The Tick Tock Killer - by Alex Cothren
ISLAND | ISSUE 159
We open with a close shot of Detective Inez Rodriguez looking so nervous she can barely get her coffee down. The arms of her lover, Roberta Rosario, appear around her neck.
Rodriguez twisting away, smiling: You would make me late on my first day.
Rosario, huskily: Relax. The show can’t start without its newest star, right?
Rodriguez, groaning: Stop it.
Extreme close shot of hands furrowing tablecloth.
*
Rodriguez’s face in a long mirror, bright lights softening her features. A thick make-up brush shuffles at her cheek.
Voice of Make-up Girl, off-screen: Nervous?
Rodriguez, smiling shyly: Sure. A little. This is not how I’m used to doing my job.
Make-up Girl: You think you’ll find something wild like that Cool Whip Killer they had on NYPDTV last night?
Rodriguez: Cool Whip Killer?
Make-up girl: You didn’t see that? They got a guy down in Queens murdering girls by tying them up and pumping cans of whipped cream down their throats till they suffocate.
Rodriguez, suddenly looking pale: God damn. I sure hope we don’t find anything like that.
Close shot as the make-up brush cuts short its hula. The Make-up Girl’s face dips into the mirror. Dark, hard eyes.
Make-up Girl: You fucking better find something like that. I need this job, okay? My dog’s on dialysis.
*
Interior: small apartment. Various police officers mill about.
As Rodriguez enters, we pan to Senior Detective Seorise O’Clooney huffing over to meet her, dark moons waxing in the pits of his pale blue shirt.
O’Clooney, thick Irish brogue: You’re fooking late, rookie.
Rodriguez, abashed: I am so sorry. No idea make-up took that long.
Director: Cut.
*
O’Clooney: You’re fooking late, rookie.
Rodriguez, pretending to be unabashed: Hey. Like, LA traffic, am I right?
Director, angrily: Cut.
*
Interior, apartment building hallway. Dim lighting, smoker’s-teeth walls.
Rodriguez breathing deeply, jiggling her muscles, muttering under her breath: badass, badass, badass.
Beyond the yellow police tape, a throng of people watch. Many in LAPDTV t-shirts, one girl with a Detective Rodriguez jersey already.
Girl: You can do it, Inez!
(Clapping)
*
O’Clooney: You’re fooking late, rookie.
Rodriguez, unabashed: Judging by the look of you, the donuts must all be gone then.
Director smiling, fist-pumping: Cut.
Rodriguez, apologetic: I am so sorry. They told me to be badass.
O’Clooney, now in a breezy Californian accent: Don’t sweat it, babe.
*
Extreme close-up: dead woman’s face. Left eye closed completely, right eye staring up blank. Neck and face a galaxy swirl of green and purple bruises.
O’Clooney: Good lord. She’s roughed up worse than an armless boxer.
Rodriguez, pulling on surgical gloves: Jaw’s badly broken, left cheekbone fractured. The blow to the back of the head is what killed her, I’d say.
Director, v. angrily: Cut.
*
O’Clooney: Good Lord. She’s roughed up worse than an armless boxer.
Rodriguez, nodding: Beaten worse than an egg in a hurricane.
Director, thumbs up: That’s scene.
Rodriguez, looking around, confused: So we can examine the body now?
O’Clooney, laughing: Babe, this isn’t the body. You think they’d show some dead bitch looking like this on TV?
Dead woman: Hi! So nice to be working with you.
Rodriguez, clutching chest.
*
Rodriguez off-set, leaning against wall, talking on mobile phone: I don’t know if I can do this. It’s super weird.
Rosario, talking on phone in a candle-turreted bath, curve of large breasts swelling above the foam: Relax. We talked this through, didn’t we? All the big cases are handled this way now.
Rodriguez: Rosi, they got me examining a recreated corpse in a recreated crime scene.
Rosario: But there is a real crime to solve, right? And therefore a real criminal. One I pity, with the famous Detective Rodriguez on the trail.
Rodriguez: I guess. Hey, why do I keep hearing splashing?
Rosario, closing eyes, biting lip: I’m in the bath, baby. Wishing you were here.
Rodriguez, long pause, confused: Since when do you take baths?
