Survival Of The Fittest

“Assuming no murders took place between Raymond and Irit. And even if they didn't, with lust crimes the drive often accelerates as the victims pile up. Or he killed out of town. But let's assume he operates only in L.A. and Raymond was his first. Even with his arrogance he would have been apprehensive, pulling back to see if the investigation turned anything up. When it didn't, he left the shoes. When that didn't get any attention, he struck again. In a safe place, like the conservancy. And that success bolstered his confidence so he repeated sooner.”

“Meaning the next one could be even sooner.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he began to pace.

“Something else,” I said. “If Raymond was his first, maybe he removed the body to use it. Kept it for two months until he thought he was finished with it. Or- and this is sickening- until it wasn't usable, anymore. At that point, he disposed of it, keeping the shoes and whatever else as mementos. Maybe he was still at a point where he wanted to quit. But after a while, the shoes no longer worked for him as sexual stimuli so he delivered them to Newton Division, with the clipping, to revive some of the power-thrill. That was temporary, too, and he went stalking. Driving around the city, looking for another outdoor setting. Some place that evoked Raymond's murder but different enough to avoid detection of a pattern.”

He stopped pacing. “First a boy, then girls?”

“He's ambisexual. Remember, he doesn't have sex with them. The thrill is the stalking and capture. That's why he took Raymond but not Irit and Latvinia. By then, he was less impulsive, had learned what really turned him on.”

“You've got some mind, Doctor.”

“That's what you pay me for. When you pay me.”

He tapped a foot and studied the rug. “I don't know, Alex. It's a clever construction but there are still too many differences.”

“I'm sure you're right,” I said. “But here's another thought: All three kids were murdered in public places. Perhaps because the killer- or killers- finds that erotic. Or, he has no access to an indoor killing spot.”

“Homeless?”

“No, I doubt it. He's got a car and I still see him as middle-class, neat and clean. I was thinking just the opposite: a family man, living an outwardly wholesome and conventional life. Maybe with a wife, or a live-in girlfriend. Even children of his own. A nice, cozy domestic setup where there'd be no convenient place to play with a dead body.”

“What about a van?” he said. “You know how many of these assholes love vans.”

“A van might work but sooner or later, he'd have to clean it up. If I'm right about his being a family man, with a job, it would be sooner.”

“Not a nine-to-five job, Alex, because he gets away in the middle of the day.”

“Probably not,” I said. “Someone with flexibility. Self-employed, an independent contractor. Or a work schedule with revolving shifts. Maybe a uniform. Some kind of repairman, or park maintenance worker. A security guard. One thing I'd do is cross-reference the personnel lists for the conservancy and the park where Raymond was killed. If you come across someone who switched jobs from East L.A. to the Palisades, ask him lots of questions.”

He pulled out his pad and made a note. “And keep looking for other retarded victims. Other divisions…”

Robin came in with three bowls and set them down. Milo folded the chart I'd made and slipped it in the pad.

“Here you go, boys. Chocolate syrup for you, Milo, but the only flavor we had was vanilla.”

“No prob,” said Milo. “The virtue of simplicity.”

18

At nine-thirty, I walked Milo down to his unmarked. He lagged behind me on the stairs and his footsteps were halting and deliberate.

“Going home?” I said.

“Nope, back to the office. Gonna call every goddamn night-shift detective in every goddamn division, look for any remotely possible matches. If I don't get any, that'll tell me something, too.”

He opened the car door. “Thanks for the input. Now let me tell you about Sergeant Wes Baker. We were classmates in the academy. Two of the oldest guys in the class, he might have been the oldest. Maybe that's why he started off thinking we were kindred spirits. Or maybe it was because I had a master's degree and he fancied himself an intellectual.”

“And you didn't want to be kindred with him.”

“What are you, a shrink? I didn't want to be kindred with anyone at that place, still tucked deeply in the closet, waking up with my jaws clenched so tight I thought my face would break. Every day I memorized another section of the penal code, shot bull's-eyes on the range, did hand-to-hand, the whole macho bit. After Vietnam, no big challenge, but it was like someone else going through it- I felt like an impostor, was sure I'd be found out and lynched. So I kept to myself, avoided after-hours with the other recruits, didn't have to pretend to be a pussy hound and smile through the fag jokes. Why I didn't quit, I still don't know. Maybe after the war I couldn't find any alternatives that seemed better.”

A sudden, frightening grin spread across his face. “And that's my confession, Father… back to Wes Baker. He was a relative loner, too, because he considered himself above it all, Mr. Experience. He saw me reading Vonnegut and got the idea we could relate because he was into books. Philosophy, Zen, yoga, politics. Psychology. Always eager for a meaning-of-life discussion. I pretended to go along, which was easy because he liked to talk and I know how to listen. He told me his life story in weekly installments. He'd knocked around a bit, traveled everywhere, Peace Corps, worked oil rigs and cruise ships, taught school in the inner city, been-there-done-it. He was always complaining he couldn't get a bridge foursome at the academy, that for the other guys poker was an intellectual challenge. He kept trying to buddy up, inviting me over. I kept declining politely. Finally, midway through the course, he asked me to his place to watch a Rams game and I agreed, wondering if he was gay, too. But his girlfriend was there- cute little grad student from the U. And her friend- a budding actress. My date.”

He smiled again, this time with some pleasure. “Noreen. Great legs, flat voice, maybe the silent era would have treated her better. Wes cooked up this Indian banquet- chutneys and curries, whatever. Okra, which to me is snot from the ground- chicken in a clay pot. He served some esoteric beer from Bombay that tasted like horse piss. The game was on the tube but it never got watched because Wes nudged us into a debate on East versus West, who really enjoyed the greater quality of life. Then he got down on the floor and demonstrated yoga positions, trying to show how they could be used to subdue suspects without undue violence. Gave a whole lecture on the history of martial arts and how it related to Asian religion. His girlfriend thought it was fascinating. Noreen got sleepy.”

“Sounds like a fun evening.”

“Real chortle fest. After that night, I was friendly to him but really kept my distance. The guy was too intense for me and life was hard enough without having to deal with all his cosmic bullshit. He must have sensed it because he cooled off, too, and eventually we were just nodding hello in the hall, then avoiding each other completely. About a week before graduation, I happened to be having one of my few nights out. Dinner at a place in West Hollywood with a guy I'd met at a bar. Older guy, an accountant, also struggling. He ended up divorcing his wife, had a massive heart attack shortly after and died at forty-two… Anyway, we'd been at this place on Santa Monica and when we came out some cars were stopped at a red light. The guy put his arm around my shoulder. I wasn't comfortable being public, and I moved away. He laughed it off and we walked to the curb to cross the street. Just then I got that back-of-the-neck feeling when someone's watching you, turned and saw Wes Baker in a little red sports car. Looking right through me, with this so-that-explains it expression. When my eye caught his, he pretended he didn't see me, and jackrabbited the moment the light turned green. A week later someone busted into my locker and filled it with a stack of gay porn. A huge stack, including some really nasty S and M stuff. I could never prove it was Baker, but who else? And a couple of