Fatal Trust

Mary Charles

Wanda and Ted. Ted and Wanda - an item. Wanda had advertised for all the world to see - the love of her life. Spent extra bucks for a personalized plate, a vanity plate - WLD [the heart shape] TRM, “WLD loves TRM”. A slim, trim, size 6 with natural blonde hair, a good paying job, Wanda would be a catch for any hard working considerate man. But Ted had left Wanda. Left her for her best friend.

Driving home from a very late night party, too many drinks hadn’t improved her mood. She thought Ted was a two-timing rat. He’d moved in with her. They’d shared the expenses. She’d done the cooking, the laundry and listened to him gripe about his job. She’d wasted five years on that cheat.

“My cherie amour .... You’re the only girl my heart beats for.” Seething, she hit the button on her radio to change the station. “Charter Reform. Nurses at County General continue their demonstration for the second day” said spokesperson for the hospital, Dr. Simon Loveless.”... Now she was loveless, forsaken by the one she loved.

As Wanda approached the interchange of the 134 and 2 Freeways, her rage grew more intense. She recalled some of Dr. Laura’s advice, “Get on with your life.” She needed to take action. She had already pulled the vanity plates off her car the month before. ...still carrying them around. ... already replaced them with the standard kind.
Yanking the steering wheel, she hit the gas, cut across the slow lane, narrowly missing another car.  Brakes screeching, dust flying, she stopped abruptly on the paved shoulder. Sliding across the seat, she rolled down the window, grabbed those damn plates from under the seat, and tossed them into the underbrush. Chest heaving, tears flowing, she sobbed hysterically. That cheat ... Broke my heart.

She was thinking about continuing up the freeway when a patrol car drew up behind her red light flashing. Oh, hell, she thought. Now a littering fine? DUI? Wonderful!

The policeman, a tall, handsome, “Blue-Knight” creature, if there ever was one, took off his hat, leaned in the window and said, “Ma’am, do you have a problem? We’re always concerned when we see a stopped car at 2 a.m. By the way I think you have a problem with your left rear tire. Please step out of the car and I’ll show you.”

************************
Cal considered the miserable state of his life. Had’ta do this cruddy job. Hell, better than rotting’n in a jail cell. Wrote them bum checks ‘cause needed dough. DUI arrest, damn cop mistake. Only had’a few beers at Mike’s bar.

Slowly he worked his way up the slope. Stab, rest, pick up, sweat . . . Shit what could’a some guy learn about L.A. from this junk, he thought. Dirty diaper, yellow tape from accident scene, beer bottle, panties.

“Cal, stop loafing,” the supervisor shouted.

“Wish that guy’d get off my case,” Cal cursed. “Only stopped a second to pierce them panties. Bosses, hate ’em all.”

Whoosh, roar, whoosh, roar, whoosh ... Choking exhaust fumes ...

Cal took off his orange hard hat, wiped his wet brow and glanced down the 2 Freeway toward the city center. L.A.’s newer tall buildings stood like islands in a sea of yellow-brown haze, like Batman’s Gotham City. It depressed him more.
He moved further across the incline. Stoop, pick up, sweat ... Coors beer can, sure’d like a cool one. ‘Nother dirty diaper, kid’s shoe, empty Fritos bag, vanity plate. License plate ... hmm. tossed out by some car thief? fell off a car? what? Cal thought about this as he turned the plate over in his grubby hands. It was a shiny California vanity plate. “WLD loves TRM”. He studied the possibilities. Maybe the bimbo that lost her undies, chucked TRM, and took off with some stud.

Scorching sun, sizzling temperatures inching up to 102 degrees, Cal’s mood hot as grease on a griddle. Focusing on the heart symbol he fumed.... hearts, flowers, love ya hon’. All crap. The wife giving me all that love talk while screwing around with her boss. Sweetie, love chocolate, love poodles, love you. He bitterly recalled those words. Probably loved that damn yappy dog more’n me. Asshole landlord said the dog goes or you. So good-by dog.

