Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

One by one the raid vehicles rolled up to the plateau, parked near the corral, disgorged their occupants.

Another brief, whispered meeting among Silva and Neihrold and Moe.

At four seventeen a.m., Silva gave the thumbs-up and led his squad to the big house. Helmeted figures fanned out, surrounding the structure. Sheriff's deputies stood just behind. Moe and Petra and Raul hustled for the trio of oaks.

John Nguyen remained in Petra's car, happy to be there, because he hadn't gone to law school to play G.I. Joe.

Aaron got out of the Crown Vic and joined his brother behind a tree.

Moe looked at him. Shook his head. Resignation, not debate.

The go signal.

Simultaneous battering of the front door and the pair at the rear of the big house.

Splintering wood, shattered glass, the usual bellowed warnings.

Light on in front.

No reaction from the cabins out back. Moe's attention-everyone's attention-shifted to the action.

The first fruits of the raid appeared within seconds: Ax Dement, ponytailed, bare-chested, pajama bottoms fastened under a pendulous gut, was hustled outside by the two biggest fugitive cops. Cuffed at the back, head down, eyes barely open, shuffling as the helmets dragged him forward.

Next: brother Japhet, in shorts and a T-shirt marked Occidental College. Cuffed and bewildered and tripping several times as sheriff's deputies led him to one of their cruisers.

No longer a look-alike: he'd lost about thirty pounds, shaved his beard, trimmed his hair to a neat, blond brush cut.

Not a bad-looking kid-more Gemma than Lem, thought Aaron. He watched for her to appear. Felt bad for her. Beaten for years, a murderous psychopath for a kid.

What would she say if she saw Aaron tonight?

Flattering himself that she'd care.

Sheriff's deputies brought out three more people-the youngest Dement kids. One broke down and cried and a khaki lifted the child into his arms and kept going.

Next, two teens-Mary Giles in a pink bathrobe. Tall, slim, with long dark hair and her mother's angular good looks. Unrestrained but for hands on both arms. Suddenly she fought to break free.

“Why the fuck are you doing this! Why the fuck are you doing this!”

Screaming loud enough for anyone in the cabins to hear.

No reaction from the cabins. The outbuildings were vacant or they housed illegal alien workers, too terrified to show their faces. Either way, good. This would go down easy.

As his sister was led away, two other deputies appeared with the last Dement offspring, seventeen-year-old Paul Miki. Baggy T-shirt, saggy shorts. Surfer-do, zit-face, gawky as a heron.

Stunned and passive.

But for Ax Dement, stashed in the rear cage of the Hummer to await interrogation, all the Dement children were hustled off the property.

Juan Silva came out of the house, spotted Moe, jogged over. “We got some weed, some weapons-three revolvers, two rifles. Also a knife collection, all from Ax's room. That's what was in plain sight, feel free to search to your heart's content. Where do you want your suspect going?”

“Keep him here for the time being,” said Moe. “What about the parents?”

“Master bedroom was empty, bed made. I asked the daughter where they were, but she got obscene. Do they have another residence?”

“Not that we've found,” said Moe. “They used to live in the Hollywood Hills, but someone's renting the place.”

Silva's eyes wandered. Bored, now that his job was done. “Maybe they went on vacation.” Eyeing the Humvee. “Okay to transfer Porky to your vehicle?”

Raul Biro said, “Want to use mine? It's got a cage.”

Moe said, “Sounds good… guess we'd better clear those.” Pointing to the cabins. “After that I'm calling in the coroner's guys and a couple of K-9s.”

Silva said, “Sounds like a plan.”

Removing his helmet, he ran a hand over short black hair. All confidence and poise, another mission accomplished.

That changed seconds later, when gunshots cracked the night.

Three firecracker snaps. Seconds of dead air.

Three more shots.

By the time Juan Silva, the three Homicide D's, and four other fugitive cops assumed new positions closer to the cabins, lights had gone on in two front windows of the centermost outbuilding.

Everyone thinking the same thing: Weird. Why advertise?

Nothing but yellow light could be seen behind lace curtains.

Snick snick snick , as pistols and rifles put the windows in their sights.

Aaron Fox hung back a few feet. Close enough to see and hear, but well away from anyone's nervous trigger finger.

The target was slope-roofed and log-sided, with a full-length covered porch. Mini-me of the main house.

Silva handed his rifle to one of his squad members, cupped his hands. “Police, come out now! Walk backward with your hands on your head now! You are surrounded now! Come out now!”

Nothing.

Silva repeated the warning, motioned two of his men to circle to the back of the cabin.

Before they got going, a woman's voice said, “I'm safe… thank you. Come in. Please.”

“You come out, ma'am.”

“I… can't move… too scared. Please.”

Juan Silva re-conferred with his men. “Go back there and see if you can breach safely. If it's righteous, exit out the front.”

Gemma Dement sat on a peach-colored rocking chair next to a molded plastic bed shaped like a race car. She wore a heavy, oversized plaid shirt and pink sweatpants. The bed sported realistic-looking plastic tires, headlights, bumpers. The automotive theme extended to a thick wildly colored comforter printed with Ferraris and Lamborghinis and other shovel-nosed monsters. Matching throw pillows, lots of them. From the height and bulk of the comforter, additional bedding below.

Lots of cold nights in the Malibu hills; no sign of heating in the cabin.

Gemma's pale hair was loose, frizzed by the distant ocean. The peach of the chair was good for her complexion. She'd pleaded with Silva, then used smiles and eye-flutters, claiming she'd wet herself, was still too scared to move. No obvious sign of bladder problems on her sweatpants but no one was asking her to budge.

Petra said, “Raul, please get a camera.”

Biro left.

Gemma Dement's mouth puckered. “I was so scared,” she recited, woodenly. “He tried to hit me. Again.”

To her right lay a small, square, chrome handgun, its magazine now in the custody of Moses Reed.

To her left was Lem Dement. Flat on his back, one meaty leg bent, the other straight. A monumental hillock of belly aimed at the ceiling. A gelatinous face grizzled with white stubble dipped past the neckline of his T-shirt.

Dement's mouth had flopped open. A dental appliance-a partial upper bridge-dangled from slack lips. His hands were thick, hirsute, outstretched. The left palm was pierced by a ruby-fringed hole.

The shirt was a Saul to Paul souvenir, once white, now pretty much scarlet. The blood deepened in hue when viewed on the absorbent brown velour of Dement's white-piped sweatpants. The director's blue-veined feet remained encased in black suede slippers with little gold wolves on the toes.

Two feet from Dement's head sat a gray hat, grubby, battered, studded with bass lures.

Aaron thought: No water in sight, who's he been trying to kid?

For no particular reason, he began counting bulletholes.

In addition to the defensive wound in Dement's hand, he spotted two in the right upper thigh, two in the torso, one of which looked like a nice clean heart-shot.

Messy one in the groin. All kinds of leakage pooling on the pine-plank floor.

Three shell casings in plain sight, the others had probably rolled under furniture or were embedded in the wall-oh yeah, there was one behind the bed, five feet above the comforter.