*
Interior: Next-door apartment. Hale, handsome Elderly Couple sitting on a tweed sofa. Husband in thick wool sweater, wife’s fingers noodling at her pearl necklace. Behind them we see a small section of a tastefully decorated apartment:
tall chamberlain with blue-veined china, mahogany grandfather clock, variety of owl-related knick-knacks.
Wife: She was such a lovely girl. Always had time to chat and whatnot with us in the hall.
Husband: Hard to believe such evil exists that would want ill with an angel like that.
Rodriguez: Did you hear anything unusual going on last night?
Wife: We heard her and her boyfriend arguing, but that’s not really unusual. They’ve been going through a bit of a rough patch, we gather.
Rodriguez, notebook poised: Arguing? Any sounds of violence?
Husband: Oh, no. Nothing like that. More of a lover’s tiff. You know how hot-blooded the young are, ha ha.
Wife: We heard him storm out at about seven.
Husband, annoyed: God damn it, Patty. She’s supposed to ask you first.
Wife, finger-snapping: Fuck-knuckles. That’s my bad. Okay, from the young bit.
*
Husband: You know how hot-blooded the young are, ha ha.
Husband and wife stare expectantly at Rodriguez.
Rodriguez, eyes narrowing: Um, did you hear the boyfriend leave?
Wife: We heard him storm out at about seven.
*
Shot of clock. Typical, everyday, circular, plastic-faced clock. Wall-mounted. Ticking.
Shot of O’Clooney looking at clock. Shot of O’Clooney looking down at dead woman. (Gradually pump-up sound of ticking clock to dramatic levels in post.)
O’Clooney, hushed: Not again.
As Rodriguez re-enters crime scene, O’Clooney gestures her over to body.
O’Clooney: Alright, Lassie. What do you make of this here clock then?
Rodriguez, looking at clock: It’s a clock.
O’Clooney, slowly and dramatically using right index finger to trace invisible line from clock to the dead woman’s legs: That’s roight, and now look how neatly her fanny lines up with it, like. You t’ink that’s a coincidence?
Rodriguez, tracking invisible line back to clock, staring at clock for long beat: Yes.
O’Clooney, ignoring: I’ve been tracking this fooker for a while now. He’s subtle, like. Not so flashy. But if you look hard, you’ll always find his killing card.
Rodriguez: A clock?
O’Clooney: Fookin ay. Or a Rolex. Or an oven timer. Or a window that tidily frames the rising and setting of the sun just so. Or maybe he just angles their legs to look like the minute and hour hand, makes them the clock, the sick coont. Whatever it is, it’s always in their own home, Rodriguez. In their gaff, where they’d think themselves safe. Because, when all’s said and done, what is a woman never safe from? Extreme close-up of O’Clooney’s face w/ tortured, haunted, hung-over eyes: Toime.
Director: That’s lunch.
(Applause from all on set.)
Dead woman, tearily: That was so beautiful.
Rodriguez, confused.
*
Exterior, street outside of apartment complex. Run-down area. Even rubbish bags slumped in gutters are graffitied. Rodriguez and O’Clooney move down the police cordon, signing autographs.
Medium shot of wizened, unhealthy-looking Old Couple. The old man holds out a glossy shot of Rodriguez with bosom much ampler than reality.
Wife: I can’t believe LAPDTV was really in our apartment.
Husband: Did you like all the owl stuff? That’s actually our owl stuff. We collect it, and they said, hey, this is a genuinely great collection, let’s use it!
Rodriguez, surprised: Wait, you guys are the actual neighbours?
Wife, excited: That’s right! And that was our real owl stuff!
Rodriguez, pulling notebook out of back pocket: Did you happen to hear anything last night?
Husband: The usual crashing and banging. Some screams. That boyfriend of hers is a piece of work.
Wife: We heard him running down the hallway at about ten.
Rodriguez, scribbling quickly: Ten? Not seven?
Wife: No, no, definitely ten. I know because NYPDTV had finished, and Houston Homicide was just starting.
Husband: Great show!
Wife: You know they got a guy down there strangling women and then doing it to their corpses while he watches football?
Husband, laughing, mock-strangling wife: Living the dream!
*
Rodriguez, on the car phone: Rosi, something seriously fishy is going on.
Rosario, with phone on speaker in front of her, as someone off-screen applies foundation to her cheek with a make-up brush: What’s wrong?
