Nocturnal: A Novel

  Bryan crammed the rest of the toast in his mouth and nodded.

  John’s dark purple motorcycle jacket matched his helmet. Both items looked fresh off the rack, but Pookie knew John had bought them about four years ago.

  John started to slide into the booth next to Bryan, but Pookie stopped him.

  “Hold on there, BMB. I think you should sit on this side, with me. Bryan is getting his grub on.”

  John looked at the three empty plates of food, as well as the crumbs dangling from Bryan’s fuzzy beard. “I guess so.”

  Pookie slid over as his former partner slid in. John’s gaze flicked to all corners of the diner, lingered on every patron in the place. Even here, even with two other cops, the guy couldn’t relax.

  “And keep your hands off the table,” Pookie said. “I can’t hold Bryan responsible if he eats them.”

  “Fa you,” said a chewing Bryan.

  John took a deep breath and calmed himself. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he ignored the restaurant and focused only on Bryan and Pookie.

  “I got something,” he said. “I looked at the Golden Gate Slasher file in the department’s archives, but tons of information was missing.”

  “It’s an ancient case,” Pookie said. “That’s not surprising.”

  “But what is missing is surprising,” John said. “Pictures of the perp? Nope. Pictures of the crime scenes, where we might see those symbols? Nope. Descriptions, anything with detail that could tie those murders to what’s going on now? All of it, gone.”

  Pookie felt simultaneously disappointed and excited. Disappointed because he needed that information. Excited because — just like the missing symbols in the database — this was more evidence of a strategic cover-up.

  Bryan started to talk, but the words caught in his throat along with his last piece of toast. He gulped coffee, then continued. “Why just take parts? Why not just chuck the whole case file and be done with it?”

  John’s eyes narrowed. And a smile tilted up the left corner of his mouth. For a moment, Pookie saw a flash of the whip-smart inspector that Black Mr. Burns used to be.

  “Because if the whole file was gone, someone might notice,” John said. “Remove the entire file for one of the biggest cases ever? Once someone realizes it’s gone, questions get asked.”

  Pookie reached over to the sugar bin. He started piling packets, balancing the little rectangles of stuffed white paper. “What about cause of death? That article Mister Biz-Nass showed us said witnesses saw the Slasher was killed with an arrow. But in the same article, Francis Parkmeyer claimed it was suicide.”

  John nodded. “The autopsy report also said suicide. Signed by the Silver Eagle himself, although I’m guessing he wasn’t silver thirty years ago.”

  Pookie thought back to Baldwin Metz making a rare appearance in the field to process the body of Father Paul Maloney.

  “It gets better,” John said. “Guess who else was on the Slasher task force with Parkmeyer? Polyester Rich Verde and Amy Zou.”

  Pookie looked at Bryan, who nodded knowingly. Connections were coming together: Zou, Verde, Metz, all connected to a case involving the symbols some thirty years ago.

  “Zou and Verde,” Pookie said. “Were they inspectors at the time?”

  “Both were just newbies,” John said. “From what I could gather, Zou was basically a glorified gopher on the case. But get a load of this — six months after they find the Slasher’s body, she gets promoted to inspector. She was the youngest person ever to be promoted to that rank, a record that she still holds.”

  Bryan shook his head. “Wait a minute. You’re saying you think she did something during the Slasher case that got her the promotion?”

  “Maybe,” John said. “Hard to tell with all the information that’s missing, but the timing fits. Now, here’s the really messed-up part. You also asked me to look into the Chronicle’s archives on the case. I did, and I didn’t find anything.”

  “Wow,” Bryan said. “You really knocked that one out of the park, John.”

  Pookie glared at Bryan, but John didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm.

  “It’s not that I didn’t find anything, there was nothing to find,” John said. “There should have been all kinds of stuff. All the back issues that covered the Slasher turning up dead, they’re gone. Hard copy, microfiche, scans, electronic copies of the stories — anything to do with that case is nowhere to be found. And before you ask if the Chron archive is missing a lot from that time period, it isn’t. Just like with the Slasher case files, the removal is targeted and specific. I also checked the library’s archive and found exactly the same thing. On top of that, I tried to find info on that gangster killing the fortune-teller showed you — that’s missing as well, from both places.”

