On the bright morning of June 29, after a sleepless night, Lincoln Loud parked across from the house on End Street and killed the engine. Several squad cars stood at the curb, and about a dozen cops were moving this way and that. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the furnace-blast breeze.
"I don't even wanna go in there," Clyde said.
"Neither do I," Lincoln said, and got out.
Sargent Winjin Liu, a short Chinese man, nodded as they approached. "It's a slaughterhouse in there," he warned.
The house was tastefully appointed, knick-knacks and pictures peppering the living room. Though lower-class, the home was neat and tidy, which is why the Coke can on the kitchen floor struck Lincoln as weird.
He pointed it out.
Liu nodded. "We got it."
When Lincoln stepped into the master bedroom, his stomach turned, and he felt his knees going weak.
The first thing he noticed was the writing on the wall directly across from the door. In red: JULY 27 1979; IF YOU WANT BLOOD; and COURTESY OF THE NIGHT PROWLER, LTD.
The next were the vics. The woman lay on the floor, nude, her legs spread wide open. The man was in bed, lying on his stomach. From here, Lincoln could see that his head had been caved open; blood, bits of skull, and chunks of brain matter were splashed across the bed, the nightstand, and the blinds covering the window next flanking the bed.
"Jesus Christ," Lincoln muttered.
Liu nodded. "Whoever did this is one sick puppy."
Lincoln forced himself farther into the room. The woman's throat was cut; clots of dark blood splattered her doughy flesh.
"We gotta stop him," Lincoln muttered, speaking before he even knew he intended to. "We gotta stop him."
By the time they arrived back at the station, the news had broken. Four people dead in two days, brutally murdered in their own homes after midnight. In his sun washed office, Captain Reynolds, a tall, lanky man, sighed and threw his head back. "I've been getting calls all morning," he said. "TV, newspapers. Goddamn media'll turn this guy into Hitler by the end of the day. Have the city in a panic."
And with fear came pressure. Lincoln knew that well enough. When a serial killer was running around hacking people up, everyone wanted him caught, and if the police didn't pull an instantaneous capture out of their asses, people would be mad. The mayor would be on their case, because if people got mad and stayed mad, her ass was out of a job. The commissioner would be mad. The people of L.A. It was like fighting a two front war.
"We'll do what we can," Lincoln said, "but it's not going to happen overnight."
The Captain nodded. "I know," he said. "Tell that to everyone else."
They had more this time around than they did yesterday. A partial print on the back door; a boot print along the side of the house. Not much, but it was something.
"What about the things he wrote on the wall? That mean anything to you two?"
Lincoln and Clyde both shook their heads.
"I want you search that date against every known felon in the city," Reynolds said. "Maybe it's a birth day, an arrest date."
Lincoln nodded.
"I'm holding a press conference at three this afternoon," Reynolds said. "I'd like to have some information by then. I don't expect it, but it would be nice."
An hour later, while searching for the meaning of July 27, 1979, Lincoln was startled by Clyde.
"We got a lead," he said.
"What's that?"
"Guy at a Shell station by the freeway a mile from the crime scene said he saw a strange car parked across the street. There two and a half hours last night."
"What kind of car?" Lincoln asked, his heart swelling.
"Light blue Oldsmobile Cutlass."
They arrived at the station less than an hour later; the sun lay across the city like a bar of fire, and the humid breeze blowing in from the sea did little to alleviate the heat. Smog hung overhead, and seeing the buildings downtown through the haze, Lincoln could almost believe that he was in a horror movie.
The guy who spotted the Oldsmobile was a mechanic at the auto shop attached to the gas station, a short, fat man with curly black hair and glasses. He was waiting outside when they arrived, his arms folded over his ample bosom. He was wearing a pair of light gray overalls stained black with grease, motor oil, and a thousand other, less namable things.
When Lincoln shook his hand, it was warm and slimy, and he had to fight the urge to wipe it on his pants leg.
His name was Charlie Ward. He'd been working here since 2005 and knew the area like the back of his hand.
"As you can see, it's mainly businesses."
The little slice of Culver City, cast in the shadow of the raised San Diego Freeway, was crammed with auto shops, factories, and garages. The buildings here were faded brick, the walls and metal roll-top doors splashed with graffiti.
"Things shut down early, and you don't have very many people hanging around. About ten, eleven last night, I noticed this car parked at the curb across the street. I could see somebody sitting in it, and he never moved. I mean, he never got out or anything. I thought maybe he was waiting for somebody, but after a while, I thought maybe he was bad news. You know? I was about to call the cops when he started the car and drove off."
"Which way was he going?" Lincoln asked.
"That way," Ward replied, gesturing vaguely east.
Toward the crime scene?
"You didn't happen to catch the plate number, did you?" Clyde asked.
Ward shook his head. "Nah, I'm sorry."
"Did you get a good look at the guy?"
