Gods of L.A.

The Rusty Anchor was a shit-hole. The kind of joint where dreams are buried and reputations do a kamikaze. It smelled of stale piss and regret. Miserable string lights were strewn against the wooden walls as a tiny ceiling fan shoved stale air around the place. Cigarette butts from a decade ago littered the floor. The bar had so much spilled whiskey on it it could be labeled a level five fire hazard zone. I sat at the end as far away from any other human being as I could. It was dark. Dark enough to lose yourself in. That's exactly why I was there. 

It was ten in the morning and I was already on my third double scotch that tasted like motor oil and bad memories. My hands shook but as soon as the first glass hits your bloodstream the shakes retreat to your nervous system's basement until the hangover comes calling again. I was staring at myself in the mirror on the back of the bar; a topography of broken veins and a five o'clock shadow that screamed for help.

That's when the door opened. I knew it did because the bell made a deplorable jingle and the LA sunlight sprinted in like an assault on my body. It was as if God — if you believe in make-believe — was shining a spotlight into my soul. I was expecting a fellow alcoholic or someone who was there to kick my ass for something I did in the past. Instead I saw a ghost. She was older, petite, and Asian. She was out of place. She didn't belong. She was wearing a thrift store floral dress that was probably bought during the Reagan administration. Her worn sandals shuffled across the floor with a hollow rhythmic beat. She did not glance at the four drunks lying motionless at the bar or in the booths. She gazed directly at me. Her eyes were dark and haunted. 

"Frank Quill?" she asked. Her voice was soft and laced with a heavy Japanese accent that rounded off syllables with conveying pain. "I'm Sakura Fukushima."

"Look, lady. If you're looking for a one-night stand I'm not interested. Actually it's more like a two and a half minute stand but you get the point. If you're looking for anything else the sign outside says 'Bar,' not 'Guidance Counselor's Office.' Now do yourself a favor and get the hell out of here."

"I need your help. I hear you are the best."

I slowly took a sip of the scotch, allowing the burn to settle in my throat. "The best? Maybe long ago in a galaxy far away" I growled. "Now I'm just some guy trying to reach a state of permanent unconsciousness. You're wasting your time. Call the LAPD. They have shiny badges and dental plans."

She was not phased one bit by my mannerisms. She reached into her frayed handbag and pulled out a thick manila folder with her wrinkled fingers and placed it right next to my glass on the sticky counter.

"My daughter — Akari — she was raped and murdered," she whispered. "She was my world."

"Every child is their mother's world until the city turns them into a statistic in the form of a chalk outline. Leave and go find a priest."

"The police say it was the Night Demon. They have no leads."

I snorted. The Night Demon. That's what the press had named him. He was a serial killer that had been active for the past seven years or so, but the LAPD were too incompetent to catch him.

"I want justice," she said.

"Justice is an invention for people who can't handle reality.."

"I have watched you for a week, Mr. Quill. I see you leave your room, I see you come here. I see how you view the world. I see how you act. You are a mean man. I believe it requires a mean man to catch a monster."

I laughed dryly and hacked at the same time, which eventually turned into a cough. "Seven days?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at her. "You've been stalking a drunk for seven days? That's not a testament to your faith in my abilities. That's evidence of your own mental instability. I am a professional loser. I do not do justice. I do not give people closure. I do alcohol and silence."

Sakura pulled out a small wad of wrinkled bills — a pathetic combination of tens, fives and ones. "Here. Take it," she said. "It's everything I have." 

I stared at the money. It stared back. I did not want back in the game but the case was beyond intriguing and I really could use the dough.

I swatted the folder away without glancing at it. I didn't want to know what was inside of it. I did not want back in. I spent five years trying to get out. I knew what happened to young women in cities like LA. Cities are meat grinders. 

She didn't put the folder away ; she unfolded it. The first photograph came loose from its binding. I attempted to look away, but my eyes betrayed me. It's the curse of addicts; you can't help but examine wreckage.

Akari was probably nineteen years old at best. She lay naked sprawled across an empty lot consisting of patches of both grass and dirt. It wasn't the gore itself that got my wind knocked out — although there was certainly plenty of that— the sort of traumatic slash wounds caused by a sharp-driven knife used with great anger and surgical precision. What stunned me most, though, was how her body was positioned. Her arms and legs were twisted into impossible geometric shapes as her head lay back so far it almost appeared as though she was screaming upward towards God from beyond death. She looked like a porcelain doll, one that had been carefully composed by an artist or puppeteer with a Renaissance art degree and a Ph.D. in psychosis. It was intentional. It was an expression. A riddle. Her eyes stared at me, emerged from the photograph, and pierced inside where my conscience used to be.

It took a minute but I eventually saw it. Her fingernails and toenails. They were clean...too clean from fighting an attacker in a dirty field. I had seen old case files of the Night Demon's victims' extremities before LAPD canned my sorry ass. None of them mentioned this. Then again they were idiots.

I went digging into my pocket and produced a mini ultraviolet flashlight — relics from my days as a Lieutenant — something I'd held onto even after they'd taken my shield away from me. I turned it on, casting purple-colored light over the glossy surfaces of the photographs. It was a wild card...an educated guess based solely upon how light reflected off of the girl's nails in one of the high-resolution images. There it was. Underneath the purplish glow, Akari's fingernail and toenail tips flashed white-hot in shimmering ghost light. There was no nail polish. There was some other type of chemical mark hidden from plain sight but glowing brightly like a neon billboard under just the right wavelength. The killer hadn't merely killed her; he'd marked her as well. He signed his 'masterpiece with a signature visible only under certain types of light.

I sunk deep into the bar stool. The Night Demon wasn't merely killing innocent people; he was producing chemical signatures. He was creating performances and he was exponentially smarter than any detective currently collecting an honest paycheck from the City of Los Angeles. For the first time in a while I felt that cold rush — possibly the only thing as good as having your first drink of the morning. The puzzle was biting back.

"Fine. I'll take the case," I said to Sakura, snatching the money and folder off of the bar. "Not because I feel sorry for you, but because I love puzzles and bar tabs and rent aren't cheap. We'll be in touch," I said as I knocked back the remaining scotch in my glass. I got up and walked outside leaving Sakura standing alone in the dark bar.

The LA heat sat heavy on me as I staggered out to my old, banged-up sedan. I opened the heavy, creaking door and slid my aching bones inside a humid nightmare. I pulled Akari's photo back out and stared at the horror.

"All right you son-of-a-bitch. Let the games begin."