Ram Johnson: Part 2, Moons

Previously

When they got back to the office, a small one over a cartoonist's gallery at the Orange Circle, Ram headed straight to his office to think, ignoring the nods and hellos from his office staff and secretary. They looked to Keiko, and she just shrugged. They had all seen him in these moods before when he couldn't figure out a particularly tough case. He could be moody and noncommunicative for days on end.

Keiko similarly headed to her office, but she was all business; she wanted to get the pictures of the crime scene into the database and print out any she thought warranted it for their board.

Ram's detective agency was doing pretty solid business. Unfortunately, southern California has enough gang activity, rich people doing stupid things, businesses playing underhand, and out-and-out criminal activity that most PIs work steadily. Ram was well-respected in the business, but didn't flaunt it; he had his modest business front, a small house, and employees who were loyal and reliable. He only took cases he felt passionately about and then worked them until there was some sort of completion. There were few open but inactive cases at the firm.

When Keiko emerged from her office, one of only three enclosed spaces within the loft, the first being Ram's office, the second being her office, and the third being an interrogation or holding cell area, Randy walked over to her.

"He's in a funk? So it's definitely another one?" he said.

"Sure looks like it," she answered. They walked together to the "observation deck" area where they had pictures and notes up of their current cases. She pinned a couple of photos of the crime scene up in the area marked for the Martinez family abduction. Realistically they were working the entire crime now; Ram wouldn't let this one go until he figured it out and had answers for the Martinezes, which likely meant he would have answers for all the other families as well.

Randy was a medium height and medium build white male, a good looking kid, who had a strong eye for detail and was an excellent lock pick. He was most often assigned to repossession work, as he was good at charming women and very good at stealing from men. He was also a good guy to have at your side in a fistfight. He didn't know any special fighting skills, and had no formal training, but was a scrapper and didn't go down easily.

Pam walked over, carefully avoiding the pictures in the observation deck. "This might take his mind off things for a bit," she said, and handed Keiko the phone messages.

Pam was a tall and very attractive black woman. Most people who met her instantly thought of Iman, as Pam bore a striking resemblance to the supermodel, and most asked her why she wasn't modeling instead of working as a receptionist for a PI in California. She had her reasons; Ram had saved her from an abusive family life when she was young and had been a positive father figure to her ever since. She felt a need to make sure he was all right and looked after him, as he sometimes got so obsessive over cases that he would sleep in his office and wouldn't think to eat.

Keiko flipped through the phone messages. Most were simply updates or call-ins from informants they had cultivated or people for whom they were working. One message stood out to her, though; James Jones, an informant who had his ear to the ground, had spotted a skip named Matt "Baller" Young they were looking for going into Blackie's Bar in Newport Beach. He was staying nearby and keeping an eye out for them. He expected his usual "finder's fee" if they got there in time to collect him. The message was only an hour old, so Whitey was likely still at the bar.

She smiled. "Thanks, Pam. This is just what Ram needs," she said and all three smiled. Keiko walked toward his office and knocked once before opening the door.

"We have a lead on Baller. He's in Newport Beach at Blackie's Bar. It's an hour old, so he's likely still there."

Ram turned to her. As she suspected, he had been staring at his personal observation deck pictures of the Martinez crime with his feet on the edge of his deck and his hands in almost a prayer-like position, with his index fingers just touching the end of his nose. It was his most typical deep-concentration position. She couldn't count the number of times that position had suddenl elicited an "a-ha" moment from Ram and he had grabbed the team and headed out to a successful resolution on a case. So far, it had yielded nothing for the Martinezes, but Keiko knew it was just a matter of time before something clicked, or a clue materialized, and Ram Johnson was off to break the case.

She first handed him the message concerning Baller, and then the stack of other messages. He read the message over three times before snapping out of his reverie. He suddenly seemed energized and somehow larger, as he stood and said, "Tell Randy to grab his stuff and go get the truck. I'll be out in a minute."

Keiko smiled as she closed the door. Once Ram made a decision, he was all business and ready to go. When he walked out of the office, his attention would be fully on the skip Baller Young. Randy, who liked movies, often attributed the mysterious "getting ready" that Ram did in his office to the famous scene in The Hustler when Jackie Gleason is getting beat by Paul Newman and takes a moment to go into the restroom, compose himself, and then comes out focused and determined and beats "Fast" Eddie in their first showdown. Like his namesake from a medieval siege, Ram was able to let go of all other distractions and focus on the current task or issue and plow through it with single-minded determination. Once done, he would then relax his focus and let in the other cases and the distractions of daily life.

