A Killer's Role: Erter & Dobbs Book 1 Read online

  A rifle!

  William turned up the volume, listening.

  “—just up and pow! Just like that.”

  The other radio voice, a woman co-host on a two-woman talk show, said, “Yeah, I know, it’s like, that’s a bad way to start your day. I mean, how sad?”

  “Sad—that’s the word. All the way around. So, this girl—Samantha Barnes is her name—is just jogging along one second, and the next…”

  William leaned forward.

  “—someone from like, three hundred feet or something, just takes out her dog with a rifle. Bam. Just like that. It’s sick!”

  A dog?

  William leaned back making a disinterested face. There were no human victims involved with this story. This was not human crime. He flicked off the radio, gathered his shoulder bag and professor’s attaché and plodded toward the school. Students were just starting to show, all of them walking like zombies toward the entrance. William’s first class was at eight-fifteen. He’d be the first one there. Then he’d wait for the others to start showing slowly, one at a time, while he prepared the day’s studies.

  Well, actually…

  There was one student that might beat him to class, eager to begin, always willing to learn, often a little too willing to participate. Jacky Lee Hobar. The name always made William grin. Jacky Lee Hobar. Half white, half Mexican—it sounded like a serial killer’s name.

  7

  Killer Class

  “Give me one of the profile cases we’ve studied this semester. Any profile,” William said, walking slowly up and down the aisles of his classroom. Students followed him with their eyes, but no one raised their hand. No one ever did, at first.

  “Come on—profiles—anybody.”

  A hand.

  “Ah, Marcus.”

  Marcus, a kid with remarkably good hair and ironically bad skin said, “Ed Kemper.”

  William grinned pacing up and down the aisles. “Ah, Ed Kemper, the co-ed killer, responsible for the heinous murders of ten human beings, most of them hitchhiking women, but three of them being his own mother and grandparents—yeesh! Ed stated that he knew he was going to kill even before his first murder, back when he was a boy. Said his fantasies were too great to go unresolved.” The class reacted to that mostly with disdain. “That’s a good example. Give me another.”

  Another hand.

  “Yes, Melanie?”

  “Um—the Son of Sam?”

  “Yes, the Son of Sam, David Berkowitz. He often talked about his murders with preconceived notions, saying things like I didn’t want to hurt anybody, I just wanted to kill them. How’s that for ironic?” The entire class giggled. “He even mentioned experiencing a great release of tension and hate after his murders, all of which implies he knew he was going to kill before he killed. Any others?”

  Another hand.

  “Yes, Brand.”

  “Robert Spangler.”

  “Ah, good old Bobby,” William said, now standing at the head of the classroom. “That might be the best example of all. Why—because he actually married his next victims. Imagine the forethought that required—the long-term realization of what his intentions were. So, what do all these monsters have in common?” No one replied. They never did, not without prodding. “C’mon, somebody, anybody?”

  “They’re psycho?” one of them shouted out.

  “Okay, yes, they’re psycho. But what is psycho? Can you define that?”

  “It’s like, antisocial behavior,” the student said.

  “Okay.”

  “It’s people who are crazy, like they’re loony, you know, they’re nuts,” said another student, Vicky, the interested gum smacker.

  “Crazy, loony and nuts. Yes,” William said and everyone laughed. “What else?”

  “Their perspective on the world isn’t normal,” someone said.

  “Right, okay.” William was now stretching a rubber band around and around between the fingers of both his hands as he paced. “So, you’ve all just described Miley Cyrus and Johnny Depp, that’s excellent.” He paused for more laughter from the gallery, then continued, “The question is—what do most, if not all serial killers have in common, that identifies them as serial killers on a societal level?”

  The class went quiet. A few of them murmured incoherent words to themselves, but no one spoke out. William waited. He didn’t expect an answer. But he didn’t account for the hand that rose at the back of the room—one bright-eyed Jacky Lee Hobar grinning like a schoolboy in the sixth grade. He was more goofy than cool. In the common parlance, he would have been more Kawabunga! than koo-koochi-koo. He said, “They saw the light before God threw the light switch on, man. It’s like God said Let there be… and they just filled in the blanks with serial murder, dude!”

