Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

We’d traipsed halfway through the reserve, finding nothing. The excitement that had pinged my chest when we’d found the Jeep began to fade.

We were just about to turn back when the sound gave it away.

Low, insistent buzzing, nearly drowned out by freeway roar.

Flies.

Milo made use of his long legs and was there within seconds.

When I caught up, the penlight was focused on a forty-foot sycamore tree.

Stout-trunked thing, with spavined, mottled branches. Unlike the surrounding evergreens and wild oaks, bare of all but a few desiccated brown leaves.

Drew Daney, dressed in dark sweats and sneakers, hung from a low branch, feet dangling two inches off the ground. His head was twisted to the side, his eyes bulged nearly out of their sockets, and his tongue was a Japanese eggplant protruding from a lopsided mouth.

Milo aimed the light at his head. Single gunshot to the left temple. Stellate entry wound. Larger exit. Tiny, hyperkinetic ants crawled in and out of both openings. The flies seemed to favor the exit.

It took awhile, but he found the hole in the tree where the slug had lodged.

Daney’s eyes and tongue said he’d been hung first. I said, “Overkill.” Thinking about Daney dangling, just short of safety. Clutching at the rope, trying to hoist himself up.

Using his big upper body. Maybe he’d managed for seconds, even minutes.

Failing, inevitably. Feeling the life force slip away.

Milo lowered the beam. “Look at this.”

Daney’s crotch was a busy place. Mangled cavity, ragged around the edges where the cotton of the sweatpants had been blasted away.

Here the flies ruled supreme.

Milo got closer and inspected. A few of the insects scattered but most of them stayed on-task. “Looks liked gunshots… a bunch of them.” He stooped and checked the tree trunk, lower down. “Yeah, here we go, looks like… four, no five slugs… yeah, five.”

“Emptying the six-shooter,” I said. “A cowboy gun.”

“Something else in there.” He lit and peered and pointed. “Couple of rings.”

I stepped in and saw two white gold bands specked with tiny blue gems. Same rings I’d seen at the jail eight years ago.

Thumbtacked to what was left of Daney’s organ.

“Drew’s and Cherish’s wedding bands,” I said. “She made her statement.”

He stepped away from the corpse. Looked it up and down. Expressionless.

Whipping out his phone he called the Van Nuys station. “This is Lieutenant Sturgis. Cancel the BOLO on missing fugitive Daney. Daney. I’ll spell it for you.”

Milo and I moved away from the body and waited.

“Hang ’em high,” he said. “More like hang ’em low.”

He was restless, went over and examined Daney’s sneakers. The fatal two inches. “Couldn’t have been comfortable. Think they used Drew’s gun or Barnett dipped into his arsenal?”

“I’d guess Drew’s. The temptation of poetic justice.”

“Cherish got that along with the money. If you’re already going for the irony, why hold back?”

Considering the need to proceed on foot up the dirt path, it didn’t take long for the six uniforms to arrive. Then four detectives, and a white coroner’s van bearing two investigators.

Milo briefed one of the D’s very quickly, then came over to where I sat, just outside the tape.

“Ready for dinner?”

“That’s it?”

“It’s someone else’s problem now.”

We had pasta and wine at Octavio’s, on Ventura Boulevard, in Sherman Oaks.

No conversation until Milo had finished half his linguini with clams. Then: “These rolls are great.”

“Yes, they are.”

A glass of Chianti later, I said, “Cherish may not have intended to, but she helped set Rand up to be killed. Maybe all she wanted was for him to rat out Drew, but it was a sloppy plan. She should’ve known he wasn’t smart enough to conceal his anxiety. Her hatred for Drew overrode that.”

“Sloppiness ain’t an indictable offense.” He broke off a piece of bread, sopped up sauce. “Delicious.”

“You’re really through with it.”

“Don’t see any reason not to be.”

“What about Cherish and Barnett stringing up Daney and blasting his balls off?”

“Wild West kinda thing,” he said, spooling linguine around his fork. Some of it dropped and he retrieved it, ate, got sauce on his chin. “And I ain’t the sheriff of Dodge.”

“Okay,” I said.

“We don’t know for a fact that Malley and Cherish were behind it, do we? Guy like Drew could make all sorts of enemies.”

I stared at him.

He wiped his chin with a napkin. “In any case, the Valley boys will pursue it to its logical end.”

“If you say so.”

“What, you’re not finished with it?”

“Guess I am. Except for therapy for the girls. If Detective Weisvogel calls.”

“That surprised me,” he said. “Given your attitude about long-term commitment. What, she catch you off guard?”

“That must’ve been it.”

He dove into his food again, came up for breath. “Sorry if I’m disillusioning you, Alex, but I’m tired.”

“Don’t blame you.”

“I’m talking serious tired. As in waking up and not wanting to get out of bed and dragging myself through the day.”

“Sorry,” I said.

He picked up a strand of linguini. Sucked it into his mouth the way little kids do. “I’ll be fine.”

Two days later, he called.

“Daney mighta wiped his Jeep down, but it’s a forensic trove. Pubic hairs, semen, tiny specks of blood in the ribbing underneath the door. Also, I just got a call from downtown. My request for DNA has been approved and will be sent to Cellmark expeditiously. If I don’t hear back within ninety days, give a call.”

“Any word on Cherish and Barnett?”

“Not that I’ve heard, but I might not hear.”

“Not in the loop.”

“The only loop of substance was the one around that bastard’s neck. Anyway, Rick and I are leaving for Hawaii, thought I’d call to let you know.”

“Good for you.”

“Condo rental on the big island, ten days.”

“Thought you don’t tan.”

“So I’ll sauté.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Twenty minutes if the E.T.D. on the board is accurate.”

“You’re at the airport?”

“Love this place. Two hours of security line worked by morons. I had to take off my shoes, they tossed my carry-on, frisked me. Meanwhile, everyone else, including a guy who could be Osama’s twin, sails through.”

“Must be your dangerous demeanor.”

“If they only knew.”

Detective Judy Weisvogel didn’t phone that day, but the following morning I came back from running and found a message from my service. I’d hoped it was Allison. Told myself Allison had her hands full and maybe I needed some of that, myself.

I reached Weisvogel at her downtown office.

“Thanks for calling back, Doctor. Still willing?”

“I am.”

“From what we can tell, you were right. He only molested Valerie and Monica Strunk. Valerie won’t talk to you but Monica seems okay with it. You’d be more qualified to say but she seems awfully dull to me, pretty close to retarded. Or maybe it’s trauma.”

“That would fit,” I said. “Valerie was his number one choice. Monica was brought in for backup.”

“Bastard,” she said. “Can’t say I’m losing sleep over what happened to him.”

“How’d Valerie take the news?”

“She doesn’t know yet. Didn’t know if I should tell her, seeing as she still talks about him as if he was Jesus. Damned Stockholm syndrome. What do you think?”