JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps (21 page)

“I've had some pretty interesting conversations with one of the FBI profilers,”

Daryl went on. “A guy named Rexer, who makes his living profiling serial cases for the FBI, looked at what we have on the Butcher and has concluded that our perpetrator is a white male, between twenty-five and forty years old. He is employed, in what kind of profession we don't know yet, but he thinks the perpetrator may have a job that gives him a lot of down time. He probably also lives alone. He would need to in order to dismember some of the bodies."

“I should think so,” Rachael quipped. “Imagine if he had a roommate. ‘Oh, don't worry, Bubba, wait until I finish cutting this girl's head off and then I'll clean the kitchen and you can cook your dinner.'” She laughed at her own little joke. Daryl chuckled along with her.

“It would prove awkward, but Rexer has told me that there have been cases in which serial killers like the Butcher have had roommates and killed people right under their noses. In some cases the roommates had knowledge of the crimes and did nothing to report it."

“What did they do?” Rachael asked, obviously stunned and sickened by the fact.

“Go along as if nothing was happening? Christ, how could you when you know your roomy is a sicko cutting people up in your own living room?

“I don't know, Rachael,” Daryl said, shaking his head. “But it has happened.

Rexer is pretty sure this guy lives alone. The fact that four of the heads haven't been found makes Rexer believe he may be keeping them as souvenirs. Plus, there's the evidence that he kept the remains of some of the victims for a considerable amount of time before discarding them. He kept the Lady of the Ocean for three months, and he kept one of the other victims for a few weeks. I think a roommate would have complained about the smell after awhile."

Rachael made a face. “I would think so."

“Rexer also thinks this guy is smart,” Daryl said. “And not just your average serial killer smarts—Rexer said most serial killers possess above average IQ's—but genuine, honest to goodness smarts."

“Like a college education?” Rachael asked.

“Like that,” Daryl said. “Or maybe Medical School."

Rachael raised an eyebrow. “This sounds interesting. The Butcher of East LA as a mad doctor."

“Or an
ex
-doctor,” Daryl said. “Or veterinarian, or a medical student, or a chiropractor. Here's why: the anatomical evidence clearly points to a person who had a definite knowledge of human anatomy. The decapitations are a perfect example. In all cases the head was removed cleanly, with as little as a single-stroke through the fourth and fifth central cervical vertebrae. One stroke! Think about that for a moment: a person unacquainted with basic anatomy, which includes most of us, would spend considerable time hacking away at the bones of the spinal column before the blade slipped between the discs and completed the job. But in all instances there were no nicks or cuts in the bone. It was as if the killer approached the victim from a clinical point of view."

Rachael shuddered. “That's pretty creepy."

“Of course we could be wrong,” Daryl continued. He took a swig of beer. “In fact, Rexer doesn't think the killer is a doctor, but he admits it is a possibility. A strong one. He seems to think the killer's knowledge of anatomy comes from one who has perhaps been a hunter or a butcher, one who has dressed animals out for slaughter. Or that perhaps he had committed similar murders elsewhere before coming to Los Angeles."

“Like in Indiana,” Rachael said.

“Exactly.” They sat in bed and drank silently. Daryl's thoughts were now running a mile a minute. There were so many possibilities, so many things to consider, that it was hard to pigeon-hole this killer into one category.

“Assuming everything you've told me about the psychological profile is correct,”

Rachael said, “what does Rexer think is the killer's motivation? Why gang members and their associates? Does he have a God complex, ridding society of what he feels to be vermin?"

“It's possible,” Daryl murmured. “People think Jack the Ripper may have killed prostitutes to rid London of the whores that were responsible for spreading syphilis. Other serial killers have certainly chosen victims on the basis of their own prejudices and hatred. It could very well be the case with this guy."

“Either way, the fact that he is killing gang members and is doing it so well leads me to believe something,” Rachael said.

“And what's that?"

“He lives in the area. He's very familiar with it. So familiar with it that he feels totally at ease."

