No Human Involved - Barbara Seranella Read online

  The Harleys roared a thundering finale. The bikers gunned their engines till flames shot out the back of their illegal straight pipes; somewhere a car alarm went off. Unsmiling, they shut off their choppers. The ol' ladies untied their hair and waited while their men chained their bikes together.

  She crawled till she reached the comer of the brick wall. Carefully, she poked her head around and stole a look at the front entrance. Three men shone long, black flashlights through the windows of the van. Cops. She was stupid to drive the van there.

  She crawled to the other end of the parking lot and took off down the alley.

  ***

  Detective Sergeant Mace St. John pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket. He tilted her glass over and, without touching the surface, dropped it into a plain brown paper bag that he extracted from his pocket. Then he dated and initialed the front of the bag and wrote a short description of the contents.

  Benny watched wordlessly, rubbing down the bar top and drying glasses with the same terrycloth rag he used for everything. St. John threw a five on the bar to cover the cost of the glass and asked for a receipt.

  The detective gave a slow, disgusted blink and shook his head. He'd misjudged her. He was slipping. He waited for the undercover officer in the blue knit cap to come back inside.

  The man hung back till Mace gestured for him to join him.

  "We lost her."

  "I figured. Little rugrat like that probably knows these alleys inside and out. Let's get out of here."

  They walked out front. A tow truck driver was waiting for the Fingerprint man to finish dusting the driver's door handle of a white van.

  "Open it," the detective instructed. The tow truck driver coaxed the drivers side door lock up with a slim jim. "Dust the steering wheel, and then get it out of here." He turned to a second cop.

  "Does the ME have anything for us?"

  "Nothing more than the obvious. Cause of death: murder by gunshot wounds to the head. He sent the bullets to Ballistics."

  "No rush." Mace held up the evidence bag.

  "Let's get a make on these prints so we can match them to the ones in the vehicle and the house." He looked down the alley "The girl's a hype. She won't go far."

  "What do you want to do now, Sarge?"

  "Let's go back to the house for a final look-over."

  Mace checked his watch. It was almost six o'clock.

  The call had come in at noon. A black-and-white responded to the hysterical call that there had been a shooting on Brooks. Uniformed officers investigated and called in a code 187, murder to find. An easy determination. No suicide ever managed to place six rounds in his own face. St. John was on call that weekend and scheduled to receive whatever murder case came along. He hadn't made any other plans; chances were high he'd catch a case. Tensions between the all-black Shoreline Crips and Chicano V-13 gangs had been building. With Valentines Day right around the corner, they could expect a jump in domestics as well. He knew that sometimes the murder stats jump for no apparent reason. Different guys had their theories. Some blamed the full moon, a sudden heat wave, whatever. You get a week where the city just erupts. Who can say for sure what brings it on? This week was starting off badly and the weather was still cool.

  By one-thirty he was at the death scene wearing an old pair of slacks and a sweat-stained t-shirt. The dispatcher reached him at the gym where he'd spent the morning sparring and preparing his protégé, a bantamweight seventeen-year-old fresh off the street, for an upcoming bout. The good fighters never come from between clean sheets, Digger had taught him that.

  St. John's shield hung on a thin chain around his neck; his service revolver was concealed under his windbreaker. He arrived at the house in an unmarked Chevrolet. A group of teenagers huddled across the street, mostly white kids. When the detective approached them, they scattered like cockroaches.

  Flower Georges house was on the fringe of Ghost Town, a low stucco building that squatted ungracefully next to abandoned Pacific Electric tracks. Graffiti blackened the walls and the sheets of plywood that were nailed over the window frames. The house was surrounded by a chain-link fence with a foot of indestructible fast food wrappers woven into the bottom of it. An assortment of bald tires and beer bottles littered the front yard. Mace ordered the yellow tape to be strung. He climbed the stairs of the front porch, past the dying, anemic clumps of dandelions and foxtails that had surrendered to the city soot, and went inside.

