Serpent’s Tooth

“Bullets flying around the room from all directions.”

“From all directions?” Decker asked.

“I think they were using hyperbole,” Marge said.

“Most of them were too busy ducking,” Oliver said.

“Shooter say anything?”

Marge shook her head. “People I spoke to said someone just opened fire. No warning, no nothing.”

“Ditto.”

“So that seems to eliminate robbery as a motive.” Decker rubbed his eyes, told them to go and bring some good cheer.

As he watched them approach the anxious relatives, he tried to collect his thoughts … rid himself of the shrieking and sobbing he had just heard from the unlucky family members. Slowly, he let his fingers uncurl, realized his hands were shaking. He wiped wet palms on his pants, tucked them into his pockets.

He needed something.

He needed a smoke.

As he neared the press corps, he bummed a pack of cigarettes and some matches off one of the uniformed cops. He tried to steady his hands as he lit up, sucking hot, dry smog into his lungs.

It felt acrid, but it did the trick. As nicotine coursed through his body, Decker felt his hands settle down, his brain beginning to clear.

He polished off the cigarette in four inhalations, immediately went for number two. Only after he had smoked it down to the butt was he ready to face the cameras. He ducked under the crime tape ribbon, was charged upon by a cavalry of multimedia representatives. He held up his palms, keeping them at arm’s length, then shouted as best he could. His voice traveled well in the night air. “I’m only going to do this once, so let’s give everyone a fair shot. Anyone out there need a little extra time to set up?”

“Five minutes to set up my camera?” a male voice yelled out.

“Make it ten,” replied a female.

Decker said, “Ten minutes. I’ll read from a prepared statement. Please, please, be respectful, ladies and gentlemen. I will take questions afterward for about fifteen, twenty minutes. Then I’m going to have to get back to work.”

With his announcement, Decker turned inward, lit up a third cigarette, and spoke to no one, ignoring the questions that were thrown at him. He smoked two more cigarettes until the requisite time had passed. After checking his watch, he threw down his fifth butt of the evening, crushed it harder than necessary with his heel. He smoothed his hair and spoke to a wire wheel of microphones. Flashbulbs and video lights attacked his eyes.

“Our first concerns are with the people who need immediate medical attention. All the hospitals and medical institutions in the area have been notified and are giving those inside the benefit of their expertise as well as their staff, facilities, and supplies. We’ve received an abundance of community help from local physicians. The help is needed and appreciated. To everyone out there viewing this broadcast, please, please: If you are not involved in the primary medical care of those injured, stay away from the area so that doctors, nurses, medics, ambulances, and police personnel can move in and out of the area freely.”

The questions started.

What happened?

How many killed?

How many wounded?

Do they have a suspect?

Do they have a reason for the shooting?

What’s it like in there?

Decker turned to the last questioner. A Latina. Sylvia Lopez from the local news station. One of the few broadcasters who gave LAPD a fair shake during its bad times. He took her question.

“What’s it like in there?” Abruptly, he broke into a cold sweat, shuddered involuntarily. “It’s your worst nightmare.”

He wiped his face, was about to field another series of questions, but over an ocean of scalps, he saw Martinez waving at him. One of the many benefits of being six four.

“I’ve got to go,” Decker said. “Excuse me.”

He extricated himself from the lights, cameras, and actions, ducking under the yellow tape and meeting Martinez halfway across the parking lot. Decker threw his arm around Bert’s wide shoulders. “What?”

“There are a lot of people unaccounted for, Loo.” Martinez pushed strands of black, wet hair from his forehead. His face had been bathed in sticky sweat. “We’re directing the families to Valley Memorial, but some of the wounded may have gone to Northridge Pres. We’re trying to get names, but everything’s such a mess—”

“One step at a time.”

“Speaking of which, we may have found the perp. He could have been one of the victims, but it looks like a suicide. Close-range single shot to the head around the temple region. You can see the powder burns—”

“Got a weapon?”

“Smith and Wesson double-action, nine-millimeter automatic—”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah, lots of spraying ability. Pistol’s about five feet away from the body. Forensics is waiting for you or Captain Strapp before they move in. Farrell’s guarding the corpse. No ID on the body, but we got a name from a couple of Estelle’s employees: Harlan Manz.”

“Disgruntled postal worker?”

“Disgruntled bartender.”

4 (#ud6892401-67f0-55cf-9fce-03a2326414eb)

“Harlan worked here for around three, four months—”

“Closer to six months—”

“Yeah, well, maybe it was closer to six months.” Marissa, the waitress, sneaked a sideways glance at Benedict, the waiter. “God, I can’t believe it.” Sitting on a barstool, she shivered under her blanket, blond hair falling over her shoulders. “I knew he was angry when he left, but who would have expected …”

Decker stood between the two food servers, his back against the smooth oak bar top. Ten minutes earlier, he had gone through Harlan’s empty pockets, observed the man’s twisted body and blood-soaked head. A close-range shot and a clean one. A 9mm automatic lay a few feet away.

As a corpse, Harlan evoked pity rather than fury. Once he had been a good-looking man. Dark, brooding features now covered with sticky serum. He had died wearing dark slacks, a white shirt, and a green jacket that was splattered with blood, turning him Christmas-colored. The whole evening defied logic.

He returned his attention to the witnesses. “Was Harlan fired from his job?”

“Rather unceremoniously.” Benedict shifted his weight on the stool, scratched a nest of black curls. He was sipping hot water, shaking as he talked.

“What happened?”

“Some asshole at the bar got plastered, started giving Harlan a real hard time. He just blew it, told the guy to get the hell out.”