Daryl nodded, sipping his beer. “I agree, and so does Rexer. His disposal of Javier Perez is a perfect example. He would have to have known that the area he dumped Perez in would have been uninhabited between the hours of two am and seven or so. Which means he is not only familiar with the area, he is well tapped into the criminal community. He could be a drug dealer or buyer, a gang member, hell he could even be a—"

“A cop?” Rachael asked.

A pit of ice dropped in Daryl's stomach. He looked at Rachael and her eyes grew wide at the sight of his face. “I didn't mean it that way,” she blurted, looking as if she was ashamed of saying the wrong thing. “It's just that..."

“What's the matter?” He asked, his heart starting to beat faster at the look on her face.

“Nothing.” She turned away from him and took a swig of beer.

“No, really.” He grabbed her arm gently, trying to get her to look at him. “What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She took a deep breath, then turned back to him. Her features were more composed now, and she attempted a smile. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I guess I just spooked myself out."

“About what?"

“By thinking out loud that the Butcher might be a cop."

The observation had scared Daryl as well. What scared him more now was her reaction to her comment shortly after she made it; how she had looked alarmed at him, as if she were looking at the devil himself rather than the man she had been dating for the past three months. “You don't think
I
—” he began.

She laughed. It was a half-hearted attempt at breaking the ice and relieving some of the tension that had built up. “Don't be silly,” she said, grasping his hand and locking his fingers in hers. “I don't think
you're
the Eastside Butcher."

“But for a moment you did,” he said, staring directly into her eyes.

She smiled at him, as if to say that the thought hadn't even entered her pretty head.

But her eyes strayed from his, riveting back to his by sheer force of will. “Not once,” she said, softly.

Daryl set his Corona down on the end table on his side of the bed, and put his arms around her. “Oh, baby, you don't have to fib to me."

“I'm not fibbing!"

“It's okay to be scared."

“But I'm not scared..."

“Rachael!” He looked at her, sternly.

Her gaze met his and this time she did a better job of meeting his. “Okay, well maybe a little."

“A little?"

She nodded, her features darkening. “God, I know it sounds awful, but..."

“But what?"

“Please don't be mad at me."

He laughed. “What could I possibly be mad at you about?"

She put her bottle down on the end table on her side of the bed. “For thinking that you could be capable of killing those people."

Daryl looked down at her, feeling such a strong emotion of love surge through him that he didn't know what to do. Part of him wanted to sweep her up in his arms and hug her, kiss her, tell her that everything would be okay. Another part of him wanted to shake her for even being so foolish. But the rational part of him told him that she wasn't being foolish.
She's only known you for three months
, this voice whispered in the back of his mind.
Give the woman a break. She's just reacting to her strongest gut instinct. She
shouldn't be ridiculed for it.

“I'm not mad at you,” he murmured.

“Are you sure?"

“God, of course, Rachael,” he said, drawing her into his arms. She went to him, head resting against his chest as he held her. He stroked her head, her shoulders. “I don't blame you for thinking what you did; it's natural. It's human to cast such suspicion. It illustrates what we're dealing with here; that the person responsible for these murders is as outwardly normal as you or I and not some slobbering, insane looking Charles Manson look-a-like. He could be the guy next door, the guy who bags your groceries or who does the tune-up on your car.” He looked out past her, over her head and into the wall. “Or like you said, even a cop."

“I only said it because I was trying to come up with the kind of people who could feel at ease in those neighborhoods,” she said against his chest. “And I thought, why not a cop? They would have a reason to do it—they think gang members and criminals like them are scum—and they could move around in those areas undetected. And they would know the daily routine of those neighborhoods. They would know that the area under the Eighty-first Street bridge is empty after two in the morning."

Rachael was right. As they sat on the bed holding each other, Daryl was suddenly aware of this one important fact: whoever killed these people had not only done what most serial killers have done in the past, but he had accomplished this with some very street savvy people. Granted, prostitutes were almost always easy prey, even the most street-wise of them, but gang members had a reputation for being killers themselves.

