Dawson's Web (6 page)

Jeff Dawson showered and changed in less than five minutes. He then drove his black Mercedes South on Pacific Coast Highway towards LAX to pick up his flight attendant wife who was coming in from a week’s long trip. As he drove, he checked the flight schedules and gate arrival information on his smartphone.  Fortunately, for him, Sherry’s plane was running about 15 minutes behind schedule.  She was now scheduled to arrive at 6:30 AM giving him plenty of time to get there. Traffic was light on PCH, but when Jeff hit the 90 freeway, it stopped cold. A motorcycle rider splitting lanes had collided with a Mexican gardener’s pickup. The entry to the freeway was backed up all the way to the California incline. As he passed the scene, Jeff saw the broken bits of bike strewn on the highway like yard sale leading to the rider who was face down on the pavement. It must have happened only moments earlier because the paramedics hadn’t even arrived yet.

“Damn it. I don’t need this,” Jeff cursed under his breath while he moved forward at a snail’s pace. Once past the scene of the accident, however, traffic began moving again and he was able to get into the far right lane and merge onto the 405 and make up some time. It was now 6:15 AM. No way was he going to make the final stretch in 15 minutes.  His wife could be such a bitch when he was late and this early in the morning, he was in no mood to hear it. He reached for his cell phone and voice messaged her. “Sherry. Hey honey (with hidden sarcasm), I’m on my way. There was an accident on the 90 freeway. I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes. Love you baby (sarcasm thick this time)!”

He didn’t actually love her, but he did like the sex and the fact that she made money and wasn’t too expensive to be around made her tolerable. He also liked the fact she couldn’t have kids. He never wanted kids in the first place which is why he married her. The fact that she was a flight attendant and gone more than she was at home also had its benefits. She would be gone three to four days out of the week giving him plenty of time for his extracurricular activities, of which there were many.

In the past six months, he had succumbed to his inner demons, which required blood on a regular basis. Each time he had sex with a younger stranger and then felt his knife sink into her throat and watch her as she struggled to breathe her last breath, it was a relief and he felt such exhilaration for a short time.

Each knife thrust was getting back at his stepmother, Alicia.

Jeff wasn’t a born sociopath.

He was turned into one by his stepmother. Up until the age of six, Jeff was an ordinary child and grew up in a happy, stable environment even though his father and several babysitters were his sole care providers.  After his father, Steven, married Alicia, a former beautiful stripper and part time prostitute, that changed and his demons were given a place to grow in his soul.

This was the direct result of his stepmother both physically and mentally abusing him. Alicia was not only bi-polar but was also abused herself as a child. But instead of seeking help, she became self-delusional lying to herself she was okay although all the warning signs pointed to her being far less than that. In fact, she was borderline psychotic.

Instead she chose to carry on the legacy of abuse she had been exposed to in her youth rather than stopping the cycle of violence. Alicia was caught in her own web, not woven by herself, but her abusive father years earlier. Now she, Steven and Jeff struggled against the strands of hatred that were spun so many years earlier.

When Alicia married Jeff’s father, Steven Dawson, six year’s after Jeff’s mother died giving birth to Jeff, the abuse started. At first, it was just mental and verbal, but over the course of a year, it turned physical. During the first six months of their marriage, Alicia would constantly tease Jeff by making fun of him until he cried.

She got a guilty pleasure out of seeing the youngster suffer.

Alicia was a clever abuser.

Early on, she would never directly abuse Jeff in front of Steven, choosing to attack Jeff only after Steven went to work at his job as an auto mechanic. Several times over the course of their first year together, Steven had to be called out from work because Jeff had had another accident.

The first one was only ninety days after she moved in. Alicia became upset because Jeff was taking too long to get ready for school and was going to make her late for a hair appointment. To punish him, she tipped over a pot of scalding water, giving Jeff third degree burns down his left leg and in his crotch area, scarring him for life.

The second time she hurt Jeff was when he refused to finish his breakfast, making her late again for a social engagement. As punishment for this indiscretion, she twisted his arm behind his back so hard she broke his wrist.