Ram came out a few moments later and Randy fell in step with him as they headed out the front door. Keiko had the car ready and waiting outfront.

It only took them 20 minutes to reach Blackie's, just off PCH, in Newport Beach, from their office in Orange. Keiko nearly always drove; she had a Zen-like ability to read traffic patterns and know the streets and avoid most of the traffic snarls that always plagued the area.

They parked about two short blocks away from the bar, in the parking area of a great hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant. James had already spotted them, hurried over, and got in the back of the SUV.

"Best I can tell, he's still in there. I haven't seen him leave by the front since I got here," he said as soon as the door was closed.

"You did good, James," said Ram. "Wait here with Keiko."

Ram and Randy got out of the truck and made their way down and across the street to the bar. The day was getting long, and the temperatures were easing a bit, but it was still sunny and warm outside. Ram pointed toward the back and Randy quickly jogged toward the beach side of the bar to watch for Baller. No words were needed; Randy knew to wait for the skip to jump or for a quick call on his cell to tell him it was all clear and come back to the truck. Ram was point.

Walking into Blackie's Bar was like stepping out of southern California and into a dark meat locker. Blackie always had the AC turned up full blast and the lights turned down low. His clientelle generally didn't have social gatherings and, frankly, didn't prefer to know there were other people in the place.

While his clothes didn't match Blackie's usual customers' attire, Ram still seemed somehow to blend in the moment the doors closed. An older man with sunken eyes and faded tattooes on his arms and shoulders nodded to him from behind the bar; Blackie knew better than to protest Ram's incursion into his place. If he let Ram do his work, he would be out quickly and with a minimum of fuss. If he impeded Ram in any way, or alerted whomever Ram was after, Blackie would pay for that mistake with constant raids, license issues, and whatever else Ram could think of. No, it was better to just stand aside and let him work.

Ram waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark room, and then surveyed it for his quarry. The tall, thin former high school basketball star had dreams of playing in the NBA crushed when he blew out his knee in the CIF championship game going for a razzle-dazzle dunk. "Baller," so-named for his basketball skills, soon was a gang-banger, part-time drug peddler, and sometime woman beater. It was this last act that had him currently in Ram's sights; Baller had beaten up his girlfriend in a drug-fueled rage, been arrested, and then skipped on his bail and court date. When the girlfriend had brought it to Ram's attention, along with the pictures of how she looked the night of the beating, he had assured her that Baller would be held accountable for his actions.

He quickly spotted the boy at the far end of the bar nursing a beer and trying to hunch down to look shorter than his six foot seven frame suggested. Ram walked toward him. He sat on the stool next to him.

"Baller, if you come with me quietly I'll treat you with respect and everything will go smoothly and you will have an easy time until you are turned over to the police tomorrow. If you run or make trouble, I will come down on you... hard," Ram said quietly, making sure that only Baller would hear him.

The boy sat still for a moment, still looking into his half-drunk beer. Then, without much warning, he threw the last bit of beer into Ram's face and punched him in the stomach, before launching himself toward the back door of the bar.

Ram, slightly surprised by the beer and hardly affected by the punch, sighed inwardly and then walked toward the back door. As he opened it, he heard a yelp and a crash. As he stepped outside and let his eyes readjust to the sunny beach, he saw Baller laying next to an overturned table and some dishes at the beach-bar restaurant next door to Blackie's with Randy standing over him with his sap out.

Ram walked over to the scene and knelt next to the scared boy holding his head. With asp-like speed, Ram grabbed the boys crotch and neck, squeezing both hard with vice-like hands, causing the boy to let out a barely-audible scream of pain. Ram leaned down and whispered into his ear, "That was a mistake, boy. I don't like those who beat up women, especially ones so much smaller than themselves. If you had come quietly, you would have saved yourself a lot of pain."

He then lifted the boy bodily off the ground and threw him once more against the broken table. He kick Baller twice in the chest and stomach, knocking the wind out of the boy, and then punched him hard enough in the face to knock the boy unconscious.

