Hillside Stranglers (7 page)

From that point on the procedure was the same as with Judy Miller, except that Angelo worried that this girl might fight, so he kept her handcuffed and cut off her clothes with a big pair of upholstery scissors. Naked, she appealed to neither cousin. Angelo especially was put off by her unshaven legs and derided her as “some kind of a health nut.” He decided to pass up the sex this time, not even bothering to flip a coin, growing sullen and resentful at this affront to his intentions. Watching Kenny trying to work up some enthusiasm for rape in the spare
bedroom, Angelo handed him a root-beer bottle. Kenny applied the bottle with such eagerness and animation that he made her bleed, much to Angelo’s irritation. To make sure she did not bleed on the carpet when she was strangled, Angelo spread a piece of her coat on the floor.

The murder itself went as before, except that Angelo added one new twist, tightening and then slackening the cord, bringing her to the brink of death and back again several times over, delighting in the absolute power of it. At Kenny’s request, the cousins traded places, with Bianchi doing the final killing while Buono, sitting on her knees and showing real passion for the first time that night, shouted, “Die, cunt! Die!”

Her belongings safely in the dumpster, her body in the trunk, Angelo headed the Cadillac north toward the hills. About two miles from his house he pointed out an apartment building on Chevy Chase where he had once lived. He knew the area well, he said.

“Nobody knows the city like the Buzzard,” Kenny said.

After a very few minutes they were in the hills, but not high up this time. It was the beginning of a canyon dotted with expensive, rather new houses and then, on the left, the golf course of the Chevy Chase Country Club. At a bend in the road there were no houses on the right, and the golf course, fenced and bordered by big eucalyptus trees, was on the left. Angelo drove ahead until he could make a U-turn, came back down to the relatively secluded spot beside the golf course, stopped the car, and cut the headlights but left the motor running. Bianchi reached into the glove compartment and pushed the trunk button.

“Make it quick,” Angelo said. “Nobody’s coming.”

The wind blew hard. With all the trees, it was very dark. Between the golf-course fence and the road lay a deep drainage ditch, then a steep embankment, then a metal guard rail about three feet high. They swung the body over the guard rail, trying to heave it into the ditch. But she landed heavily and rolled with a rustling of leaves down the embankment about fifteen feet and came to rest against an invisible guy wire. Up the road, Angelo spotted headlights.

“Let’s go,” he said. “You drive.”

As Angelo nipped around the back of the Cadillac, he grabbed from the trunk a remnant of Lissa Kastin’s coat, which he had used to keep the body from bleeding onto the car, and slammed the lid. The other car passed them as they drove off.

“You think that guy noticed anything?” Angelo asked.

“Nah. What’re you going to do with the coat?”

“Pull over at the next corner.”

Angelo stuffed the bloody remnant down a curbside storm drain.

“It was a bust, you know that?” Angelo said as they approached Colorado Street. “It wasn’t worth it. She was a dog. If I’d’ve knowed it would turn out like this, I’d’ve watched TV.”

Kenny had to agree, although he said that the slow strangulation had been good. It offered all kinds of possibilities.

Disappointment burdened them during the next couple of days. On the phone, they agreed that the foul-up could be traced to the process of selection. They had been overeager, picking out Lissa Kastin because she was easy prey. They had ignored aesthetics. There ought to be some way of signaling approval to each other before a girl was finally chosen. Following her onto a poorly lit street had been an error, since neither of them had gotten a good look at her. With all the girls in L.A., why should they settle for anything but the tops? It had been like casting an unknown actress without a screen test.

“We couldn’t really tell how bad she was until we got her clothes off,” Bianchi said.

“Bullshit,” Angelo said. “You can tell, you can tell. We moved too fast, that’s all. What’s the rush? We could take all night finding the right one. We could take all week.”

“Yeah. We could really look one over. We could find something totally choice.”

“You got it. There are thousands,
mi numi,
thousands.”

It was a mere four nights later that they decided to go for it again. There had been no public notice as yet of Lissa Kastin’s death, the city knew nothing of the act, and to Buono and Bianchi
it had become an irritating nonevent, a draw in a bout that cried out for a rematch. On Wednesday evening, November 9, Bianchi dropped in to see Angelo. They were going to discuss strategy, merely. Bianchi found Angelo out back stroking his rabbits in the darkness, with Sparky barking jealously at his feet.

