Jonathan Kellerman: Bones

I duck, hit him hard as I can, low in the gut, follow with the most vicious kick I can muster, connect with his groin. He gasps, doubles over, the gun points upward.

Thunder.

Wood shreds.

Weir is still in pain as I put all my weight into a two-handed blow to the back of his neck.

He crumbles to the sand. Still holding the shotgun.

I stomp his arm, break some bones, free the weapon.

Lovely trap gun, probably Italian. The burl is glorious walnut, the metal engravings scenes of Renaissance hunters stalking mythical beasts.

Weir moans in agony. Later, I will learn that his ulna shattered like glass, will never be the same.

I watch him writhe, allow myself a moment of satisfaction that I will never disclose to anyone.

Milo has heard the shotgun go off, arrives with his nine-millimeter in hand.

He flips Weir, uses plastic ties to bind Weir’s wrists and ankles, just as a Malibu EMT squad arrives.

One squad, one stretcher. Travis Huck gets priority.

Weir suffers.

During a brief pause in his wails, I hear something.

From the bulkhead.

Faint, bashful knocking. A higher tide would’ve obscured it.

Milo hears it, too. Keeping his gun in hand, he points at the doorway, stops, peers in, vanishes.

I follow.

The boy is propped against cement block. The stench of feces and urine and vomit is overpowering. He has been wrapped in black garbage bags, bound with loops of nylon cord, like a pot roast. The blindfold over his eyes is black muslin. The rubber ball in his mouth is bright orange. His nostrils are unobstructed but snot-smeared. His head has been shaved.

He kicks small, bare feet against the front plywood wall of the storage area.

Six feet square; convicted murderers live in bigger spaces.

Milo and I hurry to free him. Milo gets there first, calls him by name, tells him he’s safe, everything’s okay. As the blindfold is peeled from dark, almond eyes, Kelvin Vander looks up at us.

Dry-eyed.

In another world.

I touch his cheek. He screams like a trapped raccoon.

Milo says, “Everything’s fine, son, nothing to worry about, you’re safe now.”

The boy’s eyes bore into his. Acute, studious. His cheeks sport finger marks, welts, small cuts.

He has both his hands.

Milo says, “You’re gonna be okay, son.” Tilts his own face away from the child’s.

Hiding the lie.

Case closed. Big case. The police chief was happy. Or some reasonable facsimile of such.

A.D.A. John Nguyen’s work was just beginning, but he was also smiling. For all their scheming and planning, Simone Vander and Buddy Weir had left a lovely evidentiary chain: over a year of phone calls and another rented storage unit, this one in the heart of West L.A., paid for faithfully each month with Weir’s personal check.

Inside were more box games and paperwork attesting to Weir’s national rankings in Scrabble and backgammon and bridge. Credit card records documenting monthly trips to Vegas, often with Simone. Weir’s blackjack and poker winnings appeared to exceed his losses-though Nguyen’s staff, still digging into Weir’s finances, hadn’t unearthed all the details.

One nice detail: The shoe prints at the western side of the marsh matched to a pair of six-hundred-dollar Legnani driving shoes found in the closet of Weir’s Encino home.

Three polished wooden boxes were also found in the bin, not unlike the cache that had held the finger bones. Each receptacle offered up a trove of photos.

Weir and Simone in full S &M regalia.

Women, five of them, partially clothed, then naked. Three of the subjects were easily matched with mug shots of Sheralyn Dawkins, Lurleen “Big Laura” Chenoweth, and DeMaura Montouthe. The remaining two were phenotypically consistent with the bones found on the west side of the marsh, but took longer to identify. With help from Vice, Milo and Moe Reed finally I.D.’d them as Mary Juanita Thompson, twenty-nine, and June “Junebug” Paulette, thirty-two, prostitutes known to work the airport stroll. The news didn’t grab a single second of media interest, nor did the department choose to issue a press conference.

The depiction of each victim’s involvement with Weir and Simone spelled out a sequence so stereotyped it had clearly been scripted: initial exchange of cash, smiling participation, a gradual morph into gagged, bound terror, death by strangulation. Postmortem close-up of a pair of green-handled garden shears, sometimes in Weir’s hand, others in Simone’s.

Bones.

Milo was too smart to think in terms of happy endings, but a call from the chief’s office to review five more cold cases sent him off to ponder and grumble.

Moe Reed applied for transfer to West L.A. but an executive order to get something done on the Caitlin Frostig disappearance kept him in Venice.

He called and asked if I could help.

I agreed to meet to review the case, but my attentions were focused elsewhere.

One day, driving to the station to deliver my proofread statement on the marsh murders, I spotted Reed walking hand in hand with Dr. Liz Wilkinson. Both of them laughing. Up to that point, I’d never seen the young detective crack half a smile.

That night, I took Robin out to dinner at the Hotel Bel-Air.

She wore her pearl.

Travis Huck spent two months at Cedars-Sinai. Most of his stab wounds had sliced muscle and a few had damaged nerves, leading to residual weakness and soreness. Deep gashes in his left arm would probably render the limb useless and prone to infection. His doctors raised the specter of amputation somewhere down the line, a possibility confirmed by Richard Silverman, M.D., director of the E.R.

Rick, asked by Milo to keep tabs on Huck’s progress, said the patient was healing physically.

“But I don’t have a feel for him psychologically, Alex. Kind of inappropriate affect, no?”

I said, “The smiles.”

“Exactly. No matter what. Even after refusing painkillers.”

“For him it could be the best choice.”

“Guess so, but it’s got to hurt.”

When I visited Huck, I found him at peace, his face so slack and serene that most of the droop was gone. The nursing staff voted him their favorite patient. On a busy ward, that translates to compliant.

He watched a lot of TV, read and re-read all seven volumes of Harry Potter, ate some of the fruit and candy Debora Wallenburg messengered over, gave most of it away.

Wallenburg volunteered her services in the prosecution of Buddy Weir. John Nguyen declined respectfully. Confided to me that he’d probably “screwed my chance of going corporate.”

One time I approached Huck’s room and encountered Kelly Vander and Larry Brackle leaving. Seeing me flooded Kelly’s face with shame and she hurried past. Brackle held back, seemed to want to talk.

I smiled.

He ran after Kelly.

The hospital security guard who sat near Huck’s door when time permitted hustled over. “Hi, Doc. When she gave me her name, I didn’t want to let them in.” Crooking a thumb. “Mr. Huck said it was okay, so I searched her purse, nothing iffy.”

“How long were they in there?”

“Twenty minutes,” said the guard. “I was listening, Doc, no problems whatsoever. Once I took a peek, they didn’t see me. She was holding Mr. H.’s hand. Toward the end, she cried a bunch and I think he was asking her to forgive him or something like that and she was saying no, it was she who needed forgiveness. Then there was a whole bunch of crying.”

“What did the other guy do?”

“Just sat there.”

I thanked him and cracked the door.

Huck was on his back, sleeping peacefully. He hadn’t roused by the time I reviewed his chart and chatted with his physical therapist. I left and drove to another hospital.