The Watchman (11 page)

“No, sir.”

Flynn inspected the trunk to make sure Pike had stowed his gear correctly, grunted an approval, then closed it. He turned back to Pike again, seemed to be thinking, and Pike wondered if Flynn was trying to read him.

Flynn said, “Now I have a question. When you said why you became an officer, you quoted the LAPD motto, to protect and to serve. Which is it?”

“Some people can’t protect themselves. They need help.”

“And that would be you, Officer Pike, with all that karate and stuff?”

Pike nodded.

“You like to fight?”

“I don’t like it or not like it. If I have to, I can.”

Flynn nodded, but the way he sucked at his lips told Pike he was still being read.

Flynn said, “Our job isn’t to get in fights, Officer Pike. We don’t always have a choice, but you get in enough fights, you’ll get your ass kicked for sure. You ever had your ass kicked?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pike would not mention his father.

Flynn still sucked at his lips, reading him.

“We get in a fight, we’ve failed. We pull the trigger, it means we’ve failed. Do you believe that, Officer Pike?”

“No, sir.”

“I do. What do you think it means?”

“We had no other way.”

Flynn grunted, but this time Pike couldn’t tell if his grunt was approving or not.

“So why is it you want to protect people, Officer Pike? You get your ass kicked so much you’re overcompensating?”

Pike knew Flynn was testing him. Flynn was probing and reading Pike’s reactions, so Pike met Flynn’s gaze with empty blue eyes.

“I don’t like bullies.”

“Making you the guy who kicks the bully’s ass.”

“Yes.”

“Just so long as we stay within the rule of law.”

Flynn considered him for another moment, then his calm eyes crinkled gently at the corners.

“Me being your training officer, I read your file, son. I think you have what it takes to make a fine police officer.”

Pike nodded.

“You don’t say much, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I’ll do enough talking for both of us. Now get in the car. Let’s go protect people.”

Their first hour together was light on protecting people. Each basic radio car normally patrolled a specific area within the division, but Flynn started off by giving Pike a tour of the entire division. During this time, Flynn reviewed radio procedures, let Pike practice exchanges with the dispatchers, and pointed out well-known dirtbag gathering points.

Easing into their second hour, Flynn let Pike write two traffic citations.

After the second citation, which was to an elderly woman who was angry and resentful at having been tagged for running a red light, Flynn painted Pike with a large smile.

“Well, how do you like the job so far?”

“A little slow.”

“You did fine with that lady. Didn’t punch her out or anything.”

“Maybe next time.”

Flynn laughed, then told the dispatchers to begin pitching them calls. Over the next two hours, Pike took a stolen car report from a sobbing teenage girl (the car belonged to her brother, who was going to kill her for getting his car stolen), interviewed a pet shop owner who had made a public drunkenness complaint (a drunk had entered her store, let the dogs and cats out of their cages, then left), took a shoplifting report from the manager of a convenience store (the shoplifter was long gone), took a report from a man who had returned home from work to find his house burglarized (the burglar was long gone), took a stolen bicycle report (no suspects), took a stolen motorcycle report (also no suspects), and checked out a report from a woman who believed her elderly neighbor was dead in an upstairs apartment (the elderly neighbor had gone to her daughter’s cabin at Big Bear Lake).

At every criminal call they answered, the suspect or perpetrator was long gone or never present, though Pike dutifully and under Flynn’s direction logged the complainant’s statement, filled out the necessary form, and performed all communications.

They were proceeding east on Beverly Boulevard when the dispatcher said, “Two-adam-forty-four, domestic disturbance at 2721 Harell, woman reported crying for help. You up for that?”

Pike wanted it, but said nothing. It was up to Flynn. Flynn glanced over and seemed to read the need. He picked up the mike.

“Two-adam-forty-four inbound.”

“Roger, stand by.”

Domestic calls were the worst. Pike had heard it again and again at the academy, and Flynn had already mentioned it in the few hours they had been together. When you rolled on a domestic call, you were rolling into the jagged eye of an emotional hurricane. In those moments, the police were often seen as saviors or avengers, and were always the last resort.

