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International Cooperation
The phone rang loudly in Northern Ontario. They still had land lines.
“Hello”
“Hey man, how’s it hanging?”
“Low and to the right. What do you want?”
“Listen, I need some help.”
He perked up. Canadians are always up for helping. “What kind of help?”
“I need your expert opinion on something.”
“Shoot.”
“Appropriate. How would a serial killer go about killing homeless?”
“You do realize all those stories on the open threads are just fiction, right?”
“Yes, of course! As an esteemed fiction writer, I figure you’ve thought through all the scenarios for the stories. And I do realize this is a land line.”
“Not that a mobile is that secure either. Probably less. Anyway, in my role as a professional writer dealing in fiction, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Okay, here’s the skinny….”
I told him the story as it had been told to me by the old man.
“Well, clearly you can’t do it out in the open. You’ve got to lure them somewhere with the promises of something. The thing is, though, that bait can’t be too obvious, or they will think it’s a trap. Anyone living on the streets develops a healthy sense of distrust for people.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. But, how could you do it IN BULK?”
“What kind of numbers are we talking?”
I told him. He whistled.
“For that kind of volume, that is not one serial killer. No sirree Bob!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the killing part is one thing but gathering that many people at one time is something else. Plus, you said the bodies were being used for experiments, right?”
“Right.”
“So that means that they are in good shape. Preserved, so to speak. One person killing one person can maybe do a decent job. At volume, the equation changes.”
“Changes how? Are we talking about multiple serial killers?”
“Not necessarily. I’m not sure you are dealing with multiple killings.”
“What are you talking about? Did you hear the numbers?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. Let me put it to you this way. Have you ever been to a Pick Your Own farm?”
“Never been a big fan of the smells in a farm. But I did have a girl take me to one of those places once. She thought it would be a fun date idea.”
“Funny coming from the anal enthusiast. Well, you don’t have five people picking from the same tree. You have one person assigned to one tree. They have a process. They have guidelines as to what fruit should be picked and what fruit should be left alone.”
“What are you saying?”
“This is organized.”
I gulped. Suddenly, things had gotten a lot uglier than I had anticipated.
“Shit!”
“I’m sure that’s what she said at the end of the date! Sucks to be you. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Actually, you’ve been a great help. Thanks!”
“No problem. Hey, when you do get to the bottom of this, can you give me a call and tell me how they did it? You know, for research purposes.”
“Um, sure. For research purposes. Later.”
As I hung up, I reflected on the fact that it was probably a good thing that the Royal Mounted Police didn’t keep accurate stats on the Canadian homeless population.
***
The next day, I had little bit better of an idea on the how, but I was no closer to figuring out the who. I had no choice but to make my way to DTLA to see if I could get more info on the different organizations working the area. My first stop was the Midnight Mission. They had been there the longest and knew Skid Row better than anyone.
Unfortunately, the lady at the front was either not having a good day, didn’t care for me, or thought I was wasting her time because I clearly did not need assistance. Probably a little of column A and a little of column C. I don’t care what anyone says, I’m delightful!
Next stop was the Union Rescue Mission. Different place, same results. Then, it was on to the LA Mission. Walking out, I thought about changing my name to Serra.
I wandered all up and down Skid Row until I arrived in front of a building that, upon seeing it, gave me a very weird and bad feeling. Some people call it the chills. Some call it the heebie jeebies. Others the creeps. I was just freaked the fuck out.
On the side of the building was my client’s name. The sign on the front door indicated that inside were the offices of a non-profit homeless assistance association.
***
“There’s no fucking way that’s a coincidence, right?”
I had met up with Mark at Sonoratown for tacos.
“I dunno. Let me look into it. It’s certainly odd. But why would he hire you if he was behind it?”
“Yeah, that part doesn’t make sense. But it’s weird, right?”
“Relax. Enjoy your chorizo and cabeza tacos. I’ll get someone to get some background on this organization and I’ll get back to you.”
“Appreciate it, man. How’s your burrito?”
“Not too bad. It tastes even better knowing that it’s free.”
“Least I can do.”
“Just be patient.”
***
I am not a patient man. ‘Wait’ is a four-letter word in my book. I decided to try to get some information on my own. After lunch, I walked back towards Skid Row and entered the building with my client’s name on bright shiny metal letters outside.
To my very pleasant surprise, a beautiful blonde receptionist saw me, stood up, and walked towards me. She had a very tight-fitting light brown work dress that stuck out in all the correct places. She wore beige dress pumps, an orange scarf, and a large broach pinned about two inches above her left nipple.
“Hi! Can I help you? We don’t often get walk-ins and that door should have been locked.”
I put on a charming smile and replied, “My lucky day, then! I’m actually looking to donate some funds from my LLC. You know, for tax purposes, and I thought homeless assistance associations were a worthy cause.”
She looked at me warily, “And you decided to walk through Skid Row until you found one?”
“No. Not exactly. I was driving through, and I happened to see the name on the side of your building. I know a person by that name in Pasadena and I wondered if it was the same one.”
“I don’t really know him, but I am best friends with his daughter, Eve. He founded this place.”
“Really? That’s wonderful! Even better to give donations to friends, huh? Funny he never mentioned this.”
“Well, like I said, I don’t really know him. My friend actually got me this job. So, what kind of donation are you looking to make? Would you like us to make room on the side of the building for your name?”
She smiled a devilish smile. Like she knew I was bullshitting, and she was trying to catch me. I was getting close to letting her.
“You know I’m a big supporter of the less-fortunate.”
“Uh huh.”
“Really. I’ve been a Kings fan all my life.”
“I’ve never been to a hockey game.”
“Are you serious? We need to change that. Do you want to go to tonight’s game? It’s the Sharks, so they might actually win.”
“I’m busy washing my hair.”
“I’ll buy you a beanie.”
“Well in that case, let’s go to my place right now and have sex!”
I dig girls that give me shit.
“Okay. I get it. Total stranger out of the blue asking you out. No worries. Although I really would like to take you to a game some time.”
“Let’s see the size of your donation and we’ll see…. Wait, that sounds bad. I’m not really that kind of girl. I just don’t know you and there is too much weird shit around here.”
“Weird how?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Listen, are you really here to make a donation or are you just trying to pick up on me?”
I thought for a second about telling her who I really was and what I was really doing and how I would love to spend the rest of my life plucking lint out of her belly button, but I figured I would play it cool.
“A little column A, a little column B.”
She looked at me up and down and settled on my shoes. I instinctively looked down again. Despite the walking, the shoes were in decent shape.
“Friday night. 7:30. H&H Steakhouse on 7th. Please don’t be a mistake.”
I gulped. That was going to be tough.
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