  Pookie leaned back. The SFPD files, the Chron archives, the library … this wasn’t just keeping something quiet, it was an effort to wipe history clean of anything involving the symbols.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” he said. “The Slasher was a serial killer. Mister Biz-Nass says the symbol was found with the Slasher. Now it looks like we have a new serial killer that’s also using the symbol. Why would anyone cover up clues that could help stop a goddamn serial killer?”

  No one answered. Bryan looked at Pookie’s plate, then at Pookie, then raised his eyebrows.

  Pookie slid the half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs across the table. “Go crazy, Mister Pigerson.”

  Pookie’s cell phone rang. He answered.

  “This is Inspector Chang.”

  “Inspector Chang, Kyle Souller.”

  “Well hello, Principal Souller,” Pookie said.

  Bryan stopped chewing. He waved his hand inward: let me hear.

  Pookie thumbed up the volume and held out the phone. Bryan and Black Mr. Burns leaned in.

  “Mister Souller,” Pookie said, “hopefully you’re not calling to give me detention. Unless, of course, I’m detained in a room with a naughty schoolgirl.”

  “Inspector, that might not be the best joke to use on a man who’s responsible for the safety of actual schoolgirls.”

  “Good point,” Pookie said. “The jury is instructed to disregard that remark. How can I help you, sir?”

  “I asked around as you requested,” Souller said. “I got something from Cheryl Evans, our art teacher.”

  “Do tell.”

  “She said she’s seen drawings by a student named Rex Deprovdechuk. The drawings showed Rex chopping up Alex Panos.”

  Son of a bitch. A new lead. “The same Alex Panos that is in BoyCo with the former Oscar Woody and the former Jay Parlar?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “This Rex, Deprov … what was that last name again?”

  “Dee-prov-deh-chuk.”

  “Right. He a big kid?”

  “Hell no,” Souller said. “Tiny. Couldn’t weigh more than eighty pounds, tops.”

  “Is he rich?” Maybe Rex had hired someone to take out Oscar.

  “Strike two,” Souller said. “Single mom, I don’t know if she works. His teachers said Rex wears secondhand clothes, sometimes has body odor the other kids complain about. I doubt he has two nickels to rub together. I’ve had him in the office a few times. I know he’s had run-ins with BoyCo, but he refused to name them.”

  Pookie started to ask for Rex’s address, but stopped himself. “Mister Souller, I told you I’m no longer on the case. Have you contacted Inspector Verde, by chance?”

  “I did,” Souller said.

  Pookie gave the table a little bang with his fist. If Verde knew about Rex, Pookie and Bryan didn’t dare talk to the kid.

  “I called you anyway,” Souller said. “In the education business, we have a technical term for people like Verde.”

  “Which is?”

  “Fucking douchebag,” Souller said. “I was hoping you were still on the case along with him. He rubbed me the wrong way.”

  Pookie laughed. Polyester Rich couldn’t
rub the right way if there was a neon arrow flashing the proper direction. “Inspector Verde might be a little brash, but he’s very good at his job. Thank you for letting me know, though.”

  “You’re welcome,” Souller said. “I can tell that you actually care, Inspector Chang. I think that’s pretty uncommon. I hope you get put back on this case.”

  “Thanks for calling,” Pookie said, then hung up.

  Bryan’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Pooks, you didn’t get the kid’s address.”

  “Because Verde already has it, and he already tattled on us once to Zou, remember? And you heard Souller — Rex is small and poor. He couldn’t have done the killings and couldn’t have hired someone to do them. Is he a valid lead? Yeah, but Verde already knows about him. It’s Verde’s case, Bri-Bri, there’s only so much we can do.”

  Bryan leaned back and glared. He wasn’t happy. Pookie couldn’t blame him for that.

  “How about this,” Pookie said. “We give Verde a day or two to talk to Rex, then after Verde moves on, you and I find a way to accidentally run into the kid.”

  Bryan looked out the window. “I’d rather get on it now.”