Rodriguez: Well, there was a gap between the information I was supposed to get, and the information I actually got. And then my partner delivered this crazy speech about how our domestic was the victim of some ridiculous serial killer.
Rosario: Ooh, serial killer? As badass as that Cool Whip dude?
Rodriguez: Even more loco, if you can believe that. O’Clooney thinks this guy always aligns his victims’ vaginas with clocks. Or oven timers. I don’t know. It made zero sense.
Rosario: He got a name yet? How about: The Tick Tock Killer?
Make-up Girl: That’s good!
Rodriguez, confused: Who’s there with you?
*
Interior, interview room. In a metal chair before a thin, stainless steel table sits The Boyfriend. He’s a weedy-looking guy, eyes twitching back and forth like he’s watching a badminton game in his brain.
Rodriguez, speaking coolly, but with a killer glint in her eye: Okay, so let me just recap your statement. You and your girlfriend argued last night because she had previously asked you to bring a bag of her blood to the bloodbank, but you had forgotten. To appease her, you agreed to fulfil the request then and there, and you were en route to said bloodbank when you hit and critically injured a jackrabbit with your car. Then, in an attempt to save this animal’s life, you tried transfusing your girlfriend’s blood into the jackrabbit, but this operation was unsuccessful because you could not, quote, ‘fit human blood into its tiny-ass rabbit veins’, hence why your shirt was covered in this blood when we pulled you over. Is that all correct?
The Boyfriend nods. There is a loud double-knock at the door.
Track behind Rodriguez as she gets up and partly opens the door. Through the crack we see a sliver of O’Clooney’s whisky-puckered visage.
O’Clooney, in Californian voice: What the hell are you doing in there?
Rodriguez, whispering: They picked the boyfriend up off my APB, blood all over his shirt. This is it.
O’Clooney: No, we’ve got the boyfriend in the other room. Shit, Rodriguez. The Director’s been asking all over for you.
Rodriguez, trying to contain her anger: Look, no offense, but shouldn’t we worry about the real boyfriend before we get after the fake one?
O’Clooney, also trying to contain his anger: Look, no offense, but are you intending on getting paid this week? Cause me and my crippling addictions sure as fuck are.
*
Interior, interview room. In a metal chair before a thin, stainless steel table sits The Boyfriend. He looks like a handsome Lego figure, with tidy chestnut hair and a shirt buttoned right up to his Adam’s apple.
Boyfriend, half-speaking, half-sobbing: We argued over whether the Verdelho Madeira we were drinking was more Sercial or Bual. So, so petty, and now – now I’ll never be able to tell her she’s right.
(Boyfriend breaks down completely)
O’Clooney, Irish accent back: There, there lad. A little squabble doesn’t kill the true love yas felt. Ain’t dat right, Rodriguez?
Rodriguez, stone-faced: So what time did you leave the apartment?
Boyfriend, sniffling: Um, I guess about seven? I went and caught a matinee showing of Tokyo Story. Ozu always smooths me out.
Rodriguez: Can you tell me why the neighbours say you left at ten, then?
Director: Cut.
*
Rodriguez, gritting teeth: Seven. Great. And can you tell me if you’ve (sighing) – if you’ve seen anyone loitering around the apartment complex lately? Maybe wearing (sighing) – maybe wearing multiple Rolexs or (sighing deeply) – or a clock necklace or – fuck it. No, you know what? I’ve got work to do.
(Rodriguez exits.)
*
Interior, interview room. Rodriguez opens door, looks at empty chair.
Rodriguez, v. angry.
*
Interior, Rodriguez’s house. Rosario sits on the couch in panties and a bra, painting her toenails. Doorbell rings. Exterior, front porch.
Door opens and we see sliver of Rosario’s beautiful face, looking pensive: Hello?
Voice, off-screen, rough as rubble: Ma’am, could I have a minute of your time?
*
Interior, office. The Sergeant sits behind a large wooden desk, upon which mounds of manila folders are piled high in haphazard stalagmites of paper.
Sergeant: What’s this I hear about you not following O’Clooney’s lead? He’s a good cop, Rodriguez. Sure, he sometimes forgets to put coffee in his morning Jamiesons, but his instincts are solid.