As Cal slowly climbed the slope he thought about the celebration with his bar buddies after that mutt was gone. So wife got a cat. A cat! Rubbing and purring, the old lady cooing and petting that flea bag. Caught that fuck’n’ cat pissing’n my bowling shoes. Tossed the damn thing out the door. Wife said good-by Cal. Now that’s loyalty.
He continued to spear trash, pausing from time to time to wipe the sweat from his brow. The yell startled him.

“Hey, Cal come here,” Ken, another crewman, screamed.

Cal looked up the embankment toward Ken. So what’s his problem, another pile of crap, more damn litter. The guy seemed pretty stirred up, so he’d check it out.
A shocking sight, even to a guy as jaded as Cal. A body, a female, ripped clothing, eyes       wide open, a look of fright on her face. Holy shit. What demented mind could’a done this?                                                                                                                                                                                                            *******************************

California Highway Patrol Officer Jim Baker wrote White female, approximately 30 - 35 years old, possible murder victim. He made the official death declaration 2:35 p.m., signed and dated his log, February 9, 1998. Now it had become a coroner’s case. Jane Doe was bagged, tagged and sent to the LA County Morgue, near County USC Hospital. Cross checking the fingerprints with DMV records identified the victim as Wanda Louise Desmond. Her parents, Fred and Louise Desmond of Ames, Iowa were notified and after a brief grave side rite Wanda was buried. Another promising life snuffed out.

Glendale Detective Larry Wilson was scanning the bio on Wanda - a blonde, in her early 30’s, slight of frame, driving alone late at night on the freeway. Dammit, he thought. Hers was the fifth such killing in the past eleven months. Could Glendale have a serial killer on the loose? He recalled other serial killers - Ted Bundy, the “Hillside Strangler” and the “Son of Sam”. How could Glendale, his beloved city, have such a creature on the loose -vicious, remorseless, amoral?

Detective Wilson, working in the city’s homicide division, vowed to solve these murders. He often awakened in the middle of the night thinking about them, trying to make sure he hadn’t forgotten a clue, trying to make connections he may have overlooked. He’d go to his office, start drawing charts and take notes. Other times he would come in on his days off, often working more than eight hours on these cases. These killings and forced rapes were so unlike the cases he usually had to solve. Victims usually bring the murders on themselves, with drugs or gangs or a love triangle. When you had a pure victim, unfortunate girls in the wrong place at the wrong time, the crimes cried out to be solved.

Larry was seated at his desk scanning old reports when a particular one caught his eye. Sandra Bradley had spoken to the officer on desk duty - something about a Glendale policeman and his threatening behavior. He decided to call Ms. Bradley because he needed additional information. They arranged to meet at 10:00 a.m. the next day.

Ms. Bradley, a shapely blonde in her mid twenties seemed apprehensive. Larry thought perhaps this station interview dredged up memories she’d rather forget. He asked her to describe in her own words what happened that night.

She hesitantly said, “Last December 6, I remember it was the 6th because it’s the day after my son Jed’s birthday. I was hurrying home from a friend’s house. It was late, after midnight. Pouring down rain, made driving real difficult. I live at the top of the hill, kind of isolated from my neighbors. Well, I noticed this red light behind me, a police car, so I pulled over. I thought to myself, I hadn’t done anything wrong. This real handsome big policeman approached my car. He scanned my back seat with his flashlight. Then he turned the light on me.” She started to shake and her voice began to quiver.

Larry asked if a cup of coffee would make this interview easier for her. She nodded. He brought her coffee with two lumps of sugar and no cream and she continued, “He asked me for my driver’s license and then he wanted me to get out of the car. Something about him, his demeanor, something just didn’t seem right. So I stayed in the car. He pulled up the door lock button, yanked open the car door and tried to pull me out. I panicked, stepped on the gas, the door hit him in the chest. The next day I came into the Police Station to talk to someone.” Larry thanked her and said he would keep in touch.

