Shadows of Death Read online

  Stuller had been living in Bodfish, California, since 1997. Running true to form, he’d acquired two convictions, one for assault and the other for poaching. The poaching conviction had caused public outcry. According to a lengthy report in the Kern County Clarion, he’d killed a beloved town icon:

  On a hot autumn afternoon in the Tehachapi Mountains, Fish and Game warden John Eckstrom, following up on an anonymous tip, found a badly butchered carcass dumped under a tree. Eckstrom informed his companion he was looking at the remains of a trophy bull elk. Just how big a trophy proved to be the poacher’s undoing, that and a blatant contempt for the detective work of Fish and Game.

  The poacher had discarded several empty aluminum beer cans and a half-eaten bag of Fritos. “There were fingerprints all over them,” Eckstrom said. The fingerprints matched the prints taken from the .22 casings scattered nearby. Apparently, the poacher had brought down the elk, known to the townspeople of Bodfish as Big Daddy, by shooting it repeatedly with the small caliber weapon. Eckstrom, himself an avid hunter, was disgusted by the elk’s death, “which must have been extremely cruel,” he said. “This elk was practically tame and unafraid of human beings. It was like killing a pet.”

  Following the evidence and tips from outraged citizens, Eckstrom arrested Charles Stuller of Bodfish. The severed head in Stuller’s garage provided the conclusive piece of evidence.

  Over three hundred angry citizens signed a petition asking the court to “throw the book at him.”

  Superior Court Justice Wanda Lightfoot sentenced Stuller to 60 days in jail, fined him $1,000, and put him on probation for three years. In addition, she told Stuller that he was forbidden to go anywhere near lands where hunting is allowed.

  Stuller’s attorney argued that the sentence was harsh and that poachers rarely drew prison time. Judge Lightfoot said that in the future she planned on remedying that judicial shortcoming.

  Frank wanted to personally congratulate Judge Lightfoot. Drive on over to Bakersfield and shake her hand.

  Thinking about how easily he’d been able to find Stuller on the Net, in less than ten minutes, he reasoned Parker would be able to do the same. Three phone calls later—first to Dave Meecham, then to Pete Novak, followed by a conversation with the Kern County Sheriff ’s Office in Bakersfield—Frank headed for Walker Pass to try to save Stuller’s life.

  25

  •

  Mrs. Delowe lived on the very western edge of Pasadena on the other side of the Arroyo Seco, almost in Highland Park, so Seth Parker elected to take the 210 Freeway across town. It turned out not to be the best of moves. As he pulled onto the on-ramp, a pickup truck shot ahead of him and cut him off where the lanes narrowed from two to one. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have paid the least bit of attention to the driver’s ill-mannered conduct—he had come to expect motorized rudeness as just another indicator of things going to hell in a handcart—but as the truck lurched in front of him, a dog in the pickup bed almost spilled onto the pavement.

  Parker cut in and out of the thickening traffic in an effort to overtake the pickup, a large metallic green GMC, sporting rear dual tires and a ridiculous air scoop mounted on the top of the cab. It was easy to follow. He cut into the diamond lane and shot ahead of the slower-moving traffic. Coming alongside the truck, he leaned across the seat and yelled out the passenger’s side window.

  “You almost lost your dog,” he shouted against the noise of the traffic.

  The two young men in the truck frowned over at him, unable to make him out. Parker shouted again, “Your dog. Your dog almost fell out.”

  The driver and passenger looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Your dog almost fell out,” Parker screamed.

  The driver put his hand up to his head and made a twirling gesture, lolling his tongue to one side.

  Parker felt the anger building. He pulled the VW in front of the truck and began slowing down. Both the driver and the passenger in the truck became instantly enraged, their mouths filled with curses, unheard in the rush of traffic. Parker watched them bob around in the rearview mirror, looking like hand puppets wearing silly backwards caps. He decreased his speed, trapping the truck between two lanes of traffic. Then the truck lurched for a gap in the right-hand lane, and he watched the dog spill onto the freeway.