The third “accident” happened when Jeff yelled at her. She became so irate at his defiance, she backhanded him so hard her wedding ring cut his lip and knocked out his first permanent tooth.

She told Steven it was a result of Jeff “falling down the stairs.”

No matter how much Jeff tried to tell his father that it was Alicia who was hurting him, Steven wouldn’t hear any of it. He was so infatuated with his new wife, in his eyes, she could do no wrong. He couldn’t believe someone as good in bed as she was psychotic.

It was only after the fourth attack when Alicia actually cut Jeff’ arm with a knife that Steven began to sense something was wrong with Alicia’s stories. When Steven showed up at the Emergency room this fourth time in three months with Jeff in tow, the Doctor confronted him with the awful truth that his son was being abused.

The ER doctor notified the police and both parents were questioned independently while Jeff was put in the custody of the Department of Child and Protective Services. Ultimately, Steven was absolved of any wrongdoing and two hours after being released, Steven physically threw Alicia out into the street and dissolved the marriage a week later.

Immediately after that, he put Jeff into therapy to help him deal with the pain his stepmother caused him.

But it was too late. The damage was already done.

Jeff pulled into himself. He became seemingly autistic, refusing to speak, quietly staring off into the distance, and neither responding to his therapist’s questions nor his father’s touch. His inner demons gained strength daily and no amount of therapy could loosen their hold on his soul.

Jeff approached United Terminal 7 and Sherry was standing there texting him. His phone had been blowing up for the past five minutes, but because of traffic; he was unable to take any of the messages. He flashed his lights at her and could see the scowl on her face. He cringed and forced a smile as he pulled over to the curb to help her get her flight bag into the backseat of the car.

“So how was your flight, honey?” Jeff asked knowing he was going to get an earful.

“It was fine,” Sherry snapped back curtly. “I spent a couple of days in San Francisco and I had an overnighter turnaround to Honolulu.”

“How was Honolulu?” Jeff asked sheepishly.

“It was okay but it rained the entire time. There really wasn’t much to do, so a few of the other attendants ended up partying at the Sheraton bar where we were staying.”

She was lying.

In Honolulu, she had a three-day affair with another flight attendant who pretended to be gay but was the best lay she’d had in years. He admitted pursuing her the past six months and finally when they were on the layover she succumbed to his advances. Although she tolerated Jeff, she loved being pursued by other men. It boosted her otherwise low self-esteem. Suffice it to say, she was well satisfied and not in any mood to talk about her trip to Honolulu.

Sherry changed the subject. “How was your day or should I say how was your week?” Sherry corrected herself.

“It was uneventful. I’m in the middle of a couple of real estate deals as you know. We have a property in the Malibu colony that is going for about $6.5 million. If it sells, then we should be sitting pretty for the next 6 to 7 months.

“And if it doesn’t?” Sherry knew where this was leading.

“If it doesn’t, then you had better be bidding for some more flights because we run out of money. And our mortgage payment is due in a couple of days, and I don’t have the $15,000. That’s what happens.”

This struck Sherry sideways. “How come it always falls on me dammit?” She was tired of being a constant source of revenue for her scumbag husband. In spite of the fact he was good-looking, he wasn’t pulling his weight and it was getting very, very old.  That coupled with her need to be wanted was part of the reasoning she had been with the other flight attendant. She was utterly bored with him. He could be so nice at times, but, more often than not, he wasn’t.

He also had a roving eye and that really irked her. They could be sitting having dinner at an expensive restaurant and she would be speaking to him directly, but he would ignore her. More often than not, he would be staring at some other female across the room and doing the mental comparison all men do when playing the game “Would she be more fun to be with than my wife/girlfriend.” You get the drift. She had suspected that he had had affairs over the years, but never confronted him directly, choosing to believe his trail of lies rather than rock the boat.

“What was that you said, honey?” Jeff was not listening again. He was staring at a young college student who was wearing a very short skirt getting her bags from the back seat of a car. If the skirt had been any shorter, he would have been able to see her navel.

Sherry glanced over at him and then over at the girl.