Thumbing through the files he discovered another young woman had reported that on January 3, she’d had an unsettling encounter with a man posing as a police officer. Could they have a rogue cop in the department or an impostor? Larry thought it might be a good idea to have a female cop or two troll for the killer.

Police officers Donna James and Sylvia Marino were selected to serve as bait. They could be trusted to keep this undercover operation under wraps. For three or four weeks late at night in unmarked cars, they would travel the streets of Glendale, specifically in dark isolated areas with fellow officers Matthew Beck and Dan Johnson always close by in a “chase” unit.

Initially the plan was not productive. No sign of a rogue cop, just a drunk or two, some teenagers in a scuffle, and a hit and run at Brand and Broadway. But one fateful night, Officer Donna James was in the Glencrest area seated at the end of a dark cul-de-sac having a smoke. Donna considered her situation. She knew the wacko was out there somewhere. As required she called the station with her precise location. “Officer James, Code 7, location top of Rossmoyne Ave.”

She took a deep drag on her cigarette and settled in for another night of boredom. Then she noticed a car slowly winding its way up the hill and, as it neared, the red spot light on the unmarked car lit up. A big hulk of a man, extremely handsome, stepped from the car and sauntered her way. She didn’t recognize him. The unmarked car wasn’t familiar. Pushing the button on the epaulet mike attached to her shirt, she requested emergency assistance, “Officer James, Code 999.” She took comfort in knowing that if this guy was a bad actor her associates, Beck and Johnson, were nearby per plan.

The big guy flashed a badge and politely inquired, “Is anything wrong? May I help you?”
Donna spotted a phony LAPD badge, an item peddled by crooked entrepreneurs capitalizing on one of the most recognized law enforcement agencies in the world. The guy was obviously “trouble” but she knew her pals were nearby and would be at the location in a few minutes. She thought about how to buy the few extra minutes she needed. What she didn’t know was that Beck and Johnson, in the worst possible mistake, had turned up the wrong street a block away.  James looked out the window at the fake officer and motioned to her ears feigning a hearing problem. She tried her best “puzzled” look. Where the hell were Beck and Johnson?

Losing patience the guy suddenly began banging on the car, screaming, “You fuck’n bitch. Get out of that car”. His face was contorted in rage and his wild-looking eyes were staring at her. Breaking the window with the handle of a gun that he pulled from his holster, he tried to grab her and she quickly slid away toward the passenger side. The fake cop lunged to open the door and lurched into the car seat. Donna James, pressed against the passenger door, pulled out her gun and unable to raise it from her waist, or properly aim it, shot the assailant. Blood spilled down his face and he slumped in the seat with his legs partially hanging out the driver side door. She sat there in a state of shock. She’d shot a man! Never before had she even drawn a gun on duty. But this time, her life had been threatened. She wondered where her associates were. Why did they leave her to deal with this by herself? Turning to her hand held mike she reported, “This is Officer James. I’ve shot a man.”
Beck and Johnson having discovered their mistake turned around and sped to Donna’s location.

“Thanks a hell of a lot,” she shouted to her friends.

“God we’re sorry,” said Beck.

It was quickly quickly determined that the assaulter was dead and coroner and other investigators were called to the location. Now officer James had to deal with the consequences of “an officer involved shooting”. However the investigation quickly absolved her of any wrong .

The police lab compared a DNA sample from the fake cop with a semen specimen from the clothing of Wanda Desmond - a match. The fake cop was dead and the brutal slayings ceased. Larry Wilson and the Glendale Police Department could finally terminate the files on Wanda Louise Desmond, Tracy Mueller, Cindy Houseman, Jane Irving and Susan French.

Officer James was taken to lunch by Beck and Johnson to celebrate the success of their investigation. Seated at the table Donna opened the conversation by taking out a The Thomas Guide map book from a bag she brought with her. “I want you guys to study this,” she said. ”There’ll be a written test tomorrow.”