Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Six shots, six hits.

No scorch or powder rings around any of the wounds that Aaron could see, but too much blood to be sure.

Gemma Dement said, “I'm starting to breathe again.” She demonstrated.

A muffled sound came from under the race-car comforter. Movement jostled a Ferrari. Fabric rolled.

Gemma snapped, “Quiet, you!”

Petra and Juan Silva took hold of her arms, stood her up, guided her away from the bed.

Moe Reed lifted the covers. A child-a boy-a toddler-button-nosed, chubby-cheeked, ruddy-bronze with black hair, huddled on a urine-soaked sheet, teeth chattering.

He wore blue p.j.'s with built-in feet. Diapers bulked the rear flap. To Moe's eye, he looked to be two or so.

Gemma Dement's eyes said the child was shit on satin.

Aaron thought: She's been with him longer than his mother ever was and hates him. Feeling his gut tighten, he stepped forward so Gemma could see him.

She mouthed Oh , but didn't utter the word. Softened her features. Mechanically-weirdly-she smiled.

Aaron said, “Guilt and atonement.”

Expecting some sort of explosive reaction.

Gemma Dement winked. Nothing sexual. Sly and all-knowing. Smug.

Enjoying a private joke that Aaron didn't want to understand.

He watched Moe pick up the little boy. The kid clung to Moe like one of those orphaned monkeys at the zoo who'll love anything warm.

His brother looked uncomfortable with the contact and Aaron suppressed a smile. Smiling right now, all this blood and death and misery, would brand him as an asshole.

As if something had passed from the boy's body through Moe's, Moe suddenly cradled the kid tenderly, tousled his hair. “Gabriel?”

Gemma Dement laughed.

Petra said, “Something funny, ma'am?”

“He's not Gab- ri el , he's Adra-el.” Another wink-comical and all the creepier for that.

“Adrael who, ma'am?”

“Oh, please,” said Gemma Dement, as if the question was beyond absurd. “Study your scriptures. Study your Jew scriptures because those people know. ”

The boy burrowed his face deeper, not minding the roughness of the Kevlar.

He's been with her longer than his mother but he knows…

Gemma Dement's shoulders stiffened as Petra and the fugitive cop tightened their grip.

Moe said, “Mrs. Dement-”

“I've got nothing to worry about. But you do.” Cocking her head at the child. “You're touching him and he's a messenger of trouble.”

The kid couldn't see her, but maybe he'd sensed the contempt; he began to whimper, tiny frame bouncing against Moe's massive chest.

Moe patted his back. “It's okay, little buddy. Get her out of here.”

Petra and the fugitive cop eased Gemma toward the door. Gemma didn't resist, but she strained to keep her eyes fixed on the tiny body.

No interest in the other body. Blood spreading, slowly, steadily. Cops having to shift their position to keep out of the expanding pool.

Aaron thought: Obsessed with the kid. It's all about the kid…

The boy began crying.

“Silence, you!” Sparkling white teeth didn't prettify Gemma Dement's snarl.

Suddenly she fought to break free, was held fast. Spit flew. Some of it landed on the fugitive cop's vest. He remained impassive.

The boy was sobbing, gulping air, and Moe was comforting him.

As Gemma Dement was dragged through the door, she said, “Curse you, Adrael.”

Not screaming. Chanting- incanting. In a flat, detached, crazily rhythmic voice that mocked music.

As metallic as the gun on the floor.

“Curse be you, curse be you, curse be you, Adrael. Blessed damned blessed damned angel of death. ”

Good news, bad news.

Which way the joke went depended on your perspective.

Good news for Gemma Dement and bad news for the D.A.'s office was her having the money to hire Maureen Wolkowicz, arguably the most effective, ruthless, amoral defense attorney west of the Mississippi.

Wolkowicz lost no time sealing her client's trap shut, bringing in a score of hired-gun shrinks, and holding a well-attended press conference during which she announced that the death of Lem Dement had resulted from “the clearest case of self-defense in the face of chronic, brutal, repeated domestic violence I've ever seen.”

What that had to do with the murder of Adella Villareal and the abduction-and the year and a half of emotional abuse of baby Gabriel Villareal-Wolkowicz didn't say.

John Nguyen vowed to work the baby angle. If he didn't get dumped from the case.

For four days he'd been waiting to hear if his boss would take over.

That would mean Nguyen still doing all the work, the boss singing the courtroom arias and garnering the glory.

John was a far better prosecutor than the boss, an elected blowhard who, according to courtroom wags, couldn't convict a fart out of a bean dinner.

It was all about the odds.

Likely conviction, it's mine.

Another O.J./Robert Blake/Phil Spector, it's yours.

Bad news for Gemma Dement and good news for public safety was that, unbeknownst to her or to Maureen Wolkowicz, Ahab “Ax” Dement despised his mother beyond her wildest imagination-hated both of his parents, really-and was ready to spill his guts even before the no-death-penalty deal was inked.

Surprising fellow, Ax. Despite the greasy hair, the blunt face, the matted beard-the image of backwoods vulgarian that he'd calculated for years-the eldest Dement spawn was an intelligent, articulate young man who'd earned honors in English and chemistry at Harvard-Westlake and spent a year at Stanford as a foreign relations major before dropping out to pursue a music career that never took off.

“In place of fame, he settled for the side effects,” said Aaron, watching through the glass as Moe and John Nguyen and Ax and Ax's lawyer, an aptly named sharpie named Charles Toothy, danced around fine points of law.

Dr. Alex Delaware nodded. The psychologist was here at Moe's request, to offer his impression of the accused double murderer. Delaware had also agreed to evaluate Gabriel Villareal and to oversee the child's psychosocial progress after he left for Arizona to live with his maternal grandparents. He'd just arrived from a visit at Western Pediatric Hospital where Gabriel was under observation. Answered Aaron's inquiry with, “As well as can be expected.”

Aaron returned his attention to the interview.

Charles Toothy, wearing a bad suit but a good shirt and tie, said, “Then it's agreed.”

“If,” said John Nguyen.

“If will be when,” said Toothy. “To keep things crisp and accurate, rather than go over the details orally and possibly miss something, my client has prepared a written statement and would like to read it for the record.”

Removing papers from his briefcase. The statement was a well-rehearsed collaboration between client and mouthpiece.

Moe said, “He can read what he wants, but he also needs to answer any questions we have.”

“Any questions,” said Toothy, “that I don't object to.”

Nguyen said, “If you object too much, no deal.”

Toothy stroked his Hermès tie. “I'm sure there'll be no problem.”

“Remains to be seen.”

Ax Dement cleared his throat. “May I please start? I'd like to get this over with.”

My name is Ahab Petrarch Dement. I'm known by my friends as Ax. I'm a musician, specifically a rock guitarist and electric bassist. My primary residence is at 20 Solar Canyon, Malibu, California 90265.

Approximately three years ago, I became acquainted with a woman named Adella Villareal, through a mutual acquaintance named Raymond Wohr. Mr. Wohr was employed as a bartender and, apparently, Ms. Villareal had worked as a cocktail waitress at a poker club in Gardena, California. I say apparently because I do not have firsthand knowledge of those facts and rely upon the report of Raymond Wohr.