“Dammit, Jeff, can’t you get your mind out of the gutter for one minute? I’m talking to you. I’m tired of you not pulling your weight in this relationship. I know the mortgage is $15,000 a month. You know the mortgage is $15,000 a month. Now get off your ass and make some money or borrow it from your trust fund. I don’t give a damn how you do it, but I’m not paying it this month. Don’t hit me up for money again. With the airline cutbacks, I’m barely getting by and haven’t had a raise in four years.  Now can you try to get your mind off that young girl’s ass and take me home? I’m exhausted.”

Jeff smiled as he caught a glimpse of the college student in his rear view mirror.

The trip back to their Malibu house took another 45 minutes. They took the 90 and the traffic was stopped on both sides as the helicopter medical evacuation team loaded the motorcyclist into the van. He was obviously in bad shape.

“You see honey. That’s what made me late.” He said as they passed the wreckage.

“I didn’t mean I didn’t believe you. I’m just tired and want to get home. I’ve had a long week. Will you just let it go? Take some money out of your trust fund to pay the mortgage in the meantime. I’m sure the property in Malibu will sell and then you can replace it. Right now, all I want to do is get some sleep. I’ve had a long busy time over the past week. (She had. She and the other flight attendant had been making so much love in the last 72 hours she was sore. She didn’t want any part of her husband.)

He felt the same way about her. He had been busy himself. “He grinned as he remembered the stunned look on the blonde’s face after he stabbed her at Dockweiler Beach the previous night. “I’ll get the money tomorrow.”

When they got home, Jeff unloaded the bags and, as Sherry was leaving the garage, she turned to him. “Jeff would you please cut the baggage tags off my bags. You know how I am about that. Use the knife that I got you for our anniversary.” She then turned and went inside heading for the bedroom.

Jeff went back into the car opened up the glove box and pulled out the titanium handled Blue Moon Machete utility knife she had given him for their anniversary a month earlier. He opened it up and was immediately shocked by what he saw.

The 4-inch blade was now only three inches. The blade apparently had broken off earlier.

Fred McCallister tucked his shirttail into his pants and stared down at his belly, which was protruding over his utility belt.

“I’ve got to do something about that…..later.” He thought.

Fred weighed 250 pounds and was a little shy of 6 feet. He knew he needed to lose some weight. Every time he visited his doctor, he chastised him (which he hated) but being chastised was not enough to motivate him to do anything about it. So, every year for the past seven, he packed on a couple more pounds. It’s easy to do when you’re in your 60’s. He didn’t beat himself up too much about it, though because he knew in three weeks when he moved up to Bridgeport, California, which is about an hour and a half north of Mammoth Lakes, he would be getting a lot more exercise. The cabin he had purchased with his wife, Frannie, did have electricity, but it also had a wood stove and he would be chopping wood and walking miles to go trout fishing when he got there. Just getting more exercise would cause the weight to drop off naturally.

Bridgeport is a small town an hour north of Mammoth Lakes on Interstate 395, seven or so hours North of Los Angeles. There’s a small Marine training base there, but not much else. In the 2010 census, its population was under 600 and this was perfect for Fred. His wife had died five years earlier and he had bought the property with her to enjoy in retirement. Frannie was an outdoorsy kind of woman and he always wanted to be with her up there, but the colon cancer that took her came on very quickly. Within four weeks of being diagnosed, cancer spread and she was dead. Fred almost quit the force then out of grief but managed to stay for a few more years to get his maximum retirement.

Fred parked his car and walked up the steps towards the coroner’s office. On his way up, he ran into Captain Palmer, the chief. Palmer had risen through the ranks very quickly, and before joining LAPD, he was an Army Captain in special ops. He was awarded the purple star in Afghanistan for being wounded during a fight with the Taliban.

Palmer saw Fred and raised his hand to say hi. “Fred, how are you doing? I hear you’re about ready to retire.”

“Yep, about three weeks I’ll be heading up towards Bridgeport to my cabin. Trout season is opening soon and I aim to be hip deep in some of those backwater streams when it does.”