  He stepped over the two-by-four nailed to the hardwood floor in the entry hall, part of a home-grown barricade system. The board was approximately the same width as the plank of wood leaning against the doorjamb. Once the door was shut and the board in place, this would be a very difficult house to enter. It hadn't made it any safer for the body lying inside.

  Inside job.

  He walked down the dark hallway His flashlight revealed a mattress on the floor of every dirty room. The body was in the third room he entered. A uniformed cop stood at the doorway St. John nodded to the officer and went inside. The corpse was naked and turning light yellow as the blood drained to the lowest point of the body. It smelled of vomit and excrement, not all of it fresh. The detective pulled a jar of Vicks mentholated jelly out of his pocket and generously swathed each nostril. He offered some to the cop in the doorway, and the man accepted it gratefully

  Mace studied the face, what was left of it. The right socket was empty The detectives flashlight found a glass eye in the corner of the room. The startled eyeball stared back at him from a nest of spider webs and burnt matches. He counted the entry wounds. They were made by a small-caliber bullet and grouped close together. Probably a .22, fired at close range. Small coronas of powder burns tattooed the jaundiced skin.

  Mace's new partner, Detective Patrolman Tony Cassiletti, joined him. Together they stood over the body; an expression of revulsion twisted the younger man's face.

  "Welcome to the glamour of homicide," St. John said and handed Cassiletti the dark blue jar of balm.

  Cassiletti asked, "What do you make of it?"

  "I'd say the perp was very pissed off The rookie nodded thoughtfully, as if his superior had just provided him with some deep insight.

  "Look at this." Cassiletti lifted the sheet draped over the victim's foot. There was a tattoo on the sole of the left foot that read: "Hang it here, motherfucker." An arrow pointed to a dotted line in blue around the big toe. "Here's one for your collection, Sarge."

  Mace took a picture of the tattoo. Another fine, upstanding citizen." He straightened and arched his back. Planting a palm at the base of his spine, he stifled a yawn with the back of his other hand.

  "We got a name yet?"

  Cassiletti consulted his notepad., His hands shook. Mace noted the high color in his cheeks. Cassiletti was new to the detail; a recent transfer from City Hall security serving the mayor at campaign dinners. The most action he had probably seen was the subduing of a drunk at a United Way fund-raiser. "Full name: George Mancini aka Flower George. He had a record: Pandering, contributing, small-time dealer. Looks like whoever croaked him did the world a favor?"

  Mace smiled at the younger man. Sounded like Cassiletti had been watching too many movies. The background check revealed a Ford Econoline Van registered to the deceased. The van was also missing. "Put out an APB on the van. Call me if it shows up." Mace made a note of the plate number. "Any witnesses?" he asked the cop in the doorway.

  The man laughed. "Yeah, as soon as we come up with the perp we'll have twenty slimebags ready to do their civic duty and say they saw him twenty miles away all morning."

  "Her." Mace looked at the cluster of bullet holes. "The shooter will be a her. A guy would fire

  two rounds, three tops, even in a rage. We're looking for a very angry lady"

  The van was spotted four hours later at the Venture Inn, a biker dive at the end of Venice Boulevard. It had been almost too easy, until the girl eluded them.

  Mace watched the van lumber off on the hook of th
e tow truck. He sighed. The lieutenant wasn't going to be happy. St. John consoled himself with the thought that in a day. it would be forgotten.

  When the girl's identity was confirmed, he'd issue a warrant for her arrest. Within the month, they'd probably pick her up on something else. If they were lucky her prints would catch up with her while she was still in custody There was always a chance she'd make it out on her own recognizance, but they'd bust her again. She wasn't going far; that type never did. He made a note to himself to post her picture in the squad room and give a copy to Vice, too. This one was going down.

  "I think what we got here is a clear case of AVA, NHI," St. John said.

  Cassiletti looked confused.

  "Asshole versus asshole," Mace translated, "no human involved." He grinned at the rookie detective. "What say we call it a day?"

  The other cop nodded and looked relieved. Mace guessed that he probably had someone waiting for him at home, worrying about him. It was easier to have no one. He'd figure that out for himself.