Inside, they rehearsed again the inadequacies of Lissa Kastin. Sheltered by the house that had now concealed two successful murders, they grew agitated. Angelo floated about, straightening, dusting, checking the fish, as Bianchi talked. They had the perfect setup. It would be a crime not to take better advantage of it. How many other guys had a chance like this? There had never been such a scam. As long as they were careful, it could work again. And again.

“Yeah, there’s got to be a limit,” Angelo said. “We go too far, we’re gonna slip up. We can’t do every girl in town. Keep your lid on, Kenny.”

“Right,” Bianchi said, “but I tell you, we got it made. I can taste it, Tony, I can taste it.”

“Let me get my jacket,” Angelo said.

“We going now? Tonight?”

“You got it. But calm down, will you, asshole? This time, it’s perfect, understand me? And one other thing. We don’t find the right one, we don’t go for just anything, see what I mean? We forget it this time. We come back here and we figure this just wasn’t the night. Right?”

“I got a feeling this is going to be it.”

“That’s real nice. But if I say it’s no go, it’s no go. Understand? I say it’s no good, we scrub the mission. I ain’t even gonna lay out the stuff this time. Maybe that was bad luck. Sometimes you plan everything, it puts a jinx. Sometimes you just gotta see how it goes down, follow me?”

“I follow you. You’re the boss, Angelo. You’re the captain.”

“Don’t forget it.”

Bianchi drove his Cadillac. In Hollywood, they cruised slowly, down the Boulevard, along the Strip. There were plenty of whores. None appealed.

“I feel like some fresh pussy,” Angelo said.

“Maybe we should try another area. Maybe we should try Westwood. We could get some UCLA cheerleader. A blonde.”

“Too far.”

“Let’s try around my place again. It’s after ten. There’s girls around there, always are. We could get somebody coming out of a movie.”

“Go ahead.”

Back in his own neighborhood, Bianchi checked the parking area of his apartment building on Tamarind to make sure Kelli’s Mazda was there. It was. He didn’t want her going out at night without his knowing it, even if she was pregnant. She was into her sixth month.

On Franklin they passed two young girls walking together, considered them, passed them up. And then, in front of the Mayfair Market at the corner of Franklin and Bronson, they observed a girl standing alone next to a bus bench. She was slim and blond, wearing tight jeans rolled at the bottoms. Bianchi slowed. They took a good look, cruising past.

“Do you see what I see?” Buono asked.

“You bet I do.”

“What do you want to do?”

Bianchi headed around the block. They agreed that this one looked prime, at first glance anyway. But Angelo wanted another look. He told Bianchi to approach the bus bench on Franklin again. A block or so east of the bus stop, they pulled up to the curb, stopped, and looked.

She was sitting on the bench now, apparently waiting for the bus. She had her long legs out in front of her, crossed at the ankles.

“Super shoes,” Bianchi said. “High heels.”

“She ain’t no slob, I can see that much. What do you want to do? She won’t go with two guys. Right out there in the open, we got to get her easy. She’s got to want to go. Tell you what. I’ll go talk to her. Then you come back. I’ll think of something. Sit here a minute. See if she’s getting a ride.”

“Let me rap with her,” Bianchi said.

“Yeah. Okay. What’re you gonna use?”

“You know me,” Bianchi said. “I can bullshit anyone.”

“Look at her. She’s choice. Look at that.”

“I’ll go talk to her. You drive around for a few minutes. Give me some time. Then you come back. And . . . I know. You offer me a ride. We know each other, okay? You offer me a ride and I offer her a ride, and if I do this right, she’ll come along.”

“It might work. No badges?”

“I might work that in. I’ll get that in somehow. Leave it to me. I’ll get the chick to go along. Let me off in the supermarket parking lot there. It’s like I just came out of the market.”

They switched places, and Angelo let Bianchi out in the parking lot and took off. Bianchi approached the bus bench. He sat down next to the girl and looked her over unobtrusively. She was beautiful. Blond and angular. A model type. Her high-heeled shoes were silver below her rolled, tight jeans.

“Hi,” he said. “Excuse me. Do you know when the bus is coming?”

“We just missed one. There might be another soon. It might be half an hour. You know how they are.”