Flynn said, “Evening watch is prime time for domestics. We’ll probably get three or four tonight, and more on a Friday. By Friday, they’ve been working up to it all week.”

Pike didn’t say anything. He knew about domestic violence first-hand. His father had never waited until Friday. Any night would do.

Flynn said, “When we get there, I’ll do the talking. You watch how I handle them, and learn. But keep your eyes open. You never know what’s what when you answer one of these things. You might be watching the man, and the woman will shoot you in the back. The woman might be some scared-looking dishrag, but once we get her old man cooled out, she might turn into a monster. I saw that once. We got the cuffs on this guy, and that’s when his old lady felt safe. She chopped off his foot with a meat cleaver.”

Pike said, “Okay.”

Pike wasn’t worried. He figured clearing a domestic disturbance call couldn’t be much different than clearing houses in a combat zone—you watched everything, you kept your back to a wall, and you assumed everyone wanted to kill you. Then you would be fine.

They rolled to a small apartment building south of Temple near the center of Rampart. Motionless palms towered overhead, catching the shimmer of dying light to make the building more colorful than it was. The dispatcher had filled them in: Call was placed by one Mrs. Esther Villalobos, complaining that male and female neighbors had been arguing all afternoon and had escalated into what Mrs. Villalobos described as loud crashing, whereupon the female neighbor, identified by Mrs. Villalobos as a young Caucasian female named Candace Stanik, shouted “Stop it!” several times, then screamed for help. Mrs. Villalobos had stated that an unemployed Caucasian male she knew only as Dave sometimes lived at the residence. The dispatcher reported no history of officers being dispatched to this address.

Pike and Flynn would learn more later, but these were their only available facts when they arrived at the scene.

They double-parked their patrol car, then stepped into the street. Pike scanned his surroundings automatically as he exited the car—vehicles, the deepening shadows between the buildings, the surrounding roofs—a gulp of space and color he sensed as much as saw. Clear. Good.

Flynn said, “You ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go see what’s what.”

Pike followed Flynn toward Candace Stanik’s apartment.

Mrs. Villalobos lived in the rear unit on the ground floor. Candace Stanik lived in the ground unit next door. Pike and Flynn would only contact Mrs. Villalobos in the event they could not gain access to Stanik’s unit or if no one was home.

Flynn stopped outside Stanik’s door, motioning Pike to remain silent. The windows were lit. Pike heard no voices, but hacking sobs were distinct. Flynn looked at Pike and raised his eyebrows, the look asking if Pike heard it. Pike nodded. He thought Flynn looked green in the strange evening light.

Flynn pointed to the side of the door and whispered.

“Stand here out of the way. When I go in, you come in right behind me, but take your cue from me. Maybe the guy’s already gone. Maybe they’ve made up and are in there all lovey-dovey. Understand?”

Pike nodded.

“Don’t draw your gun unless you see me draw mine. We don’t want to escalate the situation. We want to cool it. Understand?”

Pike nodded again.

Flynn rapped at the door three times and announced them.

“Police officer.”

He rapped again.

“Please open the door.”

The crying stopped and Pike heard movement. Then a young woman spoke from the other side of the door.

“I’m okay. I don’t need anything.”

Flynn rapped again.

“Open the door, miss. We can’t leave until we see you.”

Flynn raised his hand to knock as the door opened, and Candace Stanik peered through a thin crack. Even with the narrow view, Pike saw that her nose was broken and her right eye was purple with the mottled skin tight over a swelling lump. The eye would be closed in another few minutes. Pike had had plenty of eyes like that. Mostly as a kid. Mostly from his father.

Flynn placed his hand on the door.

“Step away, hon. Let me open the door and take a look.”

“He’s gone. He went to his girlfriend.”

Flynn’s voice was gentle but firm. Pike admired the way Flynn could direct so much emotion by his voice.

“Miss Stanik? That your name, Candace Stanik?”

Her voice was soft, but thin and strained. Pike wasn’t listening to her; he listened past her, searching for other occupants. A crisp medicinal smell of ether came from her apartment, telling him that someone had been freebasing.

“Yes. He went—”

“Let us in now, hon. We can’t leave until we come in, so just let us in.”

