JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps (26 page)

The voice over of the newscaster came back on. “When we asked him who he thought was responsible, he had this to say."

Focus back on the gang member. “It's probably the cops. They're doing it to like, make us fight each other more. It's their way of BLEEP with us. We're poor, we're Hispanic and BLEEP and they're white and cops and they're just doing it to BLEEP with us."

Channel 7: A voice-over of yet another male newscaster as the camera zeroed in on yet another Los Angeles neighborhood. A middle-aged Hispanic couple was standing on the porch of a small home. “...the residents of this predominately Hispanic community are afraid, and they are up in arms."

The man was a little on the portly-side with graying hair. He spoke with a thick Mexican accent. “We have gang activity down here all the time and the police will come in and not do anything. Then when they
do
come in, they'll come in to harass the young men, anybody that looks like they might be a gang member. They promise that they'll protect us, but when the gangs start shooting and bullets are flying in your windows, they don't
do
anything!” He threw up his hands in exasperation.

His wife, equally portly, her black hair with strands of gray pulled back in a bun echoed her husband's sentiments. “And then when these murders start happening, they don't do anything. They just come and knock on the doors and ask us a lot of questions and take people in who haven't even done anything."

The newscaster cut in with a voice-over: “One neighbor, who didn't want to go on camera, said he was taken to Parker Center and almost arrested for the crimes until he was able to prove he had an alibi."

Focus on a dark silhouette of a slim man. The man's voice had a thick barrio accent. “The police took me in and were like going, ‘come on man, we know you did it'.

Because I got a record for assault and other BLEEP. And I said, ‘no, man, I didn't do it'.

But they kept, you know, at me, and they had me there for like twelve hours."

The voice over of the newscaster came back on: “It wasn't until the man placed a call to his wife that he was able to provide an alibi and clear his name. But the affect hasn't been lost on the residents in the East Los Angeles area."

The camera panned a busy neighborhood, cut over to a strip mall and once again focused on a lower class neighborhood. It finally came to rest at the middle of the street where the newscaster was surrounded by the residents of the street, many of them children. “The residents of this neighborhood, and others in the East Los Angeles area where the killer has struck, are on a heightened edge these days. Feeling the fear of the gangs that control these neighborhoods, to the scrutinizing of the police who they feel look on them with suspicion, to the unknown killer himself who preys on their ranks, the citizens of these neighborhoods often feel that the police aren't doing enough to catch the man responsible for these horrible killings. It has turned into an uneasy wheel of distrust and suspicion that feeds on itself as the weeks go by and the killer goes uncaught. From East Los Angeles, this is Joel Petraca, Channel 7 News."

Daryl Garcia sat on his living room sofa, remote control in hand, TV turned to the news. The last of the coverage from the streets of East Los Angeles on the local communities’ reaction to the Butcher case had just ended, and it made Daryl sick.
Fuck
them
, he thought, turning the TV off with a click.
They don't trust us, don't want to help
us catch this psycho, they can sit there like sitting ducks until this guy decides he's bored
with gangsters and decides to try crawling through windows and slaughtering entire
families. I've fucking had it! This guy's doing the city a goddamned favor, if that's the way
they're going to react.

He was too upset and angry about the newscast, and the case, to call Rachael that night.

Five miles away, Rachael Pearce was watching the news, eating a fresh garden salad she had just prepared. She had gotten off work early, had just come home from a martial arts session, and was still sweaty. She watched the newscast, feeling worse about it as it went on. No wonder this case was eating at Daryl. She would be upset if she got this kind of treatment from the people she was trying to help as well. It only made her more determined to stay by Daryl's side during this especially rough time in his life.

In East Los Angeles several people turned in to the news. One of them was Danny Hernandez, who sat on his sofa, fidgeting. The minute the newscast came on he started getting nervous. He kept looking out the windows, toward his front door, as if he was expecting the cops to come busting in anytime. He turned back to the television just as a gang member was offering his opinion on what the killings were all about. Danny changed the channel.

In his spacious West Side apartment, Bernie Haskins watched the news with a growing sense of despair and anguish. This case was getting to be like the Green River case in Seattle, which he worked on over a decade ago. Like that one, the local news media raised the hysteria level among the community, feeding a never-ending cycle of distrust and suspicion to the police. It also didn't help to have a killer who was always one step ahead of those who were trying to catch him. Bernie turned off the TV in disgust with a flick of the remote. His job, as well as that of the local FBI agents on the case and the LAPD Homicide detectives, had just become harder.

Father John Glowacz caught the segment on the Eastside Butcher halfway through. He was just returning home after spending the latter part of the afternoon hearing confessions and meeting with a few of the local community leaders to discuss ways on how they might help curb the gang related violence that had risen since the arrival of the Butcher. They had to do something; the situation was getting more out of hand as the killer claimed more victims. Father Glowacz paused in front of the television as a Hispanic couple railed against the police for not taking action in protecting them. He shook his head in dismay. It was such a pathetic statement to make, and as Father John Glowacz articulated those thoughts he regretted it and felt a tinge of guilt. After all,
he
was supposed to help the people in his community overcome those feelings. Seeing the news made him realize he had his work cut out for him. He sat down on the sofa in front of the TV, feeling a growing sense of despair.

In another part of the city, Charley sat on the sofa in his room, the wide screen TV

turned to the news. He usually liked to watch the news in the evening. He liked to be well informed. In fact, he caught the Butcher coverage on all three stations. It didn't hurt to be informed.

While elsewhere, in a darkened living room, the subject of the feature stories that were being run watched the local communities reactions to his work, and he smiled.

Chapter 16

After not having slept together in three months, it was a welcome reprise for Rachael to finally be able to surrender herself to Daryl Garcia.