“I know, I know. My car, I can’t believe it, my car’s in the shop, and gosh, it’s terrible. Public transportation in Los Angeles is really terrible. I can’t wait till I get my car back.”

“You’re not from L.A.?”

“Back East originally,” Bianchi said. “Rochester, New York. You know, Kodak? Where all the film gets made. I’ve been out here awhile, though, I’m getting my feet on the ground, anyway. You meet some nice people. People are friendly out here, I’ll say that. Everybody’s got a smile on their face. It’s not like back East. Back East, you know, you talk to somebody at a bus stop, they think you’re crazy. It’s not like that out here. I like that. I really, really do. You just get off work or something?”

His voice, his manner, so unaggressive, rather epicene, reassured her.

“No. I just came from acting class, over there.” She pointed to an ornate, castlelike building across the street. Bianchi noticed that her hand was long and tapered and graceful. He looked down at her silver shoes again.

“What’s that building? Is that a studio or something?”

“It’s one of the Scientology buildings. Scientology Manor. That’s where they have the acting workshop.”

“Oh. That’s interesting. An acting workshop. Is that, I mean is it just acting, or does it have something to do with Scientology? Like, is it part of the religion, or what?”

She gave a little laugh. “Well, in a way, everything is connected to Scientology. It’s a little of both. What I mean is, the acting is based on principles of Scientology. If you understand the principles, you can do anything, really.”

“You must be into Scientology. I don’t know much about it. I’ve heard about it. It’s not weird or anything, is it? I’m more into psychology, myself. Gestalt and behavioristic theory. You don’t look like a weird person yourself. You look pretty normal and healthy to me.”

“There’s nothing weird about it,” she said. “Some people are jealous, that’s all. They try to give it a bad name. The other religions, they’re afraid if everyone knew how wonderful it is, they’d lose people, that’s all. It’s human nature.”

“I’m sure that’s true. But I mean, do you go to church, or what?”

“Yes. There’s so much to it.”

“Tell me something about it. I’m really interested. I mean, if so many people are in it, it must have something.”

Bianchi feigned an eager interest as she discoursed on Scientology. She explained at length that she had her reality, just as he had his.

“Hey,” Bianchi said, “there’s my friend! Can you beat that? Hey!” He waved as though signaling Angelo, who brought the Cadillac to a stop in front of the bus bench. Angelo gave the horn a friendly toot-toot and lowered the window. “Hey, Tony. How about a lift? Can you take me home?”

“Sure. Where you been? Where you been hiding?”

Bianchi approached the car window and, leaning in, whispered to Buono that he was going to ask the girl if she wanted a ride. Angelo nodded.

“Say,” Bianchi said to the girl. “My friend Tony says if you’re not going too far, he’ll give you a ride, too. We really lucked out tonight.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I think I’ll just wait for the bus. It’s okay.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Bianchi said. “That’s my cousin. Don’t worry, we’re both in the L.A. Police Reserve.” He flashed his badge at her. “I’ll tell you, you’re a lot safer: with us than sitting here alone on this corner. I hope you don’t live too far, though, that’s the only thing. I don’t want to put him out. I hope you understand.”

“I don’t live far. Straight down Franklin.”

“Great. Hop in.” He opened the front door for her.

“Okay.”

Bianchi got in the front seat after her. They headed west on Franklin.

“This is my cousin Tony Buono. And Tony, this is . . . I’m sorry. I forgot to ask your name.”

“Jane King.”

“Tony, this is Jane. I’m Kenny. Kenny Bianchi.”

“Hi, Kenny. This is awfully nice of you guys.”

“It’s nothing,” Bianchi said. “Glad to help out. I don’t like to see a nice girl in Hollywood alone anyway. You don’t have a car?”

“My roommate sometimes picks me up.”

“That’s a better idea. Say, Tony, pull into that market over there, would you? I need some cigarettes.”

“Yeah, I do too.” He drove into the Hughes Market at the corner of Highland.

“Do you mind waiting in the car for a minute?” Bianchi asked. “We’ll be right out. Do you need anything, cigarettes or gum or anything, Jane?”

“No. I’ll be fine. Take your time.”

In the market Bianchi asked Buono what he thought. Buono gave his hearty approval. He thought that Jane King was one of the best-looking chicks he had seen in a long time. How had Bianchi conned her?