  2

  MUNCH STAYED OFF THE SURFACE STREETS. WHEN she was almost to the end of the alley she started cutting through back yards. She vaulted over and under fences before the pit bulls and Dobermans had a chance to come fully to their feet. Along the way she pulled clothes off of lines and clutched them to her chest.

  She ran till her legs turned to rubber and she couldn't grab enough breath to fill her aching lungs. When she spotted a two-foot opening under the wooden stairs of a back porch, she dove inside. As the panic subsided, she felt pain: a prickly burning in her ankle, sharp stabs in her thighs and sides. She was out of adrenaline.

  The house where she sought refuge was a typical Venice bungalow gone to seed: wood-shingled and at one time painted white. Empty window boxes now hung lopsided and forgotten beneath windows with burglar bars. The white paint was peeling in long blistered strips and the wood had been chewed into curling tunnels by industrious termites. Lying in the fine gray dust under the back porch, she imagined herself invisible.

  In the kitchen above her, chairs scraped across the floor. Forks clattered on stoneware plates. A refrigerator door opened and closed. The people in the house were talking, but she couldn't make out individual words. She willed herself to take only shallow, quiet breaths.

  She waited till they finished eating and then another half an hour of silence before daring to stir. Her clothes were damp with sweat and resisted her efforts to shed them. The dirt under the house clung to her as well. Slowly she pulled on the pants she had stolen. They fit better than the pair she would leave behind. She tied a red bandanna around her head. It seemed to take forever for night to come and the whiskey haze to lift.

  The battle with the Monster had begun. Getting loaded would only make things worse. She counted all the reasons she shouldn't use, starting with the obvious danger of clouding her mind when she needed every faculty clear and operating at maximum. No sooner did she get that settled, decide her course, then that little message would return: "A taste would help. Just a little taste to take the edge off." God, she thought, no wonder when people off themselves, they shoot their heads.

  It took another twenty minutes of slinking through alleys to reach the cab depot on Electric Avenue. She found Wizard working on the brakes of an old two-toned Checker. Wizard lived his entire life, as had she, within the borders of Venice. He'd always managed to stay uninvolved with gang rivalries. None of his neighbors ever gave him grief. Only the nappy head of white hair and the deep crease above the bridge of his nose betrayed his years. The muscles under his raisin-black skin were as hard as onyx. She had once seen him park a Volkswagen by picking up the rear end by its bumper and setting it next to the curb. His real name was Orson Ozwald. In a world where few people ever went by their given names, Ozwald became Oz. His expertise with a cutting torch had earned him the respected title of "the Wizard" She was his apprentice. The crowd she ran with called her whatever they wanted to, "Little Bit" mostly Since she'd worked with Oz, her childhood nickname was revived. Now they called her Munch, short for munchkin.

  "Wizard," she hissed to him from the shadows. His hand was halfway to his buck knife before

  he recognized her.

  "What's up, girl?" He took in the brightness of her eyes. "You're not here to work, are you?"

  "I want to buy that GTO."

  "You got cash?"

  She pulled the wad from her pocket and counted $300 into his palm.

  He shook his head and clucked his tongue.

  "What you done now, girl?" Before she could answer he held up his palm, a startling white flag of callused skin. "I don't want to know. I'll get the keys."

  She clung to the shadows while he went to his Peg-Board. "Uh, Wizard . . . ?"

  "Don't worry, I haven't seen you." He threw her the keys and went back to his brake job. "The pink slip is under the seat."

  "I know."

  "Git outta here."

  She nodded and slipped out the side gate. The Pontiac had a quarter of a tank of gas. She counted what was left of her funds: fourteen dollars. Enough for a dime bag and a couple of packs of smokes. No, she was putting down. No dope, and no alcohol for a while, either. She'd been stupid to get drunk.