Ram turned to Randy and said, "Get this scum into cuffs and put him in the cage." Ram turned, ignoring the few beach-goers who were present and watching, and walked back into Blackie's. Randy cuffed Baller, then slapped him until he woke up and then, half carrying, half leading him, took him toward the street. He was actually surprised that Ram had taken it so easy on the boy; the last woman-beater that had run had to spend three weeks in the hospital before being arraigned on his charges.

Inside, Ram discreetly gave Blackie a hundred dollars for the inconvenience, and then left out the front door.

Keiko, seeing Randy come out with the skip in cuffs, quickly pulled the SUV up and popped the rear door. The back was a small, uncomfortable area that was completely caged into which they put those who resisted. The only way to open the back door was from a trunk release level in the driver's cockpit. Randy rolled the barely conscious but already bruising Baller into the cage and closed the door.

Ram and Randy got in.

"You did very well, James. We just need to get your statement on record for our files and we'll give you your money at the office," said Ram as he got in the truck.

"Sure thing, Ram," every one of Ram's stoolies knew that Ram kept an official statement from them as a just in case measure. That inconvenience was far outweighed by the benefits of being Ram's friend; he paid well for information and would help you if you had troubles of your own. James had once been accused of a crime and Ram had overturned a lot of ugly rocks to find the real culprit and get James cleared. James owed him.

Randy and Keiko dragged Baller into the office and locked him in the interrogation room, while James sat with Pam and she typed down his statement and he signed it. He then went to Ram's office to get his cash.

"Thanks again, James," said Ram as he handed over $250 in cash.

"Hey, no problem, Ram. Anything for you. I'll let you know if I hear anything else on the street," said James. As he turned to leave the office, he saw the picgtures of the Martinez case up on Ram's personal observation wall.

"Hey Ram, you have a case concerning the Lycos of North Los Angeles?" he asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"I just see their sign up on your case wall, is all," he said.

Ram became energized. "What do you mean, James? What is their sign?"

James walked over to the case wall and pointed at the "spider" symbol picture that had blown up to an 8x10 picture and pointed, "This. It's on its side, but I would recognize that gang sign anywhere. Those guys are creepy and word on the street is they have their fingers in a lot of things."

James took the picture off the board, rotated it 90 degrees and then traced his fingers around the symbols as he spoke.

"See this circle supposedly represents the waxing moon, this middle one the full moon, and the third one the waning moon. The two lines in the middle of the second moon show that the full moon lasts for three nights. It's not a very good likeness of the symbol, though... I guess it was too small to get the detail their jackets have."

Ram walked around his desk and took the picture from James, staring intently. Now that James had pointed it out, he could see it clearly. Because of how small the image was carved on the bodies, the moon-shapes had always blended a bit together and, with the two lines bisecting the center circle, had made it look more like a spider or even an ant than what it was.

"James, here's another $100 for that tid-bit. You may have just broken another case," said Ram, handing him a crisp bill out of his pocket.

Ram Johnson: Part 1, Spiders

The man who kneeled over the dead Caucasian woman's body was about six feet tall. He likely weighed in at a powerful 220 pounds. His head was shaved bald and his skin complexion was such that it was hard to tell if he was a very tanned Caucasian or a light-skinned Hispanic or African-American. His nose had been broken enough times that it was fairly flat and always seemed to be at a slight angle. Sometime in the past, he had received a scar to his face that started mid-forehead and sliced down, skipping over his right eye, and ended just above the right corner of his mouth. The scar wasn't deep and was faded now, but still a visibly lighter line on his otherwise darker skin.

He stood up from surveying the woman's corpse and looked around the alley in which the body had been found. His clothes were all neutral colors, high quality material and stitching, but nondescript. No labels or little alligators or initials on the dun-colored, button-up shirt. His brown khakis were similarly strong and serviceable, showing little signs of wear. His shoes fit the outfit, but gave the impression they could be used for running, walking, or standing for hours.

For all his powerful, well-muscled build, he moved with the languid fluidity that big cats in Africa use. One might mistake the way he moved for a dancer it was so smooth and effortless. However, one look at his strong, overtly scarred hands and knuckles, and that person would rethink the opinion. Only boxers, martial artists, or street fighters have hands like that.

His keen hazel eyes, spotted something near a trash bin about fifteen feet ahead. He stepped over to it, pulled out a steel probe, and investigated. The Police Detective followed after and, realizing what he was looking at, exclaimed, "Jesus, Johnson! There's blood on the wall over here and it isn't even marked! Get one of the lab techs over here to collect a sample and photograph it."