  The majority of the class treated this response with a ridiculous lip-flapper; a few of them turned in their seats to spy the nutjob at the back of the class who’d made such a statement. William stopped twirling the rubber band and looked at Jacky, interested. Jacky’s grin broadened and he said, “Look, all I’m saying is they knew what they were going to do before they did it. They knew… the whole time.”

  William started pacing again, “Thank you, Jacky, you’re absolutely right. And if they knew what they were going to do, what does that further imply?”

  Calls from the peanut gallery came in rapid fire:

  “Dreams of prophecy. They had, like, prophetic dreams and stuff.”

  “No, no, maybe they all could see in the future.”

  “That’s so stupid.”

  “I don’t mean like, sci-fi. I mean like, they could see the future.”

  “No that’s not it, they were being patient, waiting for when they were old enough.”

  “Old enough to what, stab someone?”

  Before the catcalls got out of control, William held his arms up and said, “Okay, look everyone. These are all feasible guesses. But here’s the truth.” He made sincere eye contact with all of them, allowing a dramatic pause to slip by, then said, “These deadly serial killers knew their role. From a very early age, they knew their role. It’s as simple as that.” He paced back, then forth allowing it to sink in. “Now, we all play roles, right? Some of us know what our role is, some of us are still searching. But with serial killers—at least it seems this way to many profilers—they knew what they were before they actually became them. Now how is this useful to the FBI profiler or the criminal psychologist, or the behavioral analyst?”

  “It’s not,” someone said.

  “Why not?”

  “It allows serial killers to think ten steps ahead, so they can like, hide what they did—er, hide what they’re about to do,” the student said.

  Another said, “And also because there’s no way to predict who the serial killer is. Not without some serious vibes kicking. But, see, they already know they’re serial killers.”

  A contemplative “Mmmm—” came from the back of the room. William’s eyes went to Jacky.

  “Jacky, you have something to say?”

  “Yeah—so, if the bad guys know they’re bad guys from like age ten, why can’t the good guys know they’re good guys from like age ten, too? Wouldn’t that even up the odds a bit?”

  8

  A Strange Logic

  The TV in the teacher’s lounge showed the local news. Channel Eight. The anchor was a severely buttoned up guy with hair like a silver fox, a haughty half-grin and turned up eyebrows. One might expect that he would give the camera a double snap with the finger-guns gesture and say “Hey, babe, here’s the news, eh.” It was the prevalent attitude. Best face forward, man. Never let them see you frown. Always turn those eyebrows up. Keep those teethies white, too… babe. In his best TV voice, he was rifling through news reports as they popped up on the teleprompter.

  William had tuned him out a long time ago. The channels that called themselves The News hardly revealed anything that was likely to be actual news. There were other places to get actua
l news. Underground places. Smalltime local conspiracy tabloids. The guy with the SAM radio. The unknowns with their private stations in the basement and all the high-profile contact info. Data smashers. Number crunchers. Pattern finders. Not the failed-actor-turned-playboy on the TV. William gave it ten minutes, before that guy’d be spouting off about the horrible tragedy of a dog shot in some park a few miles south. Sure enough…

  “Out of Heirloom Park, a local girl walking her dog got a tragic shock. Her dog, a large Retriever breed, was struck by a bullet and killed as she walked it. No one knows exactly if the bullet was a stray from one of the surrounding neighborhoods, but several witnesses reported hearing the shot, some saying it resembled a large weapon, perhaps a hunting rifle.”

  William nodded frowning. Yes, a tragedy. Poor dog. Probably never knew what hit it. One minute it was leashed to its master like a beast of burden, the next…

  “That’s horrible.”