  The car following the truck struck the dog, knocking it down. The driver of the car pulled over to the meridian, braking hard. The dog, a medium-sized German shepherd, struggled to its feet, injured and confused. Parker watched the rest in slow motion. The next car struck the animal and passed over it without touching the brakes. The dog was still trying to regain its footing when it was struck again and ceased to move. Soon he couldn’t see anything but traffic and the air scoop of the green pickup far ahead in the center lane.

  He knew exactly what to do. There was intensity to his perceptions; the edges of things were distinct, colors sharp and vivid, and he seemed to move with quickening speed through a stream of time that flowed with stately deliberation. He brought the van back into the diamond lane and shot by the slowing lanes of traffic on his right. Far ahead he saw the flashing lights that indicated some sort of catastrophe, something that would cause a delay in traffic, a Sigalert broadcast by hovering aircraft to cursing motorists, something that would bring him nearer to the green truck, still there in the center lane.

  He signaled for a lane change, smiling back at the driver closing up on his right, and moved out of the diamond lane and into the lane of traffic on the truck’s immediate left. An overturned car on the outbound side of the freeway was causing the slowdown. Parker pulled even with the truck.

  He honked his horn, and the capped heads turned toward him. Then their mouths began to move. Parker cupped his hand to his ear and shrugged. They were screaming, lips opening and closing as they delivered a stream of invective. Parker shot the driver in the mouth, a perfect shot, one-handed from a moving car into a moving mouth. The truck drifted halfway into the right lane.

  The passenger, not understanding or perhaps not believing what had happened, stared at Parker, who smiled and waved. He should have taken another shot right then, but he couldn’t resist the friendly gesture. The truck came to a sudden halt, and the passenger jumped out. Parker brought the van to a stop and steadied the Woodsman against the window frame and took aim as the man ran into moving traffic. The first of the two cars that struck the fleeing figure passed over his fallen body. Unlike the dog, the man was unable to regain his feet, but he did manage to sit up. Parker fired twice, both shots finding their mark, the first just forward of the ear in the left temple. The second shot was redundant, as was the second car, a Lexus SUV that dragged the corpse some fifteen feet.

  He slipped the van into the diamond lane again and then, smiling and waving, crossed three lanes of traffic and exited onto Orange Grove Boulevard. He went north, cut down into the Rose Bowl area and across to Linda Vista, then went south again toward Highland Park. Twenty minutes later, he pulled the VW into Mrs. Delowe’s garage, where his panel van was stored. He hated being rushed, but the impromptu on the 210 Freeway left him no choice. He had to get out of Dodge, as the saying went.

  The most necessary things had been taken care of. John Gilman’s housekeeper, Mrs. Hernandez, had promised to care for Orpheus and Eurydice. He’d updated the Web site, including the picture of the cops with their eyes closed. Another foolish taunt, but leadership required a certain degree of style; think of Patton’s ivory-gripped .45s. Then he’d sent Sergeant Flynn the message about the dogfight near Barstow. He wished he could have taken the fight down himself, but it would be a bust for the local cops that would lead to drugs, parole violations, and other stuff. Dogfighters were scum.

  It wouldn’t be as good as taking it down himself, but he’d located Stuller, and that came first. Soon it would be up to John. The torch would be passed. An hour later his panel van was climbing up Angeles Crest Highway, heading for Palmdale, then north to the Tehachapi Mountains.

>   26

  •

  Charlie Stuller popped open another can of Coors Light, the Silver Bullet, and settled back in the lawn swing, waiting for something to interrupt the endless boredom. His buddies had stopped coming around since Judge Wacko Wanda had penned him up on his property, a quarter acre of live oak and digger pine on the outskirts of Bodfish in the Tehachapi Mountains. He thought about going back to Long Beach, where he hadn’t pissed everyone off, at least not recently.

  Charlie entertained no illusions about being misunderstood. People were assholes, so he didn’t waste time pretending to be a nice guy. His strategy for successful living was to be a preemptive asshole—“right back atcha,” only first. Even so, he didn’t think the whole town would turn on him for helping himself to some free elk meat. What was the big deal? The Tehachapi Mountains were full of elk and deer. They wandered around eating up people’s gardens like giant rabbits. Charlie didn’t have a garden, but he’d heard plenty of complaints about how the deer ate up people’s yards. So in his view, he’d done them a favor getting rid of a monster-sized rodent—with big, valuable horns. He shouldn’t have kept the head.