"Well," the detective continued, "What do you think? Is it one of 'em?"

The man stood, adjusting the shoulder holster carrying his Colt .45 Automatic into a more comfortable position as he rose.

"Yes, I think it might be. The woman's bag has pictures of a newborn in it, the stroller at the front of the alley is likely hers, and there's a diaper bag in the dumpster. It looks like she was dragged off the main street, her throat was cut, and whomever it was took her baby. If you find the mark on her, we'll know for sure. But right now, it looks like another one."

The man's voice was of medium timbre, but was well-modulated and gave few, if any, outword signs of emotion. He could have been talking about the weather or a football game.

Looking closely, it was hard to tell exactly how old he was. He could have been anywhere from an old 32 to a young 45. The lines and crows feet could have been caused by a life led outdoors, or from the weight of age and experience. From the way he coldly, professionally, processed the scene before him, it was obvious he had done this before. His lack of emotion hinted that he had seen far worse in his time.

"If it is another one, that makes five in four months," said Detective Montoya.

"I appreciate your calling me over and letting me take a look, Miguel."

"Hey, I owe you. Plus, I know you're working for the Martinez family on their missing girl. You respect the police in this town, unlike some private dicks I could name, so another set of eyes looking into this serial will help. Just let me know if you find anything, okay?"

"You know I will, Miguel."

They shook hands and the man moved out of the alley. He walked to a fairly nondescript midsized four-wheel drive SUV and got in the passenger side. After twenty minutes in the hot sun, the air conditioning sent small goosebumps up both arms.

"Well?" his assistant asked. Her voice was light and soft, but still seemed to carry over the sound of the AC running, the engine's idle, and the Top-40 station she had on.

"Yeah, we have another one," he said.

"Damn," she said, and crossed herself. Her long black hair was up in a simple pony tail, out of the way of her face. She wore a blue cotton shirt buttoned all the way up except the top two and a white cotton skirt that reached just passed her knees. Although only driving a midsize SUV, she still looked a little small in the driver's seat; she couldn't have been taller than five foot four or five. Under her clothes hid a gymnast's strong body, however, and her weight was around 125 and extremely well-toned.

"Let's go back to the office, Keiko," he said. She put the truck in gear, waited for an opportunity to merge into traffic, and headed south.

She glanced over at her boss occasionally as she drove them back to their office. His eyes were closed and his right hand was on his brow, rubbing in small circles. She could tell this case was taking a toll on him; he did not like violence toward women or children, it brought back memories for him that he would rather leave buried. But these cases also brought out the best in him, as he would go to great lengths to stop anyone who performed such acts.

It had started for their office four months ago. The Martinez family had hired him to assist the police in looking for their granddaughter and to catch their daughter's killer. She was the third recent mother to be snatched in broad daylight from a busy street, throat cut, left to bleed to death, while the assailant or assailants left with her baby. The children had not been found and no ransom demands had been made. For all the violent, bloody, and public nature of the crime, no one had stepped forward with information on the crimes even though all had taken place in well-traveled areas with many people. No physical evidence had been found at the scene of the crimes to indicate anyone else besides the mothers had been there. The police had admitted they were baffled.

Her boss had been the one to point out each abduction and killing had taken place just prior to a full moon. Full moons were notorious for bringing out the crazies, but these crimes were surgical; it seemed doubtful that some simple loony was wandering the streets. And why wasn't there a ransom asked for the children? Where were the children? Was it some sort of slavery ring? Race didn't seem to be a motivating factor. Of the five women killed and children abducted, two had been African-American, one Hispanic, one Asian, and now one Caucasian. The motivating factor only seemed to be mothers with newborns; not one child was over six months old.

"You okay, Ram?" asked Keiko.

"Ram" Johnson opened his eyes and lowered his hand from his head.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Just thinking it through. We need a break in the case. This one has me at a loss. The symbol is the key, but no one at the station and none of my contacts knows anything about it. We have to find someone who knows what that symbol is."

Each mother had a very small spider cut or drawn on her in an out of the way place. It indicated two things:
1. That the killer(s) had waited for the woman to bleed to death from the throat cutting.
2. He or they had taken the time to partially undress and handle the body long enough to cut the small figure in places not easily found unless on the autopsy table.

"What does a spider want with these children," he asked rhetorically for the hundredth time.