  “And I’d rather collect a paycheck,” Pookie said. “The chief … of … poh … leece told us to steer clear, Terminator. Unless you want to end up out of a job, we need to play the hand we’ve been dealt.”

  Bryan paused, then nodded. Pookie tried to relax. The better Bryan felt, the more stubborn he would become. Pretty soon, Pookie wouldn’t be able to talk him out of following his instincts.

  Terminator wasn’t the only one feeling frustrated. The cover-up involved murderers. At least two kids were already dead. If Zou hadn’t been playing these games, would those kids be alive? And whatever was going on, Verde was neck-deep in it — Verde, who knew about the case’s only remaining lead.

  Pookie started making a new stack of sugar packets. All he could do now was wait. Wait, and hope that Rich Verde wasn’t covering up for a psycho.

  Verde & the Birdman

  Rich Verde got out of the car, then brushed some lint off the sleeve of his blue suit. He shut the door and waited for Birdman to get out.

  He was always waiting for Birdman. The kid moved in slow motion. This was what the force was coming to? Kid had hair like a dirty mop. He wore sloppy clothes. He had a goddamned gold tooth, for the love of Christ. Bobby Pigeon looked like a pimp on a four-day bender.

  “Birdman, come on. Move it.”

  Bobby nodded. Even his nod was slow. “I’m comin’, boss.”

  They started up Pacific toward the Deprovdechuks’ house. Verde had parked a block away, at the corner of Wayne Place. Sometimes walking up to a perp’s place gave you more options, was less conspicuous. Subtlety, calmness, keeping things as quiet as possible — that was how the job got done.

  Souller’s call had come out of the blue. Pookie had developed that source. Rich would have done the same thing, of course, but it still chapped his ass that Pookie’s work had produced a lead. Not that the lead mattered. This was nothing more than a coincidence. The BoyCo kids were assholes, beating up on anyone they could. Rex Deprovdechuk got his ass kicked a few times, so what?

  Nowadays everyone wanted to raise kids in a goddamn airlock, protected from anything and everything. Everyone gets a goddamn trophy. When Rich had been a kid, you either learned to fight back or you ate the shit sandwich you were served. So the kid had drawn mean pictures about BoyCo members? So what. It had nothing to do with the killings. He knew it, Zou knew it, but Zou still wanted to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.

  Whatever Amy Zou wanted, if it was in Rich’s power to give, Amy Zou got.

  “Rich-O,” Birdman said. “Riddle me something, brother. Seems to me we’re kind of half-assing this case. Why’d we get it, anyway? Terminator and Pookzilla are Grade-A prime, man.”

  “We’re not?”

  Birdman shrugged. “I’m game, dog, don’t get me wrong, but this is some high-profile shiz. I’m kind of new for that, you know?”

  “You’re fine. I’ll carry you. Just watch and learn, son.”

  “You didn’t answer the question,” Birdman said. “Why us? And I know I’m just tagging along, so more accurately, why you?”

  Rich wasn’t going to share that answer. Zou could when the time was right. Verde hoped Birdman would work out, because they needed some new blood. That was why Zou had partnered them up — Bobby was a good cop, but he clearly didn’t believe in strict interpretations of the letter of the law. When it came to Marie’s Children, to the symbols, what mattered was how a cop would interpret the gray areas. Clauser and Chang were too goddamn goody-goody to play ball, but hopefully Bobby could be more realistic about how the world truly worked.

  Rich focused on the task at hand. It was the little things that got a cop killed, like routine traffic stops or just talking to the wrong person at the wrong time. In this line of work, survival meant assuming that everyone who saw you wanted you dead.

  He approached the Deprovdechuk place. A few people — mostly Chinese, mostly old — moved along the sidewalks. Verde angled around an old lady that had to be ninety. Her steps were so tiny she looked like a bobble-headed stop-action character.

  This was the Chinatown for the locals, not the Chinatown for the tourists. Many windows were open, filled with shirts and pants drying on hangers or dangling from improvised clotheslines. Some store signs were mostly in Mandarin with a little bit of English beneath, while others had no English at all. Massage parlors, beauty shops, art galleries that never seemed to be open, all in storefronts squashed down by the three- and four-story apartment buildings above them. He’d made calls to some of those apartments. The Chinese could pack ten, eleven, even fifteen people into a standard one-bedroom.

