added.
“Yeah, guess so.”
They were on the Harbor Freeway now. The Captain tapped on the driver’s shoulder and he gunned it, lights flashing.
“Put your thoughts in the report. I need to get back to City Hall to meet the mayor and you need to get back to the hospital. I’ll have Levins bring your car to the hospital.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
“Oh, and Jim.”
Jovian looked towards his superior officer.
“Don’t you ever do something as crazy as that insane flying kick execution of a serial killer asshole again, you hear me?”
Jim smiled.
“Yes, sir. Wouldn’t think of it.”
Day 8: 3:05 p.m.
Jim sat in the chair next to Lisa’s bed, their hands linked. Their hands had remained entwined since Jim had arrived in the ICU three hours before. Every now and then, Jim could feel Lisa squeeze his fingers, but as she was on a continuous narcotic drip, her movements were rare and never sustained. Jim was watching television when Samantha entered the room.
“Detective Jovian?”
“Yes.”
“She’s doing remarkably well for the amount of trauma she sustained.”
Jim rose and addressed the nurse.
“I want to thank you for all you did today.”
Samantha looked confused.
“Excuse me detective, but isn’t it me who should be thanking you?”
Jim looked at her, puzzled.
“For what?”
Samantha smiled.
“I heard from you were the guy who caught the Birdman. Is that true, did you catch him?”
Jim looked to Lisa, who probably had more insight into the mind of the killer than anyone associated with the case.
“I was just one of the guys. There were a lot of people who helped bring Mick… Marty Lord down.”
Samantha would not be denied.
“But that was you on the bridge today kicking him into the water, wasn’t it? I saw you on the television.”
“Yes, that was me.”
“Well then, Detective Jovian, you are a hero. And if you want my advice, I’d suggest you get used to people thinking that.”
“Okay,” Jim said.
Samantha peeked back at Lisa.
“I’ll see you in a little bit, sweetie.”
Then she turned back to Jim.
“Have a good night, detective; try to get some sleep.”
Jim waved goodbye and sat back down at Lisa’s side and watched her sleep.
There she was
, Jim thought,
the woman he loved, resting peacefully and very much alive
. The doctor had removed the endotracheal tube and she was now breathing on her own. Jim could not believe that he could ever be happier than he was right now. He stood up to stretch when he felt something in his back pocket. He removed a piece of paper; it was the cheat sheet that Captain Jones had given to all the members of his task force. Jim sat down and read through the lyrics that had caused such terror over the past week. The words were so innocent, so symbolic to the church and Marty had tried to ruin them forever.
He was reading the list, focusing on the days that Marty had fortunately missed, when he saw it. He saw what had been bothering him for so long. He turned to Lisa.
She was suddenly awake, and looking at him intensely, like she was reading his mind. When she saw the panic in his eyes, she whispered,
“I told you I was sorry.”
Jim found his next breath stuck in his throat. She was talking about Milt. Mickey Deus never reacted when Jim brought up Milt’s name. The killer looked confused when Jim told him that there were nine murders. Mickey/Marty thought that there were only eight. He had been so meticulous in his planning. He would never have put the number eleven in drumsticks next to Milt’s dead body because there never were eleven drummer’s drumming. It was “twelve drummers drumming” and “eleven pipers piping.” The screenwriter turned killer wouldn’t have made that mistake.
Lisa, his beloved Lisa, had killed Milt Adams and tried to make it look like Marty did it. Why didn’t he see it earlier? How would Marty know that Milt played the drums, even air drums? He and Lisa watched Milt play that morning in the editing bay. The quicklime and the plastic sheet; that was Lisa’s attempt to delay the discovery of Milt’s body just like Buffalo Bill had done in
Silence of the Lambs
. Jim put his head in his hands. He heard Lisa whisper the same question that he couldn’t answer before.
“What do you want to do now?”
Jim looked away; he was a cop, no, a detective. He had a job to do, the law to uphold, justice and all the things that made it possible for good to thrive in an ever-darkening world. Then he saw himself with Lisa, doing a crossword puzzle, shopping for drapes and playing with their children. He turned to Lisa and grabbed her hand.