“Bridgeport. What a desolate place! I’ve been up there a few times in the winter to cross-country ski. Beautiful country but there’s not a lot else to do there.”

“Frannie and I bought a place before she passed and we had always planned on being up there together. She liked to fish. So do I. Now it looks like I’m heading up their solo.”

With this comment, Palmer grimaced. “I understand, Fred. I know Frannie was taken from you very quickly. It was a terrible thing that she had to go through.  My wife lost her sister to the same thing. Awful!”

“It was definitely horrible. But in a way, it was a Godsend she passed so quickly. For the last two weeks she was alive, she was in constant pain, so much so that they had her on a morphine pump. I’m glad the Lord took her quickly.”

Palmer put his hand on Fred’s shoulder and patted it.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my wife. We’ve been together for nearly 19 years. She’s quirky at times, but in a good way. I’m so sorry about Frannie!”

Palmer changed the subject. “Well buddy, I’ve got to get going. I have to get down to City Hall and testify in front of the city supervisors. They’re trying to cut our funding again. I have to show them the crime rate statistics, which show major crimes increasing in direct proportion to the workforce cutbacks we were forced to take the last six years. It’s black and white. As our workforce dropped, crimes of all types increased. So I hope they listen this time. The early release program put in by our wonderful governor has only exacerbated the problem. We’re holding our own, but we can always use more officers on the street.”

“I know exactly what you mean! I can’t wait to get the hell out of the city and get up to Bridgeport and start trout fishing.”

Capt. Palmer nodded in agreement and headed toward his car. Fred continued up the stairs toward the corners office. He walked down the long empty hall down to the morgue and knocked on the door.

Hyman Jablonski, a short, rotund Jewish man in his late sixties, looked up from his work. He had a female cadaver on the autopsy table and yelled out towards Fred. “Come on in I’m finishing up now.”

Fred walked in and saw the body of the woman that had been murdered at Dockweiler Beach lying on the stainless steel table. He saw the standard Y incision which was cut from each shoulder to the lower end of the sternum and then downwards in a straight line over the abdomen to the pubis area. The body cavity was empty and the internal organs were in separate stainless steel bowls where they had been weighed. Her liver was in one, her intestines in another, and the kidneys and heart in two additional stainless steel bowls.

Her brain was in another.

Had he not seen so many of these throughout the years, the gruesome sight might have made Fred queasy, but he had grown numb to seeing a body cut up as so many cattle are after they are slaughtered. Still, Fred was shocked by how beautiful the young girl was. Her skin was porcelain and she had a Cupid’s bow mouth. Her figure was stunning.

“So what was the cause of death?” Fred asked Hyman as he approached the table.

“Hyman adjusted his Ben Franklin readers and looked over them at Fred. “Why are you here, anyway? Aren’t you about ready to retire?”

“Yeah, Hyman, I am.  But I was in on the initial investigation on this and wanted to do some follow-up work. I have a few more weeks. I want to keep my mind busy until I finally punch out.”

Hyman pulled his surgery mask down. His curly black and gray hair was dripping with sweat. His Yamaka was pinned to the top of his head.

“We’ve been through a lot Fred,” Hyman said.

“Yes, we have over the years. I’ve always enjoyed working with you. You remember when we captured the Night Stalker. It was partially a result of the good forensic work that you and your boys did here in the coroner’s office.”

“That was over 30 years ago. I’m surprised you still remember it.”

Fred quipped back, “I don’t have Alzheimer’s. I’ve got old-timers disease. I can remember the old days, but ask me where I ate lunch today and I wouldn’t have a clue.”

Both of them laughed. They were both in their 60s and knew exactly where each was coming from.

“So what was the cause of death?” Fred asked again.

“Very simple. It looks to me like whoever did this knew how to handle a knife. The first blow that was struck entered right below her windpipe and then the knife was pulled to the right abruptly. It severed the girl’s neck almost to the spinal column cutting her carotid artery in the process. The girl bled out in minutes. He probably came up to her from behind for more leverage.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, the perp had anger issues.”

“What you mean?”

