Southside (9781608090563) (25 page)

“Well, if it isn't the loser. I don't recall giving you my cell.”

“Well, I got it. Chief, I am doing an article about Leslie Harrington. I knew her.”

“I thought you got fired from the
Times
.”

“This is a freelance piece for the
Weekly
.”

“Oh, yes. How the mighty have fallen.”

“Very original. About Harrington?”

“Hey, I saw your twelve worst, or, in your case, best, gangs story in the
Weekly
. Nice placement. Right between the tit enlargement ads and the sale on butt plugs.”

I resisted the urge to say, “You might want take yours out once in a while,” and just repeated, “About Harrington?”

“She was a wonderful, talented woman, and we are saddened at the LAPD. We are doing everything we can to assist the fine Santa Monica Police Department in solving this tragic case. Okay? I gotta go.”

“Wait, wait, wait, Chief. One minute, please. Do you see any connection to her killing and that of Bobby Desmond aka Terminal and to my shooting?”

“I thought you were shot in the torso, not the brain. That is just plain stupid. First of all, I'm still not totally convinced you didn't plan your own shooting.”

“Okay, leave me out of it. Is there a connection between Harrington and Terminal?”

“We are working to solve both cases, but we see no connection.”

“What about the Big Evil connection? His younger brother. And it was Harrington who put him away.”

“That makes no sense. I guess the shooting left you with a lack of oxygen to the brain. That happens.”

“Is there a serial killer in Los Angeles?”

“Jesus, Lyons,” the exasperated chief said, “Listen carefully. There is absolutely no evidence at all of a serial killer in Los Angeles. I've wasted enough time.”

Next, I called South Bureau Commander Lester Kuwahara, who answered on the first ring. I identified myself.

“What do you want, Lyons? You shoot yourself lately? Maybe next time you can get an artery and bleed your ass out.”

“Always a pleasure, Lester. Harrington and Terminal? A connection?”

“You talk to the chief?”

“Yes, but he's not up on the street like you are,” I said, getting desperate with the flattery angle.

“First of all, you have lost it. Terminal had a hundred enemies. It was probably in-house. This is off the record, right?”

“If that's the only way. Anonymous sources?”

“Okay. You know the Eighty-Nines kill each other more than
they kill Crips. As for Leslie, she probably ran into one of those homeless sickos that live down there by that, that, that overlook thing. What do they call it in Santa Monica? You know that grassy part with a walkway just above the beach. They have a name for that place.”

“The Promenade?”

“No, idiot. By Ocean Avenue. It doesn't matter. Anyway, she probably ran into one of those guys who followed her home.”

“She drove a 2013 Maserati GT. You think some homeless guy chased her down? Maybe it was Usain Bolt.”

“Who the hell is Hussein Bolt? What are you jabbering about?”

“The Olympic sprinter. And it's Usain. Forget it. Forget it. Anyway, do you think there is a serial killer active in Los Angeles?”

“Whoa. Now you've really lost it. Where do you get that? You used to be a good street reporter. Now you're a desperate reporter. Take my advice. Either get another line of work or try another city. Maybe Duluth. Better yet, Wasilla. You have no cred here.”

I called De Soto back. “Doris, I'm on it. Talked to the chief and Kuwahara. They both deny any serial killer. They say Terminal and Harrington are totally unrelated.”

“Wow. What a great quote. Maybe quote of the year, huh? Should I tell Escobar to stop the presses? Hire some paper boys to yell ‘Extra, extra, read all about it.'”

“They have to be related. Me, too.”

“Lyons, how can we justify a story about a serial killer? I told you we need something from the police. Not your hunch. I can see there might be a connection to Big Evil. He's a thread. But, Terminal, anybody with that name had to have lots of enemies. Coincidences do happen. That Terminal was killed is not even news. Harrington is the story.”

“What about me getting shot? That's three connections to Big Evil. If I can get some detective, even off the record, can we do it?”