  William looked up. Cassy Donnegan, professor of Social Studies, sure to mold the minds of future politicians and social workers alike, had sat next to him brandishing her bowl of greens. She torqued her elbow, dumping Ranch dressing over her salad. It glistened white and gooey.

  William grinned. “You mean like turning your healthy food into a heart attack?”

  She eyed him crossly. “Mind your own food, Professor.”

  “Fine, fine,” he said, taking another bite of sandwich. His lunch was always the same. Seven grain bread. Turkey, or chicken. Never ham. Cheddar cheese. Two thick slices of tomato. Lettuce. Pickle. He rarely ate a dessert, and never drank sodas. It was bottled water only.

  “No. I’m talking about that poor girl,” Cassy said.

  “A student?” he asked.

  Cassy popped the cap on her dressing, licked the web of her thumb, and said, “The girl on the TV.”

  He nodded, swallowing, trying not to be indifferent. He muttered, “Oh yes.”

  Cassy mixed her salad with her fork, crunching through it like hikers through an evergreen forest. “You’re the criminal psyche teacher. Isn’t that criminal?”

  “It’s not exactly murder, Cass.”

  She stopped stirring, looked at him. “He killed that dog.”

  “Murder requires a human victim.”

  She started stirring again. “Does it have to be murder? Isn’t there a law called, what is it—unlawful use of a gun or something?”

  “Unlawful discharge of a firearm.” He crunched into his sandwich.

  “Yeah, that. And abuse against an animal.”

  He smiled, cheeks full of food, “Amimuh amoose…”

  “What?”

  He swallowed. “Technically, it’s called animal abuse.”

  “Does it have to be murder to be criminal?”

  “Mmm—it does when you’re lecturing a bunch of nineteen-year-olds.”

  “Well,” she said, strategizing her first bite of salad, “I think that’s criminal, anyway.” Then she jabbed with her fork and stuffed a bite in her mouth chewing like a horse. “I mean, why would anyone shoot a dog?”

  William nodded absent-mindedly. “Yeah, a dog…” he started to take another bite, but froze with his mouth open, his sandwich half way to his mouth.

  A dog. Why would anyone shoot a dog…?

  He looked at her, suddenly interested. “What did you say?”

  “Hmm?” she said with her mouth full of food.

  “You said…”

  Cassy swallowed. “Why would anyone shoot a dog? I mean, isn’t that a little sick?”

  “Yeah—why would anyone shoot a dog?”

  He hadn’t given the question any consideration. Holy shit! He stood up feeling the color flush from his face. It was the most logical question of all. No one would shoot a dog with a sniper rifle in broad daylight. Not unless they had much greater intentions. He knew this all too well. In fact, this had all been done before. His mind raced, cataloging incidents that seemed menacingly familiar, all of a sudden. The Dallas sniper. 2016. Five officers dead. The Dorner Case. 2013. Three people dead. The Beltway sniper. 2002. Ten people dead. The Berkley sniper. The 101 sniper. So many others.

  But why a dog this time?

  He gasped, color flushing from his face. The cops weren’t investigating a serial killer. They were investigating a dead dog. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they weren’t treating this one right. He put a hand to his head. The words slipped from his mouth impulsively. “Oh no.”

  Cassy gave him an inquisitive look. “What, William?”

  “I got to go.” He rushed out leaving his sandwich on the table.

  William knocked on Fred Willis’ office door, and pushed it open without waiting to be invited. Fred stuffed teaching materials and textbooks into his shoulder bag, getting ready for his next class. His round face looked up at him, a tad surprised. “William…” he said.

  “Yes, sorry to intrude, Fred, but something personal has just come up. I—uh…”

  Fred looked concerned. “It’s not an emergency, is it?”

  William’s lips went thin. Of course this was an emergency. There was a killer in town. No one could see it. Not the cops. Not the news crews. Not the pedestrians at Heirloom Park. Not even the pet owners. All they saw—all everyone saw—was a dead dog. But not William. He saw the truth—the little blind spots of the world. Crimes don’t de-escalate. Oh no. They only escalate. But he couldn’t express that to Fred Willis, Dean of the Glendale School of Psychology. So, William smiled and said, “Emergency, not exactly. Just a personal issue. Can we get coverage for my two o’clock and four o’clock?”