“Look here on her chest. There are several postmortem stab wounds.”  Jablonski pulled the sheet down past her pubic bone and pointed to a gaping one-inch in diameter hole, right above her vagina.

“These were all inflicted after she was dead. I don’t know why anyone would do such horrific acts to someone who was already dead. This was pure evil and hatred.”

“Did you get any DNA samples? She was raped, right?”

“Yes, she was raped, but the perp used a condom. We checked her fingernails, but there were no DNA samples. By the looks of the ligature marks on her wrists, the perp overpowered her, raped her and then killed her. After which, he mutilated the body. This is the third such victim we have seen in the last seven months. All were young. All were attractive. All were blonde. But they all had the same type of post-mortem stab wounds, including the one above the vagina. In each case, the modus-operandi was nearly identical. We have a serial killer here on our hands.”

“I haven’t seen anything in the press. How are you able to keep this quiet?” Fred asked.

“Headquarters wants to keep a lid on it to not panic the public. The murders are random. They’ve ranged from the beach area to West Covina, to Big Bear. A tri-agency task force is working it, but it’s all within police channels. They don’t have anything solid yet.  All we have is the corpses and the similar ligature marks, similar neck slashing, and the same vaginal wounds.”

“My God in Heaven! This guy’s a monster!” Fred stared back at the body. The girl was so lovely.

“Such a waste!” Fred said. “I’ve seen enough here. I’m about ready to lose my breakfast.”

“I understand. To me, it’s like working in a butcher shop. The soul is gone. All these cadavers are pieces of meat to me. I’ve been doing this for 35 years. So I have a strong stomach.  Nothing much bothers me anymore!”

Fred turned and left. “I’m headed over to forensics. I want to see what they processed from the crime scene. I want to see if they have any solid evidence that might lead us to this bastard.”

Hyman finished washing his hands and gave Fred a handshake. “Goodbye, my friend. I may not see you before your retirement ceremony. It’s been really good working with you over the years.”

“Yeah, Hyman, you have to come up to Bridgeport and see me. We could do some fishing and some drinking’.”

“I’d love to do that. Anything to get out of the city and have a little bit more of a normal life.”

Fred walked up to the second floor where the forensics lab was. His friend, Joe Carotola, a short little Italian man in his 60’s met him at the door.

“Good seeing you, old man!” Joe said escorting him in. “I got your call. We finished processing the crime scene, and we have a couple of things.

First, the perp was pretty thorough. No fibers of any sort. No DNA.

We got a smeared shoeprint in the entryway, but we have no way of knowing if it’s his or if someone else made it before we got there.”

“Anything else?” Fred asked.

“We did find a two-inch blade which was covered in the victim’s blood. It’s from a manufacturer that sells his products online. It’s called a Wild Boar Limited Edition Fire Texture Russian custom folding knife. It’s also known as the Bear Blue Moon Machete. It’s made in China by Masterknife. It has a titanium handle. The knife is eight inches overall length and has a 4-inch blade. We have 2 inches of the tip of the blade which we found lodged in a crack in the bathroom.”

“I know. I was the one who found it. Any chance we can determine who owns one of these in Los Angeles?”

“I gave the information to Detective Reddick. He’s contacting the vendor now. I would imagine, in a couple of days we might have a lead of who owns one of these knives in the local area. I also understand they sell them at high-end cutlery stores in malls, so that might help narrow the search.”

“Or widen it, depending on how good the shop’s sales records are,” Fred added.

“Yeah, you’re right. Anyway, it’s a start.”

“Thanks, Joe. If you get anything else, let me know.”

“I will, buddy. Enjoy your retirement. I wouldn’t miss it for the world, and I’m sorry about your wife.”

“Not a problem, amigo. I’m at peace. Thanks for helping. If you get any solid leads, keep me in the loop.”

“I will, buddy.”

Fred walked out still wondering how anyone could be so savage. Maybe the knife might give them a positive lead to go on.

Fred knew that he probably wouldn’t be around for the end, of the case, but he wanted to do what he could while he was still working. He needed to keep his mind busy until retirement. After that, he could leave all of it behind him.