Ward shrugged one shoulder. "I saw him as he drove off. The streetlight sorta fell on him and I kinda saw him."
"White? Black?" Clyde asked.
"White," Ward said. "He was definitely white, or maybe light-skinned Hispanic."
"Did you see any features?" Lincoln asked.
Ward shook his head. "He had hair. Eyes. I think his hair was either brown or pale red, but I can't really say."
Lincoln jotted down what he could and snapped his notebook closed. "Thank you, Mr.
Ward. You've been a big help."
"No problem," Ward said. "I hope you catch the guy. I heard he cut someone's head off and punted into traffic. Sick motherfucker."
The legends were already beginning.
Back in the car, Lincoln said, "If we could only get the plate numbers."
Clyde nodded. "But we know what he drives."
"We already knew. Now it's just confirmed."
Clyde shrugged. "Better than nothing."
The killer spent the better part of the day holed up in his lair, stroking the Woodsman and letting his mind wander back over the previous night, the power and dominance that surged through him as he stood over the bodies of his victims. After leaving, he aimlessly drove the back streets of Los Angeles, heaped with garbage, grime, and human refuse. L.A. was two cities in one, he thought. All glitz and glam in Hollywood and Beverly Hills, and stark urban decay in Compton, Watts, and Skid Row. Very few people actually saw the dark underbelly. And if they did, it was too late: You can check out anytime you like, padre, but you can never leave.
Still keyed up from the kill, he briefly considered gunning down a few hobos, but settled on buying a prostitute, a girl named Maria he'd fucked in the past.
Finally, as dawn crested, he drove north toward home, getting off the freeway just as the feeble light of day began its inexorable march across the city. After three hours' sleep, he woke and spent the morning scanning the news. Presently, he was waiting for the press conference to begin. His official coming out party.
When it started, he sat aside the Woodsman (which he'd been holding absent-mindedly) and moved closer to the TV.
Lincoln wasn't around for the press conference, but he and Clyde saw it on the TV mounted to the wall above the bar at Louie's on Palms Blvd. Everyone in the place craned their neck when it came on, and someone at the bar implored the bartender to turn it up.
The Captain, dressed in full uniform, came to the podium and nodded politely to the reporters. Lincoln didn't hear exactly what he said, but he got the gist: A serial killer was loose in the city, and so far he'd been linked to five murders. He was considered armed and dangerous. Police were working around the clock to find him.
"I will also be appointing a task force..."
"Hope we're on it," Clyde said, absently shoving a fry into his mouth. Lincoln's own food sat largely untouched before him.
"So do I," he said.
Two hours later, Captain Reynolds called them into his office. Yes, they would be on the task force. Their sole purpose was to catch the Night Prowler, and they'd better do it as quickly as they could.
"A couple more nights like this, and L.A.'s gonna blow."
People were already scared. More cops than usual were on the streets, but people didn't feel safe. Lincoln couldn't say he blamed them.
"At this point, all we can do is hope he slips up," Reynolds said.
Lincoln hated to agree with him, but had no choice.
By ten 'o'clock, Clyde had finished going through the registry of known felons. July 27, 1979, meant absolutely nothing.
"I don't know," he said, leaning back in his chair, defeated. "Maybe it's the date of his first kill. We could check missing persons' records."
Lincoln sighed. "Maybe..."
"Detective Loud?"
Lincoln and Clyde both looked up. Sargent Liu was standing behind him, his arms behind his back, seeming to have materialized out of nothing. He was dressed in a blue shirt and black pants, his gun-belt hanging heavy on his tiny waist. "I have someone who wants to talk to you."
"Who?"
"Follow me."
Liu led them into a conference room off the main hall. A tall, Hispanic woman with long, dark hair and big brown eyes was seated at the head of the table. She was wearing a tight red dress and a leopard-skin coat. Bracelets hung from her wrists. Judging by the lip-stick, eye shadow, and rouge, she was a working girl.
"Detectives," Liu said, "this is Maria Salazar. She thinks she knows who the Night Prowler is."
The woman looked up at Lincoln and nodded. "At least he said he was."
Lincoln nodded to Liu. "Thanks."
Liu smiled and left the room, softly closing the door behind him.
"Maria, I'm Detective Loud and this is Detective McBride," Lincoln said. Clyde shook her hand first, then sank into the chair on her right. Lincoln was next; when he was done, he sat on her left. "What do you want to tell us?"
The woman sighed, rolled her neck, and seemed to steel herself for the story. "I'm a hooker," she said, to the point. "I have sex with guys for money. Some guys nut and go, and you never see them again. Some guys like you and keep coming back."
Lincoln nodded, slightly taken aback by her candor. "Alright."
"There's this guy who keeps coming back. Real weirdo. Creepy eyes. Weird smile. He likes it kinky."
"How kinky?" Clyde asked.