  Rich stopped when he saw 929 Pacific. “This is it,” he said.

  “Huh,” Birdman said. “I bet they’re the only round-eyes in this building, if not the whole neighborhood.”

  The Deprovdechuks lived in a tenancy-in-common, or “T.I.C.” The three-story house had two parallel columns of typical bay windows. Automobile soot smeared and darkened once-white walls. Seven concrete steps led to three side-by-side wooden doors. One door would lead up to the third floor, one to the second, and the last entered into the Deprovdechuks’ ground-floor flat.

  “Let me do the talking,” Rich said as he pressed the door buzzer.

  “Don’t I always?”

  Verde heard footsteps coming from inside the house. Little footsteps.

  The door opened a couple of inches before a snapping chain-lock stopped it. Halfway down, a tiny face looked out.

  Verde’s nose caught a faint, ripe smell, just a trace of it. He knew that smell …

  The boy’s face wrinkled with distrust. “Who are you?”

  “Inspector Verde, San Francisco Police,” Rich said. “Are you Rex?”

  The boy’s jaw dropped, his eyes widened. He slammed the door shut so hard the wood rattled and the glass cracked. The slam made the air swirl, and another whiff of that odor tickled Rich’s nose.

  He recognized it: unforgettable, unmistakable.

  The smell of a corpse.

  Rich drew his Sig Sauer. Before he could say anything, Bobby drew his own. At least the kid was fast when it mattered.

  Rich slid to the right side of the door, shoulder on the frame, gun in both hands and pointed up. “Do it!”

  Bobby lifted a big Doc Marten and push-kicked. The door slammed open, ripping the metal chain free and sending it spinning down the hallway’s hardwood floor. Bobby went in first. Rich followed, saw Rex sprinting down the long hall. The boy ran through the last door on the left and slammed it shut behind him. Bobby ran after him. Just inside the front door, Rich glanced into the living room on his left — a woman’s body, faceup on the floor, a belt wrapped around her neck. Eyes open and staring. Splotchy facial bruising. Purple discoloration around the skin just above and below the belt. A gray pallor covered the corpse’s other expose
d areas.

  Rich saw all this in a half-second glance. He looked back down the hall, saw Birdman kick through the bedroom door and point his gun inside.

  “Lie down on the floor!” Bobby screamed into the room.

  That’s when Rich felt the footsteps behind him.

  He turned, but too late. Something smashed into his back, driving his head into the unforgiving wall. As he fell, he had a glimpse of a man racing past — long black beard, white wife-beater, green baseball cap.

  The man carried a hatchet.

  By the time Rich hit the floor, the bearded man had closed in on Bobby. Bobby saw the man coming and turned to fire. The hatchet slid through the air.

  Two shots, so close together they sounded like one.

  The hatchet hit Bobby on the right side of his neck and drove down into his sternum. Rich would never forget that sound, that whiff-crunch sound of the blade digging home.

  Rich scrambled to his knees. He raised his gun and fired, pop-pop, but watery eyes and wobbly hands threw off his aim. The bearded man gripped Bobby’s shoulders and turned fast, putting Bobby’s back toward Rich.

  The tip of the hatchet stuck out between his partner’s shoulder blades.

  That cut his heart in half.

  The man yanked the hatchet free and stepped backward into the room, grabbing Bobby’s gun as he did.

  Rich couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

  Bobby’s right arm hung down low, swinging sickly from the gaping wound as if it had no bones at all. He took a single, short, staggering step, then his legs gave out. He fell face-first. Rich saw blood pour out of him, spreading across the wood floor.

  That cut Bobby’s heart in half. You can’t help him. Get out. Get out. Get back up.

  Rich found his feet under him, found himself backpedaling, right hand pointing his gun, left hand grabbing his radio.

  “Eleven ninety-nine! Eleven ninety-nine! Officer down! Officer down at nine-twenty-nine Pacific, get me some fucking help, now!”

  He backed out of the door and into the evening air.

  Marco