April Smith - Good Morning, Killer

Mike Donnato had taken care of his mother until she died, in this house, of stomach cancer. There were far-flung siblings, but Mike was the only one with the courage to stick it out. She had lived in one of those extra back rooms with a fireplace and TV that nobody really uses, except to dump unfolded laundry and discarded pets. There was a mossy reek from the terrarium that held the baby chameleons; the carpeting, a cheap oatmealy remnant, felt cold underfoot, some dankness having to do with the plumbing.

“Who farted?” was the standard greeting from the Donnato boys.

It was a room without hope to begin with — thinly walled, sliding glass doors opening to a useless jag of the yard, an odd space looking at the back fence. This was where I slept, on a mattress on the floor, surrounded by Mike’s parents’ effects, which were touchingly arranged as they had been in the hobby room of their big home in Glendale: Dad’s preoccupations in one half, Mom’s on the other. So you had a Bernina sewing machine, an ironing board and bins of fabric and envelopes of clothing patterns on one side; then a bench with a magnifying glass and all manner of fly-fishing materials and magazines. There were other oddities — a rocking horse, a white cabinet I had not opened, valuable-looking antique wicker chairs, jug lamps, vinyl records (A Swingin’ Christmas), framed art posters from the seventies, and the kinds of novels people don’t read anymore: Lord Jim, Catch-22, Shogun, Cancer Ward, The Black Marble, War and Remembrance. If I didn’t feel bad enough, I could wallow in the ash-cold remnants of two extinguished lives.

“Free on bail” was not the way I would have put it. I was free to wander through the living room, lie on the beat-up burgundy-colored sectional (if I wanted to vacuum the cat hair), or sit in Mike’s reclining chair and look at cable on a big blurry-screened TV. I could pace the hallway, passing the bedrooms in about four seconds — no daylight, nothing on the walls, except the kids’ doors plastered with Police Line Do Not Cross tape and puzzles that spelled their names, Kevin, Justin, Ian.

I was free to sit on the small deck with the standard grill and white plastic umbrella table, and look up at a patch of milky sky, and know this was a preview, an aperitif, of prison life. I missed my lifeguard friend. I missed the shower talk and the redtail hawks that sailed above the pool in perfect freedom.

Andrew? I didn’t know who he was anymore.

The highlight of the day would be the call from the law firm, usually with more bad news.

I learned, one standard-issue hot ’n’ hazy valley morning, that the deputy district attorney prosecuting my case would be Mark Rauch, and realized, way too late, the devastating mistake I had made in not involving Mark Rauch in the Santa Monica kidnapping, not paying respects, not providing a political opening for which he might show gratitude, or at least mercy. This might have been the reason Rauch maneuvered to be assigned to this case — or more likely, he saw it as a high-profile opportunity to continue to build a citywide presence for a mayoralty run. So much for keeping us out of the press. The words “slam dunk” were being bandied about the courthouse.

“He’s a scary guy,” I told Devon.

“Why?”

“Hold up a mirror. He has no reflection.”

“He puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like you and me.”

“I’ve seen him work. If you call making little kids cry on the stand ‘work.’”

“Come on now, keep that candle burning.”

“Say again?”

“That pilot light of competition. I know you’ve got it in you; maybe it’s low right now, but don’t let it blow out.”

“Is that what the game is for you, Devon?”

“Oh, I’ve got my competitive streak. I like to know I can beat you at something.”

For a moment I felt myself coming alive.

“What if I nailed Ray Brennan?”

“Who is Ray Brennan?”

“The serial rapist I told you about. The case I was working on when—”

“There are seven reasons why you can’t go there,” he said with such gravitas I believed he had already counted.

“Wouldn’t it prove worthiness of character if I went out and found the son of a bitch?”

“It would be a violation of the bail agreement.”

“That’s minor, compared to—”

“Let it go,” he said firmly. “There are other trained and competent people who will continue your work and bring this creep to justice, okay? I know how it is to sit out there alone and have revenge fantasies—”

“It’s not a fantasy , it’s my job .”

“This is your job: focus and prepare. Things are about to get very real.”

I taped the picture of Ray Brennan over the fireplace in the hobby room.

Now it felt like home.

Sub: Hang in there

From: B.Sullivan@FBILA.com

To: 70Barracuda@hotmail.com

Just to let you know I am thinking of you and hoping you’re doing okay. My heart goes out to you, it must be so difficult to face what you are facing. Your friend is out of the hospital. I’ll come and see you soon.

Love,

Barbara

Subj: Santa Monica Kidnapping

From: J.Ripley@FBILA.com

To: 70Barracuda@hotmail.com

Don’t worry, the ball is still in play. Here’s a recap: Brennan remains at large. We obtained a warrant to search the Santos apartment. In answer to your question, yes, we did check the shoes, first thing. We did not locate the actual lug sole boots, but we did recover size 10 athletic shoes that, according to Dr. Arnie (what a nut), match the wear pattern from the shoe print on Juliana’s back. So Carl Vincent IS Brennan. He ditched the situation in Arizona to come here and go hunting. The picture is coming clear of Brennan’s deal with Mrs. Santos. She is an abuser, in and out of the Program, lost the kids for a while. Social services has volumes on her. The kids come from different dads. Brennan worked in Thrifty drugstore, in the photo department. Met Roxy and got friendly, cultivated her, like Juliana. Mother claims he’s a great provider. That’s a good one. Fired for stealing. Mother denies he molested Roxy. Claims they are all religious. Total denial. Anyway, easy ducks for Brennan. Sorry for your troubles. Everyone here backs you up.

Sincerely,

Jason Ripley

Subj: Hang in there

From: B.Sullivan@FBILA.com

To:70Barracuda@hotmail.com

Look at it this way: at least you are missing the 90-day file review. Galloway is in his office with a migraine.

Subj: Santa Monica Kidnapping

From: J. Ripley@FBILA.com

To: 70Barracuda@hotmail.com

Just to keep you posted: Brennan’s father was also former military but he and the mom were divorced. According to Mrs. Santos, Brennan grew up somewhere around Culver City, maybe the post-war housing you told me about? Could that be the answer to the question of why he returned— to old stomping ground? Yes, as you suggested, we are searching the homeless shelters for transient named Willie John Black. Possible Brennan is hiding out with him or others.

Sincerely,

Jason Ripley

Subj: Hang in there

From: B.Sullivan@FBILA.com

To: 70Barracuda@hotmail.com

Sorry, have to cancel our visit. Two bank jobs yesterday and the baby has a cold. Miss you.