“We took a gamble having you write anything for us. You know better than anyone your cred took a beating, even though I'm sure
you had nothing to do with your shooting. Still, it was a gamble for us, but you kicked ass. But, we need to be careful, and this is not a careful story. So, here's the deal. Get one of your detectives, even off the record, write it up, and send it to me by seven. No guarantees. I can clear a little space, eight hundred words, a thousand max if it works. Turn it in. I'll run it by the big shots if I think it has a chance in hell. Understand that this is not an assignment. You are writing on spec. Like I told you, we don't run it, you don't get paid jack shit.”

“This ain't about money. Never was.”

After Kuwahara told Lyons he was crazy for thinking a serial killer was loose, the commander met with LaBarbera and Hart to discuss that very possibility. The detectives debriefed him about their visit to Pelican Bay. Waxman then described Edward Sims as about fifty, medium build, maybe 170, about five foot ten, similar to Evil's description of his visitor.

“Fourth person, same description, however vague it is,” LaBarbera said. “Evil, Mrs. Desmond, Waxman, and Lyons.”

“All right, boys, all right. Let's get down to it,” said Kuwahara. “Waxman, get back over there. Now. We need a photo of this Sims guy. Show it to Mrs. Desmond, fax it to Pelican Bay. See if it's the same guy. And get it to Lyons.”

“No problem, sir. I'm on my way,” said Waxman. “I gotta say, though, if Sims is the guy that jacked up Terminal, then had the stones to confront Big Evil, even through the prison glass, well, then he is one Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde motherfucker.”

“Head down there. Be careful, this time. I'll have a patrol car meet you. I'll send two, make it three.”

Waxman left and Kuwahara told the others he was giving them more resources—two more detectives and a liaison with Santa Monica “just in case there is a connection.”

“Oh, there's a connection, boss,” Hart said.

“So,” Sal said, “working on the premise that this is the same guy, we came up with a possible list of potential victims. Check it out.” He handed Kuwahara a paper with six names. Next to each name
was from one and three stars. “The stars represent our guess at the likelihood of an attack.”

The list included Mr. and Mrs. Desmond. Her name with three stars, his with two. Judge Reese, who presided over the Big Evil trial and urged Harrington to go for LWOP, had two stars. The next two, Helen Truman and Freddie Gelson, each had one star. Lyons's name was the last on the list, with one star.

“I don't know Truman or Gelson,” said Kuwahara. “But, first things first. Does the judge know about this?”

“Yes, sir,” said Hart. “The district attorney's office has assigned two of their people to be with him from the moment he leaves his house until walks into his chambers. And the same on the evening end. The judge was fine with that, but refused to have anyone spend the night. In his words, ‘Anyone who comes into my house at night is getting a free ride in the coroner's van.' We hear he always carries his personal .38 snub-nosed.”

“Great. What about the Desmonds?”

“They know,” Waxman said. “We're doing extra patrols around their street. All shifts. They don't want a patrol car parked in front of their house or even on the block.”

“Okay, the other two. Who are they?”

“Helen Truman is this white girl from Orange County who became a great love of Evil's,” Hart said. “She was down on Crenshaw when they used to cruise, remember, and one night she ran outta gas or something happened to her car and was about to get jacked by some Sixties when Evil showed up and rescued her.”

“We don't even know if this killer knows about her,” added Hart. “But we are trying to track her and give her a warning.”

“And this Freddie Gelson?” Kuwahara said. “That name rings a bell.”

“Gelson was the guy whose testimony got Evil convicted,” said Hart. “He got a deal with the D.A. to walk if he testified. That was the problem with getting Evil. No one would testify. But Gelson was
in a car with Evil when they did a drive-by on some 97 East Coasts. Wounded two. Slightly. Gelson was the shooter, and he cut a deal and testified on that double that put Cleamon away.”

“Why would the killer want to kill him?” Kuwahara asked. “Sounds like Evil would want Gelson dead.”

“Not at all,” said LaBarbera. “Gelson is the only possible way Evil can get out. If Evil's people get to Gelson's family, they might be able to force him to go on record saying he was lying or was coerced, and Evil might be granted another trial. With Gelson dead, Evil stays in the Bay forever.”

“Okay, I'll call the chief and brief him,” Kuwahara said.