  Fred sighed and flipped through an organizer. He said, “Yeah, we have an adjunct on standby. I’ll call. Is everything alright?”

  “Fine, just fine, Fred. Thank you.” William left double-timing his steps to the school’s main exit. Once out in the parking lot, he was at a full jog. Let the world wonder. He had to stop a cold killer. This was a mission.

  9

  Investigable

  Heirloom Park wasn’t far. Just off Mullen over in Windsor Hills. A nice part of town, not Beverly Hills, but the place smacked of college diplomas and nice careers. The day was gorgeous—low eighties, clear skies. As he approached Heirloom Park his car’s brakes squeaked to a stop. Getting out, he could see the yellow police tape marking off the scene down a long, gradual slope of green. The path that—what’s her name, Samantha Barnes—had taken toward that crossing of time and fate was marked in blue chalk. It ended in a brown bloodstain made stark against the white of the concrete walkway. William approached, scoping the park with his eyes.

  The crime scene hadn’t stopped pedestrians and tourists from populating the park. In fact, it had probably enticed them to come. The cops that had secured the area a day ago when the crime was new had long since vacated. There was only a detective dressed in slacks and a silk tie standing around, his hands on his waist, staring down at the bloodstain. His jacket was neatly laid out on the grass to the side.

  William stopped at the yellow tape.

  The blood had dried, but the direction from which the dog had been shot was clear. The stain opened into a fan pattern that elapsed into the grassy area just off the walkway. It had been shot from the northwest, and gauging on the size of the bloodstain, it had been a high velocity round that was used.

  “Three-o-eight?” William asked.

  The detective turned around, noticed him. “This is a crime scene, sir. You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “Oh, of course,” he said, taking two steps back. “Is that what it was?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “A three-o-eight.”

  The detective eyed him. “What makes you say that?”

  “Common round. A hunting round. Maybe a thirty aught six. Would say a two-o-four, but that’s too small judging from the distance and the damage. Big dog, right?”

  The detective tilted his head at him squinting from the sun. “Distance?”

  “Yes. The shooter obviously
shot from over there.” William turned around and pointed at the three-story hotel across the park and across the street to the northwest. The round would have had to carry a long way right between two houses in the neighborhood and into the park. It would not have been an easy shot. “That’s a hundred and fifty meters, easy. That’s a long way.”

  “We have ballistics working on that…”

  “Then you found the casing,” William said, making an assumption. “And the bullet, it obviously wasn’t lodged in the victim. Passed straight through, right? How far did it travel upon exit?”

  “What’s your name?” the detective asked.

  William took a defensive step back. “Erter. William.”

  The detective eyeballed him sharply. A moment of silence passed before he said, “Detective Mark Neiman. L.A.P.D. Are you a witness?”

  William laughed. “No. I was at home.”

  “Uh-huh, where’s home?”

  “Alhambra. Rosemeade. I’m a school professor.”

  “Long Beach?”

  “No. Glendale. The junior college.”

  “Uh-huh. What brings you here?”

  “I teach criminal psyche.”

  Mark gave him an ah-that-makes-sense face and said, “Field day, huh?”

  “Uh—something like that, yes.”

  “Great. Excuse me.” Mark turned back around ending the conversation.

  William watched, salivating over the crime scene. “So, where was the dog hit exactly?”

  Mark turned around, his irritation starting to show. “You’re awfully interested in this case, William.”

  “I think determining where the dog was hit could be an indication of whether or not the shooter hit what he was aiming for.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Could he have been aiming for… something other than the dog?”

  Mark regarded him with sudden fascination, then offered a smirk. “It was a head shot. Dead immediately. No—I think the shooter hit exactly what he was aiming at.”