Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
T
hree firecracker snaps.
Seconds of dead air.
Three more shots.
By the time Juan Silva, the three Homicide D’s, and four other fugitive cops assumed new positions closer to the cabins, lights had gone on in two front windows of the centermost outbuilding.
Everyone thinking the same thing:
Weird. Why advertise?
Nothing but yellow light could be seen behind lace curtains.
Snick snick snick
, as pistols and rifles put the windows in their sights.
Aaron Fox hung back a few feet. Close enough to see and hear, but well away from anyone’s nervous trigger finger.
The target was slope-roofed and log-sided, with a full-length covered porch. Mini-me of the main house.
Silva handed his rifle to one of his squad members, cupped his hands.
“Police, come out now! Walk backward with your hands on your head now! You are surrounded now! Come out now!”
Nothing.
Silva repeated the warning, motioned two of his men to circle to the back of the cabin.
Before they got going, a woman’s voice said, “I’m safe … thank you. Come in. Please.”
“You come out, ma’am.”
“I… can’t move … too scared. Please.”
Juan Silva re-conferred with his men. “Go back there and see if you can breach safely. If it’s righteous, exit out the front.”
Gemma Dement sat on a peach-colored rocking chair next to a molded plastic bed shaped like a race car. She wore a heavy, oversized plaid shirt and pink sweatpants. The bed sported realistic-looking plastic tires, headlights, bumpers. The automotive theme extended to a thick wildly colored comforter printed with Ferraris and Lamborghinis and other shovel-nosed monsters. Matching throw pillows, lots of them. From the height and bulk of the comforter, additional bedding below.
Lots of cold nights in the Malibu hills; no sign of heating in the cabin.
Gemma’s pale hair was loose, frizzed by the distant ocean. The peach of the chair was good for her complexion. She’d pleaded with Silva, then used smiles and eye-flutters, claiming she’d wet herself, was still too scared to move. No obvious sign of bladder problems on her sweatpants but no one was asking her to budge.
Petra said, “Raul, please get a camera.”
Biro left.
Gemma Dement’s mouth puckered. “I was so scared,” she recited, woodenly. “He tried to hit me. Again.”
To her right lay a small, square, chrome handgun, its magazine now in the custody of Moses Reed.
To her left was Lem Dement. Flat on his back, one meaty leg bent, the other straight. A monumental hillock of belly aimed at the ceiling. A gelatinous face grizzled with white stubble dipped past the neckline of his T-shirt.
Dement’s mouth had flopped open. A dental appliance—a partial
upper bridge—dangled from slack lips. His hands were thick, hirsute, outstretched. The left palm was pierced by a ruby-fringed hole.
The shirt was a
Saul to Paul
souvenir, once white, now pretty much scarlet. The blood deepened in hue when viewed on the absorbent brown velour of Dement’s white-piped sweatpants. The director’s blue-veined feet remained encased in black suede slippers with little gold wolves on the toes.
Two feet from Dement’s head sat a gray hat, grubby, battered, studded with bass lures.
Aaron thought:
No water in sight, who’s he been trying to kid?
For no particular reason, he began counting bulletholes.
In addition to the defensive wound in Dement’s hand, he spotted two in the right upper thigh, two in the torso, one of which looked like a nice clean heart-shot.
Messy one in the groin. All kinds of leakage pooling on the pine-plank floor.
Three shell casings in plain sight, the others had probably rolled under furniture or were embedded in the wall—oh yeah, there was one behind the bed, five feet above the comforter.
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
-riel, 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
.”
G
ood 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.
I met Mr. Wohr through my interest in illicit drugs, specifically methamphetamine, cocaine, marijuana, hashish, and prescription tranquilizers, all of which Mr. Wohr sold at various times. I believe I first met Mr. Wohr outside a club called Bang Hole, in East Hollywood, a now defunct place of business. But I am not certain of that, as much of my memory of that time period has been erased by drug abuse.
At some point, Mr. Wohr informed me that he also had access to professional prostitutes and would be happy to set up dates between myself and professional prostitutes. I was not an habitual user of prostitutes but did occasionally indulge in their services and I agreed
Subsequently, Mr. Wohr did introduce me to several prostitutes, including a woman he was living with named Alicia Eiger. I cannot recall the exact number of dates with her or with any other women arranged by Mr Wohr but there were several. Well into my relationship with Mr. Wohr, he informed me that he now had “higher-quality goods” but that such goods would “cost a shitload more.” I expressed interest and a few days later, Mr Wohr introduced me to Adella Villareal, who was noticeably younger, more attractive, and, according to Mr. Wohr, “major-league fresh.”
Over an approximate one-month period, I participated in three dates with Ms. Villareal and found myself extremely attracted to her. For that reason, rather than limit my contacts with her to her apartment, where one date took place, or to the Millennium Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles, where the other two dates took place, on her birthday, I met her at a bar on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica that I’d frequented in the past. The name of that establishment is Riptide.