"He wears a ski mask when we do it," Maria said, looking at him. "Some girls do whatever it takes to make a customer happy, but I draw the line at handcuffs and stuff, but every time this guy comes around, he tries to get me to let him cuff my hands behind my back. And when he gets going, he's real aggressive about it. You know?"
"What's his name?" Lincoln asked.
"He calls himself Bon, but I don't think that's his real name."
"Bon?"
She nodded. "Yeah. Like bon-bon."
Lincoln wrote that down.
"A lot of guys like to get freaky," Clyde said, leaning forward. "What makes you think he's the Night Prowler?"
Easy, Lincoln thought, recognizing that Clyde was subtly putting her on the defensive. Don't push her too hard.
"He told me," Maria said.
"He did?"
She nodded. "Last night, he picked me up. Real late. He told me he killed a man and a woman in Culver City."
Lincoln's ears perked. "What does he drive?" he asked.
"A shitty Oldsmobile."
Clyde and Lincoln looked at each other. "Get a sketch artist," Lincoln said.
An hour later, they had a quick black-and-white portrait of Bon: A skinny man with a long face and narrow eyes. "I never got a real good look at him," Maria had said. "He always just picks me up, and it's dark, you know?"
When they were done, Lincoln looked into the cold, flat eyes of the killer, a ball of hatred forming in his stomach. Here, in pencil and ink, was everything that had led him to become a cop. A murderer. A killer. A harmer of innocent people.
"Can do you me a favor, Maria?" Lincoln asked.
"What?"
"Show this to your friends. See if anyone knows anything about him.
She nodded.
"If you hear anything, call us." He handed her his card.
When she was gone, Lincoln said, "I want every working girl in the city to see this."
By two in the morning, several dozen copies had been printed and distributed to officers on the street. Copies were also sent to every newspaper in the city.
For now, it was up to the public.
East Los Angeles is home to a high density of Hispanic immigrants. The shops lining its streets are decrepit yet brightly painted, the houses are small and shabby, and the people are naturally distrustful of outsiders.
As night fell over L.A., the killer slipped into the East L.A. on Whittier Blvd and crept north past the storefronts and tall, towering palms. At 9:00 PM, he parked in the parking lot of a bar and smoked as Krokus sang "Headhunter." A block southwest, tiny houses dotted dirty lots overlooking narrow streets. He figured he'd wait until one or two and then be on his way.
After an hour, as he was listening to a repeat of the press conference on the radio, a man appeared at the open window.
"I'm sorry, homes, but you gotta move," he said.
The killer looked at him. He was short, bald, and wore a mustache-goatee combo. The killer reached into his coat pocket.
"Twenty bucks?" he asked.
The man was unmoved. "Nah. You gotta go. This is a no parking zone."
The killer brought the Woodsman up. The man saw it, his eyes widening. He backed up a step.
The killer fired.
The bullet took him low in the chest, spinning him around and knocking him down.
The killer put the gun away and drove off.
Two hours later, the killer watched from his car as the lights in the windows of the trailers clustered around the dirt horse-shoe drive winked off one-by-one. The trailer he was interested in, an ancient single-wide painted sea foam green, had been dark for an hour and a half.
At 3:10 AM, the killer got out of the car, his murder bag slung over one of his shoulders. At the back door, he pulled out the mask and slid it on. With the screwdriver, he popped the lock and stepped in.
The trailer was dark and redolent of musk, mold, and age. He checked the bedroom at the end of the hall to his right, but it was empty and stacked with boxes. He moved through the kitchen and the living room, the furniture looming darkly from the shadows. At the bedroom door, he paused, listened, heard nothing, and opened it.
A single bed sat in the middle of the room, a nightstand flanking it to the left. A dresser stood against the wall.
The killer went over to the figure. In the half-light of night, he saw her face, old and leathery, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. She must have been in her eighties, if not her nineties.
The killer punched her.
She jerked and let out a thin, feeble moan.
His anger rising, the killer snatched her by her faded red hair and yanked her out of bed; she crashed against the nightstand in a flash of legs and arms. On top of her, he punched her again.
She went still.
Before he went on, he swept the house for anything of value, but didn't find anything worth taking.
Back in the bedroom, the woman was awake; amazingly, she'd managed to roll herself onto her stomach; he caught her reaching for the phone.
"Oh, no, we can't have that," he said. He grabbed the phone, yanked it out of the wall, and threw it across the room.
Kneeling, the killer put one hand on the woman's back.
"Do you wanna...live?"
The old woman, trembling, stilled.
"I'll let you live," he said, "but you have to do me a favor."
The old woman didn't speak.
"All you have to do is tell them the Night Prowler was here. Okay?"
The old woman was whimpering now.
Standing, the killer kicked her in the hip, and she screamed.
"Remember. Tell 'em I was here."
Outside, the killer stood in the night, breathing deeply.
Before leaving, he took out his trusty marker and scribbled a message on the back door.