  Her bones were starting to ache, she could feel it even through the booze. That's why they called it "the Monster." It's ugly when it turns on you..Your nose starts to run when the first tide of withdrawal sweeps over you. Theres a perverted pride that goes along with the amount you suffer. Like you must be some kind of god to have it together enough to have a really big habit going. When she'd been in jail, some black girl with a blond wig had strutted back and forth in the misdemeanor tank bragging that she was a good whore. Munch had laid on her cot, covered with a thin wool blanket, teeth chattering, but not from the air conditioning, and decided that she must be an excellent dope fiend.

  She rubbed her brow, wishing she could shut her eyes against the bright lights of the oncoming traffic. It would be so easy, she thought, to give the wheel a sudden turn into the other lane. N0, she told herself, then he would win.

  Her muscles ached, and her skin felt raw. She tried to pretend she had the flu. She was sick now, she told herself, but the feeling would pass. Her hair hurt. She checked the rearview mirror and avoided looking into her own eyes. Give it up, a little voice said. You know you're going to give in eventually Why wait? An insidious debate began. The longer she waited, the worse it would get, the voice promised her. All her actions were predicated on the fragile belief that she stood a chance. Her resolve must not flicker or she would be lost.

  "I'm sick," she said out loud.

  You've always given in in the past.

  A flu with dialogue, she amended. A treacherous, will-corroding kind of flu she'd always done anything, said anything, sold anything to cure. Until now. Especially now, when she knew exactly what it would take to cure her, to get her even again. The second wave would be much worse, adding debilitation to the craving. She'd given in at that stage before, sweating and sniffling, unable to sleep. Turning a trick is agony especially if the guy expects you to act friendly The car beside her honked as she realized that she had strayed into the other lane.

  Focus, she told herself. You're not beat yet.

  She wiped her nose with her sleeve and headed for Sepulveda Boulevard. She wasn't in jail now, and if she hoped to stay that way she'd better move. Sybil Brand Institute for Women was an experience Munch vowed never to repeat. Until then, cops and robbers had been a big game, one she always felt she had the edge on. The cops arrested her, she gave them a name, spent a night in jail, and then got released on her own recognizance the next morning after promising to return for court. She was so slick, until the day came when she found out that she had only been putting off the inevitable.

  She knew the point system by which they determined who qualified for OR like other kids knew their multiplication tables. lf you had lived at the same address for over two years, that was a couple of points. lf
you had a job, three more. Two points each for family in the area and if the crime was a first offense. They never checked the information she gave them, just filled out the appropriate blanks on their forms and tallied the points. She told them just enough to qualify each time and laughed all the way to the street. Usually, she'd be in the cooker within the hour.

  They'd keep her this time.

  She turned north, towards the Sepulveda pass. The road took her past the Veterans Administration and cemetery. She glanced at the endless rows of white tombstones, momentarily mesmerized by their shifting, neat patterns.

  This would be much worse than the November 11th bust that was her fifth"first offense." The possession charge had been bogus. All she had were fresh needle marks, but they called it "internal possession of a controlled substance," which made the marks a felony and meant an automatic seventy-two-hour hold. Long enough for all the other charges to catch up with her and all the other aliases she had ever used to be tied together with her fingerprints. That time there had been no release on her own recognizance.

  The San Diego Freeway raged beside her. The traffic sounds poured into her open window. She heard sirens from behind her and looked for the source of those wails in her rearview mirror. They were getting closer, yelping and honking. Two highway patrol cars screamed past her on the freeway to her left. She remembered the expired tags on the Pontiac and the driver's license in her pocket that she dare not use. Surely by now they had her name. She turned her attention back to the road in front of her.

  Sepulveda wound under the freeway and through the mountains. Mountains that had been carved out and filled in. They were building a golf course there someday on top of the dump. She'd seen golf courses on TV before. They had trees and lakes and everybody talked in low, soothing voices. She'd like to see one, to lay under a blue sky on the sweet-smelling grass and watch the clouds blow over her. Just once before—No, she wasn't going to die yet. Fuck 'em all. George used to say "Fuck 'em all but seven. Six pallbearers and a motorcycle cop." Thinking about George gave her a second wind. A hot rush of hate filled her. The son of a bitch had made her a murderer.