During her second visit to Riptide, Ms. Villareal, officially my date, met and became interested in another man. That individual was my father, Lemuel Dement, a film director. This surprised and chagrined me greatly because of my attraction to Ms. Villareal. However, since the man who supplanted me was my father, I found myself confused and unsure of how to respond. Lemuel Dement, taking advantage of my confusion, offered me ten thousand dollars to “feel better” about the situation, with the contingency that I’d harbor no ill will to him or to Adella Villareal and simply “go with the flow.”
I accepted the money, though my inner emotions were not at peace with this arrangement. Sometimes, in fact, I felt as if I was going crazy. My drug use increased.
Adding to my discomfort was that shortly after beginning a relationship with Lem Dement, Adella Villareal became pregnant with his child Neither Ms. Villareal nor Lem Dement seemed unhappy with that turn of events. In fact, both seemed quite pleased and my father, especially when he was intoxicated, began dropping hints of “life change,” which I took to mean that he planned on leaving my mother, Gemma Dement, and marrying Adella Villareal.
This caused me considerable emotional pain and plunged me deeper into a morass of violent and aggressive thoughts. My use of illicit drugs increased further, as did my patronage of professional prostitutes. Often those activities were combined and both Raymond Wohr and Alicia Eiger were participants.
Approximately twenty-four months ago, Adella Villareal gave birth to a baby boy that she and Lem Dement named Gabriel. I am of the opinion that it was Lem Dement who actually chose the name because, while intoxicated, he confided to me that the child was “my little angel—looks like an angel, acts like an angel, he deserves an angel name.” I took that to mean that Lem Dement was contrasting the baby’s sweet disposition to my personality and to my behavior, neither of which could be considered angelic. I was emotionally injured by the comparison, and angry.
Despite Lem Dement’s talk about a new life, he did not leave my mother and marry Ms. Villareal. However, he did send Ms. Villareal money for child support in the sum of three thousand dollars a month. Those payments were made in cash and Lem Dement offered me a thousand dollars a month to deliver the cash to Adella Villareal at various restaurants and bars in the Hollywood area. In restrospect, I believe this to have been motivated by cruelty on my father’s part, but when someone is in the middle of something they sometimes cannot understand the full implication of what is happening to them. At that point in my life I was severely depressed, angry, confused, and otherwise rootless and I was willing to do anything to earn my father’s approval. Plus, the money my father paid me was useful in purchasing illicit drugs, which I was using regularly.
I made four deliveries of three thousand dollars to Adella Villareal, all of which she accepted without comment. When I brought the fifth delivery to Ms Villareal, her demeanor was different. On that occasion, she expressed frustration with the inadequacy of the payment as well as with my father who, apparently, had stopped returning her calls. I say apparently because once Ms. Villareal supplanted me with my father, my father and never talked about the details of his relationship with Ms. Villareal, only that she was “hot in bed.” On the night that I delivered the fifth payment, Ms. Villareal threatened to “go public” with the fact that Lem Dement was
the father of her child and to “bust open that hypocritical Bible-spouting cult you call a family.” Those may not be exact quotes, but they are close.
I did not respond to Ms. Villareal’s tirade, nor did I report it to my father. I did, however, report it to my mother, Gemma Dement, a woman with a history of mental illness and alcohol abuse, possibly due to domestic violence abuse heaped on her by my father throughout the course of their marriage. My mother has also reported being allegedly abused by several men she knew prior to marrying my father. I say allegedly because my knowledge of those events is limited to what my mother has told me while she is intoxicated.
My mother reacted calmly to my informing her of Adella Villareal’s threats. I was surprised, even shocked, at how calm she was. She told me that she was aware of the situation, had been for months, and had been “figuring out what to do about it. Now I know.”
The next day my mother met me for lunch at The Mesa Rock Café in Agoura Hills, California, and laid out her plan. I was to abduct Adella Villareal as well as her baby and bring them to our family home in Solar Canyon, Malibu. The timing of the abduction was to be during a period when my father was traveling on business. I was to “do whatever it takes” to get Ms. Villareal and her baby under “total control” including violence, physical restraint, “even damn tranquilizer darts if you need them.” Once Ms. Villareal was in my mother’s custody, she was to be bound and deprived of food, water, and sleep and subjected to what my mother called “reeducation,” until she agreed to give up custody of her baby to my mother and to leave our family alone. My mother would offer Ms. Villareal ten thousand dollars “for her trouble” once she moved to a state other than California.
I expressed to my mother my opinion that ten thousand dollars would not be sufficient.
My mother smiled and said, “Well, then she’s dug her own grave.” took that to mean that Ms. Villareal’s death was not something that would displease my mother. I was motivated to make my mother happy, something I hadn’t done in years. Additionally, my mother offered me the sum of fifty thousand dollars to carry out her plan, as well as my own house in the
state of Oregon, a state where I have long expressed an interest in living because I love nature and wish to get away from urban living.
It was under those circumstances that I followed my mother’s instructions, using Raymond Wohr to set up a fictitious date between Ms. Villareal and a celebrity individual whose identity would attract Ms. Villareal. The celebrity I chose was Mr. Mason Book, the well-known actor, because Mr Book rents a house from my father, a situation brought about through my association with Mr. Book for several years.