Rodriguez, still v. angry: His instincts are solid? We have a standard domestic, clear as day, and he’s out there chasing Flavor Flav.
Director, laughing, both thumbs up.
Rodriguez, v. v. angry now: Why the fuck are you giving me the thumbs up?
Sergeant, to Director: Can we have a quick break?
Director: Hard five, people.
Sergeant, to Rodriguez: Step into my office.
*
Interior, office. The Sergeant sits behind a large wooden desk, upon which a few papers are stacked neatly in a metal wire tray.
Sergeant, hands outstretched: My balls, Rodriguez.
Rodriguez, confused: Excuse me?
Sergeant: If you’ve finished juicing them in your virtue vice, I’d like them back please.
Rodriguez, sighing: I’m just trying to do my job, sir.
Sergeant, also sighing: And I’m just trying to do mine. Look, we’re getting killed in the ratings. New York has their whip cream guy, Houston has their football guy, hell I’ve just heard that Sacramento – Sacramento! – has some fucker that’s been grinding women up and selling them as hot sauce. What happened to this city, Rodriguez? We used to be flagship. The Lonely Hearts Killer, The Hillside Strangler, The Grim Sleeper, the list goes on. And what do we have now? Wifebeaters and gangbangers. Try making that sexy seven nights a week.
Rodriguez, deeply unimpressed: How about I worry about solving cases, and you worry about how sexy they are?
Sergeant: If we don’t get our ratings up, there won’t be any cases to solve, because there won’t be anybody left to solve them. I have to look after my people, Rodriguez. I mean, shit, Sally’s dog is on dialysis.
*
Interior, police station. As Rodriguez leaves The Sergeant’s office, O’Clooney trundles over and gets right up in her face: I troied to tell yas, Rodriguez. Didn’t I troi?
Rodriguez, confused, visibly reeling from the waves of alcohol coming off her partner: Jesus. Are you drunk?
Director, annoyed: Cut.
O’Clooney: Shit. Shit. That’s not until later is it?
Director: Can someone please get Kyle a coffee?
O’Clooney, shaking head: No, I’m good. Just...line?
Director: Rodriguez, get your pert little ass in gear. We got another body out in Angelino.
O’Clooney: Rodriguez, get your pert little ass in gear. We got another body out in Angelino.
Rodriguez, clearly caught off-guard: Angelino? That’s my neighbourhood.
Director, thumbs up.
*
Interior, police car. Rodriguez drives (hands at nine and three on the wheel. By the book as always). O’Clooney is slumped in the seat opposite, looking more like a pile of garage rags than a human being. Outside, it’s a sunny LA day. We see palm trees, attractive rollerbladers, sky a birthday-cake blue.
O’Clooney, morose: What am I doing here, Rodriguez?
Rodriguez, exasperated: Oh great. So now we’re doing the one-partner-monologues- existentially-while-the-other-one-drives bit?
O’Clooney, ignoring: I graduated top of my class in Julliard. I’ve had standing ovations at Geffen, Paramount, Shubert. Ben Brantley once said my Iago, quote, made Satan look like a kitten without teeth, claws or an adrenal cortex. And now here I am, not even pretend drunk, on my way to yet another cheesy twist.
Rodriguez, confused: Wait, what twist?
O’Clooney, sighing: All in good toime, Lassie. All in good toime.
Rodriguez, gripping wheel harder: You do know ‘Lassie’ is Scottish, right?
(O’Clooney breaks down completely)
*
Interior, apartment. The chamberlain, the china, the grandfather clock have all been cleared out. There are still owls. The Old Couple are watching TV. On the screen we see a medium shot of a mutilated female corpse. The head, arms and legs have been chopped off, but we still recognize the hourglass body of Rosario Rodriguez.
O’Clooney: I troied to tell yas, Rodriguez. Didn’t I troi?
Husband, engrossed: To be fair, he did.
Rodriguez, v. angry, v. confused: This is not funny. Cut! I’m not okay with this! Cut! Where’s Rosi? Where’s the real Rosi?
Wife, nose scrunching up: I don’t like her. Very screechy. And The Tick Tock Killer? What kind of name is that?
Husband: Well. You want to watch that new Sacramento Psychos instead? ▼
This story appeared in Island 159 in 2020. Order a print issue here.
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