Waxman called in. He had met patrol, and they cased the house. No sign of Sims. No car. “But, Sal, he must've left in a hurry.”

“How can you tell?”

“He ran over his favorite rosebush.”

I wrote the story. I got both Hart and Waxman to speak off the record, quoting the two anonymous police sources, that they were “definitely looking into the strong possibility that the shooting of Mike Lyons and the deaths of Leslie Harrington and Bobby Desmond are related.” The relation? Cleamon “Big Evil” Desmond. I went into the backgrounds of both murder victims and their link to Evil, as well as my own connection via the magazine piece that some considered to be a glorification of the notorious gang leader. I included both the chief's and Kuwahara's fervent denials, as well as the denial of LaBarbera. “There has been no link detected. We do know that Bobby Desmond, who I am long familiar with, has beaten three murder raps and had a number of sworn enemies,” LaBarbera said. “We are hoping someone from the neighborhood who may have seen Bobby in his final hours will step forward. They can call LAPD anonymously.”

I sent it in an attached Word document to De Soto. She e-mailed back in two minutes. I was encouraged. All the message said was: “A good serial killer needs a name.”

I e-mailed back immediately, not bothering to correct my typos: “I don't wanto give him a name. Maybe he will write n give me a name. Happened to Jimmy Breslin—son of Sam wrote, gave him a name. Remember?”

She replied quick. “Can't wait. TV will come up with a name. We need to. Good for the paper. You just hint at name. Let us read the story and everyone will go away with a nickname without you naming. Work on end. Send back five.”

I rewrote the ending. De Soto loved it. My kicker was now: “Is there an Evil killer out there?”

“Great. Gotta run it by the brass,” she e-mailed after she read. Fifteen anguished minutes later, she e-mailed back with the verdict. It was worth the wait. A serial killer was born.

The story came out first on their website, then on the racks. De Soto had many connections in the local television media and, wanting to build the buzz and humiliate the
Times
too, she e-mailed the story to the local stations early. Then she called her network contacts in hopes that they would mention the story in the five-minute teaser they aired at the bottom of the network morning programs. CBS and NBC went for it. Local channels 5, 11, and 13 aired it with gusto.

“Coming up, serial killer loose in Los Angeles.”

“L.A. has a new serial killer. After the break.”

By nine, the calls were coming into LAPD press relations from all over the country plus Mexico, El Salvador, Japan, South Korea, England, Armenia, Israel, and Russia asking about the Evil Killer.

The chief and Kuwahara were livid and privately vowed to fire the “police sources.” The papers were snatched up quickly, serial killers being one of the favorite topics of Los Angelinos, in a league with the rain.

At Intelligentsia on Sunset in Silverlake, at Peet's on Larchmont, at Sqirl on Virgil, at Bob's Donuts in the Farmer's Market, at Stan's Donuts in Westwood Village, at Euro Pane on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena, strangers were talking to each other about the new
killer in town. Only a few things—riots and natural disasters—bring a community together like a good serial-killer story. And the fact that one of his victims, alleged victims, that is, was an attractive white woman, a deputy district attorney from an exclusive Santa Monica neighborhood, did wonders for the story. If it had been just Terminal, no one at the fancy coffeehouses and donut shops would even have heard about it. Southside homicide victims didn't matter to most cappuccino drinkers.

On the noon news broadcasts, the Evil Killer was the lead story. De Soto called me to say four local news stations had called, requesting interviews with me. In Los Angeles, a city with a stunted memory, I was no longer the disgraced reporter who had had himself shot, but rather the hotshot reporter who broke a serial-killer story. I refused all the offers. I'll admit it felt good to be asked, but it felt even better to tell them no. The chief called.

“I don't remember giving you my home number?”

“You were probably drunk, asshole. Look, Lyons, enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame. Or, in your case, fifteen seconds. You think you broke news with that story today? It will be old news tomorrow.”

“How's that?”

“Well, the
Weekly
doesn't come out every day, right? I mean, that is why they call it the
L.A. Weekly
. It's not a daily.”

“Brilliant. No wonder you're the chief.”

“It just that the
Weekly
is going to come out looking weakly.”