  Someone walking along the road turned into the dirt driveway leading back to his trailer, probably some bum looking for a handout. That was okay, too. Wacko Wanda’s restrictions had cut him off, so even bums were welcome. Anything to make the time pass.

  The visitor looked around Charlie’s property with some distaste. The land was strewn with trash: cans, plastic, shattered glass, and piles of rotting wood, wire, and broken concrete. “Nice place,” he said with obvious disgust.

  Charlie’s trailer rested near a stand of dusty pines interspersed with scrub oak.

  “Don’t read so good, do you?” Charlie countered.

  Charlie’s visitor looked puzzled. “How do you mean?” “The sign says private property. What, you don’t believe in signs?”

  “Oh, that.” “Yeah, that. This is my property,” Charlie said in a menacing growl.

  The man’s gaze wandered back over the accumulated trash in Charlie’s yard. “You’re kind of a pig, aren’t you?”

  “What’d you say?” Charlie leaned forward. He could hardly believe it, this asshole insulting him on his own property.

  “I said, you’re a pig, and this place is a sty.”

  Charlie sized up the newcomer. Tall and thin, wearing a straw hat and yellow glasses. Not much of a threat in Charlie’s estimation. “You made a big mistake, asshole,” Charlie said, getting to his feet. Something wasn’t quite right. “Do I know you?”

  “Not well, but I’m going to give you a chance to get reacquainted.” The man smiled. “Remember Sergeant Flynn?”

  Charlie hesitated. The remark had put him off balance. “So what’s that got to do with anything?” Charlie eased closer, ready to move on this guy, whoever he was.

  “Now how’d that happen, Stuller? I mean, why’d you want to fight a nice guy like Sergeant Flynn?”

  “Whoever the fuck you are, you got it wrong. He wanted to fight me—a noncom picking a fight with a trainee. I kicked his sorry ass.”

  “That’s right. Flynn called you out about killing a cow on the firing range at Hunter Liggett.”

  Charlie studied his guest. “So who the fuck are you?”

  “Parker. Crybaby Parker.”

  Charlie examined the man more closely. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, think again.”

  Charley Stuller stared at the man before him. “You don’t look the same.”

  “You do, except now you look flabby and soft.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re about to find out how soft I am, when I kick your sorry ass.”

  The man’s eyes filled with contempt. “That’s it? Gonna kick my sorry ass before you know why I’m here?” He shook his head. “It adds up. Curiosity is a human trait, you know. Homo sapiens, the thinking ape. You’re just ape, Stuller. Defective. Defective and destructive.” He seemed to be talking to himself. “You’re like a giant cockroach, Charlie—I seem to remember your Christian name is Charles—living here in your own garbage heap.”

  “That’s it, asshole.” Charlie Stuller lunged, but his opponent stepped easily to one side and hit Charlie behind his ear, driving him to the ground. While Charlie was trying to get up, the man shot him in the side of his knee. Despite numerous bar fights, usually with victims for opponents, Charlie had had little experience with real pain. The knee wound caused an immediate flash of paralyzing agony. He dropped on his back, clutched his leg, and screamed.

  “Don’t be a crybaby,” Parker said. “You’ve still got one good leg. I knew a guy made it back to his unit with most of his leg blown away.”

  Charlie stared at the man with a dawning realization. “It’s really you—fucking Parker,” he moaned through clenched teeth. “Why the fuck did you shoot me?”

  “Listen carefully, and I might not kill you.”

  Charlie stared at his tormenter.

  “We’re going to play the cow game. You get to be the cow. I get to be you. The cow’s mission is to clear the field of fire before Stuller and the boys bring it down. That’s me. I’m you and the boys. So think about what you need to say to get me to keep from killing you.”

  Parker looked around. “Let’s say that pile of crap over there is out of the firing line.” He pointed over to a jumble of weathered scrap wood mixed in with broken cement and a tangle of rebar. “If the cow clears the firing line, makes it to home base, well, then it lives.”

  “I can’t make it over there. This hurts like you can’t believe.” Charlie was clutching his knee with bloodied hands.