Flynn pushed gently on the door until she backed away. Pike shadowed inside, then quickly stepped to the side so they weren’t bunched together. Together, they would make a single large target; apart, two targets more difficult to kill. Pike kept his back to the wall.

Stepping into the apartment was like entering a furnace. Pike began sweating. They were in a cramped living room. As Flynn approached the girl, Pike noted an entry closet to the left and, across the living room, a tiny kitchen and dining area. A short hall branched off the dining area. The apartment appeared neat and squared away except the coffee table was turned on its side and the floor was spattered with blood. Candace Stanik was pregnant. Pike guessed seven or eight months, though he knew little about women or pregnancy. Her T-shirt was streaked with blood over the mound of her belly, and more blood spattered her legs and bare feet. Pike noted a thin kitchen towel bundled with ice that she had probably been using on her eye. Her lips were split in two places and her nose was broken, and she held her belly as if she was cramping.

Flynn spoke softly over his shoulder to Pike.

“Paramedics and additional units.”

Pike keyed his rover, sending a request for paramedics and additional units to the dispatcher. Pike saw Flynn reach to touch the girl and the girl jerk her arm away as her voice rose—

“I want you to get him! You have to go get him. He went to his fucking slut girlfriend—”

The girl was growing more agitated and Flynn was working to calm her, lowering his voice, sharing his calm.

“Let’s take care of that baby first, all right, hon? Nothing’s more important than your baby.”

Flynn had her arm again, and this time she let him, but her face contorted.

“He’s going to get away—”

“Shh. He won’t get away.”

Flynn was everything he had to be—a strong, comforting father figure. You would be safe if you trusted him. He would take care of you if you let him. Flynn slipped his arm around her shoulders, an arm that would protect her and make all the pain go away, murmuring—

“You have to sit down first, hon. Let’s get some ice on that nose. I’m going to take care of you.”

Flynn motioned at Pike. They had been inside less than one minute.

“I’m okay here. You good with getting the back?”

Pike nodded.

“Be careful.”

Pike moved past with no great feeling of apprehension. He glanced in the kitchen, then stepped into the hall. The bathroom door was open, showing a sink mottled with built-up soap film, a tiny tub, and a toilet. Pike turned to the bedroom. The door was half open and the light was on. Pike remembered Flynn’s caution about drawing his weapon, but he drew it anyway, then pushed the door wider. The bedroom was a minefield of shopping bags, dirty clothes, and boxes. The double bed was dingy with rumpled grey sheets. A closet door hung open on the far side of the bed. Two windows were framed in the wall, but they were closed like all the others.

Pike listened, but the girl was at it again, telling Flynn to go get the bastard, saying he and his bitch were going to Vegas.

Pike wanted to get back to the living room, but kept his eyes on the closet. He moved quickly and silently the way he had in the woods as a boy, hiding from his father. Silence was everything. Speed was life. He dropped to a knee, then jerked the tumbled sheets up and glanced under the bed. Nothing. He looked back to the closet.

Pike didn’t believe anyone would be in the closet, but he had to check. The girl was louder and even more insistent, and Pike wanted to give Flynn a hand.

The closet door was open about six inches. The bedroom was lit but inside the closet was dark and impenetrable. Pike stood as far to the side as possible, then jerked open the door, letting light flood the dark space behind. Nothing.

They had been in the apartment for less than two minutes.

In the moment Pike saw the closet was empty, a loud crash came from the living room, riding on top of the thuds of men moving hard as a voice grunted—

“Kill’m.”

Pike moved fast across the bed, into the hall, then into the doorway. The closet door off the entry had been thrown open. Candace Stanik’s boyfriend, who would later be identified as one David Lee Elish, had one arm hooked around Flynn’s neck and was holding Flynn’s gun arm to prevent Flynn from drawing his weapon. A second man, who would later be identified as Kurt Fabrocini, a parolee who had been released from custody earlier that day, was stabbing Flynn repeatedly in the chest with a Buck hunting knife. Candace Stanik was curled on the floor. Later, it would be learned that both Elish and Fabrocini had enough alcohol and crack cocaine in their systems to numb an elephant.