They had been slowly building up to this for the last two weeks. As the investigation into the murder of Felipe Picano, the Butcher victim killed two months ago, hit its customary dead end of leads, Daryl started to contact Rachael more. Before long they were both suggesting a date. Tonight that date had come.

Rachael sighed, rolled over on the king-sized bed in Daryl's bedroom and kissed him. His arms went around her back as he kissed her back, their tongues darting, doing their own dance. Rachael broke the kiss and looked down at Daryl, smiling. “I've been waiting all summer for this."

Daryl smiled. “Me, too."

“I need a drink,” Rachael said, sliding off the bed and standing barefoot on the floor. “Want a beer?"

“I'd love one.” Daryl propped himself up against the headboard as Rachael walked naked through the house to the kitchen to fetch the beers.

Rachael had come to Daryl's place after work around 6:30. After not seeing each other in nearly three months, Daryl had reacted like a man dying of thirst when he met her at the door to his home. He had taken her into his arms and held her, just held her tightly.

Rachael had been surprised at the level of emotions he displayed, but she welcomed it.

She had reacted pretty much the same way. When they finally kissed it was softly, tenderly. The passion in their ardor had been so great that they missed their 7:00 p.m.

reservation at Dominico's; they wound up making love on the floor of Daryl's living room.

Rachael opened the refrigerator and took out two bottles of Rolling Rock. She opened them with the bottle opener Daryl had clipped to the cupboard, and headed back to the bedroom, still smiling from the evening's events; dressing hurriedly for a later dinner appointment at Dominico's, a long, languid dinner followed by a stroll through Burbank hand-in-hand, cappuccino's at a small sidewalk café, then back to Daryl's house where they had made love again. The only thing that had stopped their passion was the draining of their energy.

Handing Daryl his beer, Rachael returned to her side of the bed, sitting up, back propped up against the headboard. They took long, slow pulls from their drinks. The night outside was warm, the windows closed against the seasonally warm night air. The central air conditioning was activated and now it kicked in, creating a calm, relaxed feeling in both of them.

Rachael had been both surprised and pleased by Daryl's lovemaking. Every kiss, every caress, had been passionate, baring his soul completely. Rachael secretly applauded Daryl for letting go so much during their lovemaking—several times he had come so hard that it felt like he might pass out from the sheer emotion of it. It was a milestone for both of them, and Rachael felt that Daryl knew it.

He voiced it a moment latter after draining half his bottle of Rolling Rock. “I think this is it, babe."

“Think this is what?"

He looked at her. “I'm finally free. I feel more free from my ... from the past problems I told you about. I feel ... complete again."

Rachael smiled, then reached out and hugged him clumsily, still holding her beer.

“Oh baby, I know. I feel it, too."

She felt Daryl sigh heavily into her bare shoulder, then shudder, as if he was trying to hold back his emotions. She stroked the back of his head with her fingers and kissed the nape of his neck. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too,” he said.

They remained that way for quite some time.

They made love again, slowly, languidly.

They fell asleep in each other's arms with the cool air of the air conditioner drying the sweat off their bodies.

They slept soundlessly.

And for longer then either of them had known ... ?

...peacefully.

A week later, it was almost the same scenario. Only this time, they were at her place.

Daryl liked that.

He liked the fact that after cooling off of each other for nearly three months they were able to get back together as if nothing had ever happened. Nothing had, really. The time spent apart had worked wonders. Last week when they had made love finally, he had done so like a man possessed. He had wallowed in his lust for her and held nothing back.

And God, it had felt great.

They had spent the weekend together, and it had been the first weekend in almost a year when he hadn't worked. He hadn't thought about the case once.

It was a welcome break.

Now, sitting up in Rachael Pearce's bed, the euphoria from their lovemaking still creating a warm feeling through his limbs, he looked at her and smiled. Rachael smiled back. “This is starting to get habit forming,” she said.

“If it is, it's a habit I don't want to break."

She smiled and kissed him.

For the first time in three months they talked about how their week had gone. Last weekend it had been like they had just started dating: they had talked about food, politics, movies, books, places they had been. Anything other than their jobs and most importantly, the Butcher case. It was almost as if they were rediscovering each other again.

This time, it was different.

They started off talking about how things had been when they both staggered into work on Monday. Rachael had stayed at his place all last weekend, had woke up in his arms Monday morning. When the clock radio by his bed sounded its alarm, they both realized that it was going to be a whirl-wind morning if they were to shower and dress before work. All of Rachael's work clothes were still at her home.

Rachael chuckled at the memories of that morning. She had finally arrived at the office at ten-thirty, and after work had run a bunch of errands she hadn't been able to do that weekend—grocery shopping, feed Nanka, clean the house, do the laundry. She didn't start to fully recover until Thursday.

It had been the same for Daryl.

He started talking about the case, telling her about the latest murder. He stopped midway through and cocked a questioning glance at her. “I'm sorry. Is it okay to talk about this?"

“Of course."

Daryl relaxed and went on. It felt better talking about the case now, more so than before. For one, he no longer had that claustrophobic feeling he had when he was dealing with the stress and trying to sort out his feelings about Rachael and the old feelings about Shirley. The time spent apart had really helped; it had helped him put things in perspective. For once, he felt ready to live in the present rather than mourn the past. For another, Dickinson had informed he and Steve two weeks ago that the DA was not going to press charges against them for the police brutality charge. “But I'm gonna be watching your ass from now on, Garcia,” Dickinson had said. “I'm keeping you on this Butcher case indefinitely so you'll stay out of trouble. If you can stay out of trouble for a year or so and I don't hear any complaints about you in that time, that will be a good thing."

That had taken a lot of the weight off his shoulders. Now that Rachael was back in his life he felt more relaxed, more positive about the way things were going.