Mr. Book had no prior knowledge of my plan, nor did he engage in any criminal activity. Nor had he any prior contact with Adella Villareal.
I met Adella Villareal in a rented room at the Hyatt Hotel on Sunset Boulevard, in Hollywood, and informed her that while Mason Book had changed his mind, my father wanted to see her tonight because he’d decided to leave my mother and marry her. My instructions were to bring Ms Villareal to be with my father at the family residence in Solar Canyon, a place Ms. Villareal had expressed interest in visiting but had never seen. I lied and told Ms. Villareal that my mother and my siblings were away on vacation and that she’d be alone with my father. I also instructed her to bring her baby, because my father was going to proclaim the baby as his legitimate son and would have a lawyer present to sign papers.
Ms. Villareal was initially suspicious and taken aback by my presence However, since I’d previously played a role in bringing her monthly cash payments from my father, she eventually believed me and accompanied me to my truck.
I drove Ms. Villareal and her baby to Malibu but instead of heading to Solar Canyon, I continued several miles north to Leo Carrillo State Beach, a place I’d enjoyed going as a child and as a teenager, walking alone among the trees when I was depressed, or hiding out among the trees while I used illicit drugs. My intention was to physically subdue Ms. Villareal before she met my mother, so that my mother would be able to assume the total control she requested. Because of that, I came prepared with a .38-caliber pistol and plastic handcuffs purchased over the Internet from a company called
Submission.net
.
I stopped the truck just outside the gates to the Leo Carrillo State
Beach parking lot, a relatively open spot that seemed safe for what I was going to do because I believed this was going to be a brief process.
It was not.
Ms. Villareal grew extremely angry at my attempt to get her to leave the truck and walk with me to a dark, secluded spot. My intention at that point was to get her alone so I could cuff her hands. When she resisted, showed her my gun. I was surprised at her lack of concern for my gun and at her attempting to attack me physically.
It was that surprise that led me to panic and hit her in the back of her head with the gun and, then, to put my hands around her neck. My intention in doing so was only to subdue her but somehow I strangled her and she stopped breathing.
Once I saw what I had done, I panicked and put her back in my truck and drove her far from Malibu, to Griffith Park. I chose Griffith Park because it, too, represented a pleasant memory from my childhood, from when my parents and my siblings would take trips to the zoo and to the carousel and to the Gene Autry Museum where all sorts of entertainment industry and musical memorabilia are displayed.
I left Ms. Villareal’s body in the Fern Dell area of Griffith Park and drove the baby back to my mother, who was waiting for me five miles up the road from the family residence. My mother was happy to see me and told me I’d done well. She said she was renaming the baby Adrael, apparently one of the names used by the Angel of Death. I say apparently, because I am not religious and have, in fact, grown to hate religion due to understanding my parents and their use of religion to corrupt themselves and others.
Though my mother describes Adrael as evil and a source of evil, she has cared for his physical needs ever since, including giving him a car-shaped bed outgrown by my youngest brother. However, I am concerned about what she might do to him eventually, and that fact has caused me great anxiety and increased my mental instability and illicit drug use.
For nearly a year and a half, Adella Villareal’s death remained unsolved and I believed I’d gotten away with this crime and worked hard at forgetting what I did. Several months later, I was contacted by Raymond Wohr who began by asking why he hadn’t heard from me in a while. I
replied that I’d been busy. He then said, “Not too busy to take care of Adella and her kid, huh?” At that point I realized I had a problem and I went to my mother. After reviewing the facts, my mother said Mr. Wohr had nothing on me other than the fact that I’d picked up Ms. Villareal at the hotel My mother went on to say that Ms. Villareal was “just a skank-whore and those types get killed all the time,” and that Mr. Wohr was “just a skank-pimp. Try paying him off and if that doesn’t work, we’ll find a solution.”
I arranged to pay Mr. Wohr a lump sum of five thousand dollars in exchange for his silence. I also agreed to resume employing the services of professional prostitutes arranged by Mr. Wohr, most frequently Alicia Eiger, and to pay double for those services.
This arrangement seemed to be working until three days ago when Raymond Wohr phoned me, saying Alicia Eiger was frustrated at not getting more money from me and was threatening to go public about her suspicions regarding Adella Villareal’s murder. Mr. Wohr also said that baby-killing would be seen as a terrible crime. Even though he, personally couldn’t “give a shit about any rugrat.”
I told Mr. Wohr that he needed to keep Ms. Eiger calm. He replied that he couldn’t, she was “nuts, totally whack,” to the point of screaming at him and hitting him in the face, in broad daylight on their street of residence, Taft Avenue.
At that point, I phoned Alicia Eiger and informed her that Raymond Wohr had told me of her frustration and that I wanted to make everything good. As such, I’d be coming by with another two thousand dollars in cash. She said two wasn’t enough, she wanted ten. We negotiated and agreed on seven thousand five hundred dollars. I set up an appointment that day to deliver the money, stopping along the way at the Bed Bath & Beyond at the Beverly Center and purchasing a medium-sized kitchen knife I could conceal in a jacket pocket.