  “Well, that’s too bad. I guess the cow dies.” Parker pointed the gun at Charlie’s head.

  “You’re not going to kill me over a fucking cow.” Charlie Stuller’s voice quavered.

  Parker aimed the gun at Charlie’s foot and shot into the top of the dirty tennis shoe. Charlie screeched and rocked back and forth, his hands shuffling from his knee to his foot and back again.

  “Better get moving, cow. Whoop-ee-ti-yi-o! Get along, little dogie, get along. ‘It’s your misfortune and none of my own.’ ” He sang the last part under his breath. Then he shot into the dirt near Charlie’s good foot.

  Charlie began dragging himself over the ground toward the trash pile that signaled safety. It was only about fifty feet away, but to Charlie it seemed like a million miles. Every foot he gained was agony. Behind him, he heard Parker breaking into song.

  “ ‘Their tails are all matted, their backs are all raw.’ You’re doin’ good, cow.”

  “Fuck you. You asshole.”

  Parker lifted the gun again and shot Charlie in the thigh.

  “Oh, shit.” Charlie started to cry. “You’re gonna kill me, aren’t ya?” Charlie’s voice was plaintive. Blood was soaking his pant leg. “I’m bleeding to death. Help me here, please. I’m begging you.”

  “Cease fire! Cease fire! God damn it, stop shooting,” Parker shouted. “You know who said that, Stuller? Well, I can see you’re having difficulty playing the game, so I’ll tell you. It was Sergeant Flynn, trying to get you and your fucked-up buddies to quit shooting at the cow, but you guys couldn’t hear him, tone deaf and brain dead. You just kept on pumping rounds into the cow. Remember how it bellowed? Wait. I got it. You ask Stuller and the boys to stop shooting in cow talk. Maybe he’ll be able to hear you.”

  “What?”

  “Like this. Mooooo. Mooooo. You know, moo like a cow.”

  Charlie dragged himself over the broken glass and trash, groaning and mooing. He only had a few more feet to go before reaching the trash pile. He raised himself up on one elbow and stretched out his hand and touched a chunk of broken concrete. He tried to talk, but it came out in a sob.

  Parker sauntered over and squatted next to Charlie. “What’s that? Can’t hear you, cow.”

  “Free,” Charlie gasped. “I’m home free.”

  Parker shook his head. “This isn’t hide-and
-seek, Stuller.” He smiled. “It’s kick the can, you useless piece of shit. Get it, you’re kicking the can.”

  Charlie stared at him, not understanding.

  Parker stood up, shaking his head. “ ‘Kick the can’ is slang for dead. Like the cow, you hopeless moron. You’re an ignorant man, Stuller.”

  “Please don’t. I’m sorry I shot the cow, really, really sorry. Please, don’t let me bleed to death.”

  “Okay,” Parker said and shot Charlie in the left eye. He was thinking that it might be his signature shot, the Sandman’s coup de grâce. He took out a small spiral notebook, jotted down a message, and tucked it in Charlie Stuller’s shirt pocket.

  He crossed Stuller’s yard behind the trailer and disappeared into the woods.

  •

  Frank arrived at the scene of the killing before the Kern County sheriffs had an opportunity to respond to his original call. The patrol car dispatched by Bakersfield had been delayed by a car accident on the Kern River Road. No crime had been committed or was in progress, as far as they knew, so they were moving with the traffic, following up on Frank’s tip.

  As soon as Frank discovered Stuller’s corpse, he called it in and waited for the deputies to arrive. Frank showed them the dead man and assured them the crime scene was pristine. “You could do me a favor, though,” he said.

  “What’s that, Flynn?” Deputy Eugene Bohannon didn’t like Frank. Despite the fact that the deputy was nearly ten years younger than Linda Reyes, he had been smitten and made no secret of it. When Frank and Linda became an item, Bohannon didn’t take it that well.

  “Would you check his shirt pocket for a note?’

  “Why would I do that?”

  “If the killer is who I think he is, he leaves notes.”

  The deputy squatted next to Charlie Stuller’s bloody corpse, reached into the shirt pocket, and fished out a note.