Most people, even other criminals, normally gave gang members or people that dressed in the baggy clothes they preferred, a wide berth when they came across them. The fact that the Eastside Butcher was targeting a group of people often hated and feared in the community gave Daryl a new insight on the psyche of this killer. It had to be somebody who was very familiar with the community. A cop would be the perfect person. Or a probation officer. Somebody the gang members trusted and saw all the time.

Daryl thought about the last time he had fucked up a gang member just for the sheer pleasure of it and winced.

“I'm sorry if I scared you,” Rachael said.

“It's okay,” Daryl said. “You got me thinking."

“About what?"

“About the kind of people who could be capable of being the Butcher.” He reached for his beer and took a sip. For the first time in his career as a detective, he was having misgivings about the way he had treated some of the gang members in the area he worked. “It would be almost poetic justice for our killer to act as a vigilante, ridding the world of society's vermin. Maybe some people think this killer is hearing the voice of God. It's certainly a thought that has come up with some of the detectives we're working with on this case. Every single victim has either been a gang member or has ties with the gangs. All with the exception of our unidentified victim from last July, and the Riverside victim whose criminal record came up filled with petty crimes. But I'll tell you one thing: he's much smarter than that. He's not targeting these people to rid the streets of crime like some vigilante.” His voice trailed as he took another sip of beer, staring out into the hall.

“He's just like all other serial killers."

“How?"

“The killings are all sexually motivated. We're dealing with a man who is possibly bisexual, according to Rexer. And he could care less about ridding the streets of the lower strata of society as so many of us would like to think. You've seen some of the recent newspaper stories? The one's that reported that over seventy percent of the population of the city thinks the police should just let this guy keep at it because he's killing the gang members and their associates?"

Rachael nodded. “I did read that. It was disgusting.” And it was. The poll created controversy among the Latino and African American population who claimed that it was another racist attempt by the city, and the press, to cast Latinos and African Americans as a bad element. More racist bullshit.

“But accurate,” Daryl said. “Face it, Rachael, to many people this guy is doing the city a favor. Hell, even most of the cops I work with are secretly applauding this guy.

They almost resent the fact that they have to track his ass down."

“And you?” She asked, her gaze more direct and demanding now. “Do you feel the same way?"

Daryl hesitated for a moment, images of putting a loaded gun to Rudy Montego's temple and forcing a murder confession out of him flitting briefly through his mind. “In a way, I do. I have my reasons for hating gang members as much as I do,” He struggled with what he wanted to say; part of him was now angry at Rachael for bringing this up.

“But I also see the internal conflicts this guy is creating in the neighborhood.
That
is the reason why I want to stop him. It's the reason why I am so drawn to this case. Ever since this guy started killing, the gangs have been more tense. Gang homicides have shot up by almost thirty percent. The residents of the neighborhoods are more jumpy, have become more prone to violence themselves. Just last week a homeowner in Echo Park shot and killed a teenager because he thought the kid was the Butcher. The kid had slipped into the backyard and was hiding out from a rival gang. In the dark the homeowner just...” His voice trailed slightly and he took another sip of beer. “He just couldn't tell in the dark if it was a man or not. He was scared. He fired first, asked questions later.” He turned to Rachael, feeling more tired now than he had ever felt in his career. “In a way, the aftershocks the Butcher's murders have created are worse than the actual crimes themselves.

Rachael reached out and grasped his hand.

Daryl drained the bottle dry. “But the other thing that keeps me going is knowing that he isn't simply killing to rid the city gangs. He's not on some vigilante crusade. He's a sexual sadist. He kills because he feels a tremendous desire to do so. If he wasn't killing gang members in East L.A., he'd be killing homeless men and women on skid row. I think you're right that he lives in the East Los Angeles and Echo Park areas. He's simply motivated by the same thing that motivates all serial killers: to fulfill a twisted sexual desire, to have complete control over people, to experience their deaths. This is what gets him off. He chooses his victims because they are easily accessible to him. And the reason they are so easily accessible to him is because he is literally surrounded by them because he lives within their territories."