Sarah Luger

By Sebastian Corbascio

April 4th, 1984 - Fidelis, CA an upwardly mobile town of 30,000 is rocked by the fatal stabbing of Sarah Luger, a 15 year old volleyball star, on her front doorstep. Months, 1500 tips, 378 cars searched, 150 interviews, and no suspects later, Det. Lt. Charles Sariano, famous for trapping the Capricorn Killer in San Francisco almost twenty years earlier, is called in to solve the case with a new partner with secrets of his own. Instead of profiling the killer, Lt. Sariano and his team profile the victim, Sarah, and uncover a confluence of events which cuts a land mine-filled adolescence short one fateful night.
Sarah Luger, is much more than a murder mystery, it explores a time and a place in our recent history where many major shifts in politics and culture occurred which affect us today. Sarah's murder represents the failure of myopic attitudes inherent in white flight, trickle down economics, willful ignorance, erasure of the recent past namely Vietnam and the 60's.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sebastian Corbascio
• Release date: Aug 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781973785460

Sebastian Corbascio

Sebastian Corbascio was born and raised in Oakland, CA. He was deeply influenced by his parents, both artists in their own right. Mr. Corbascio is a film director, and Sarah Luger was a film before it was a book. His two main influences are James Ellroy and Cormac McCarthy. "Real life had a huge impact as well." Mr. Corbascio lives in Los Angeles, CA.

Book preview

Sarah Luger

by Sebastian Corbascio

a novel

Edited by Rhonda Massingham Hart

Very Special Thanks to

Charlotte Dicke Beccera

and

Brian Fitzgerald

This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to persons

living or dead is purely coincidental.

Front cover by Jeppe Nørgaard and Sebastian Corbascio

Back cover by Sebastian Corbascio and Sami Elkhattabi

Layout by Sebastian Corbascio and David Chevron

Front image by Solominphoto – Freepik.com

all content © 2017 by Sebastian Corbascio, all rights reserved.

for Matthias

Out, out, brief candle!

~Macbeth 5.5

Prologue

Ka-slap Ka-slap Ka-slap Ka-slap Ka-slap Ka-slap Ka-

Her mary janes slapping the pavement. Blood pounding in her temples. Ribs expanding and contracting. Not even close to tired. She could run many many more miles if she had to.

She could slow down now.

Her suit bag and her duffel swung with each step. She pulled the strap on the duffle so it would be flush to her body. Sweat poured.

The blue Honda turned the corner behind her. The girl drove with unsure jabs at the accelerator. Her shifting ate gear teeth. Sarah looked over her shoulder. Blinded by high beams.

The Honda pulled up beside her. The horn bleated. Sarah ignored it.

Some kind of pleading coming from the girl. Sarah heard her name and talk. The rest she couldn't make out over the protesting engine; she had it in the wrong gear for driving at walking speed.

Houses houses houses

She picked the one halfway up the block with drapes oranging the front room light.

She broke into a sprint. The Honda lurched into gear and followed.

Sarah took a hard right onto the shale stone path and ran up to the porch. The Honda overshot by half a block. The brakes squealed.

On the porch, Sarah pulled out her compact and looked at her nose in the mirror. It was reddish, but not turning blue. She pressed the lit amber doorbell button. Two tone tubular bells. She affixed both sets of toes on an invisible line, and took a deep breath.

The Honda engine purr-rattled in the background. Sarah heard chairs being pushed out from inside the house, then the clop clop clop of what must have been a larger man approaching the door. He didn't ask who it was, there was no peephole, he just opened up.

A large man, crossbeam shoulders, red hair, red beard, gut, startling blue eyes. He recognized her. She was sweating. He smelled trouble.

Hi, he said.

Hi. She smiled.

Can I help you?

Yeah, hi, how are you doing?

Fine. What's up?

She took a deep breath, smiled, then: You're gonna have a hard time believing this, but…

She chuckled.

Um, we, that girl in that car, we were supposed to go to a party…

Uh-huh.

And we were early, so we waited in a parking lot for it to be the right time to go. She swallowed. Except she started acting all weird on me, so I got scared, and then I left and, I dunno, I-

The Honda revved halfway down the street. Her head whiplashed towards the noise, then came back to the man. He leaned out over his threshold and peered. Red tail lights 30 yards away, floating, like eyes. He looked back at her. He motioned her inside.

She came in and stepped to the right, next to the full coat rack.

Stay there, he told her.

He marched down his stone path. The car buckled into gear. By the time the man got to the middle of the street, the Honda had turned most of the closest left corner. He stopped and waited. Nothing. The sound of crickets returned.

I guess they decided to leave, he said as he returned to the porch.

Sarah was standing inside the doorway, her eyes down the street, as if waiting for an unexploded bomb to go off. Her forehead sweat dripped into her eyes. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then wiped her nose.

They came inside and he bolted the door. A television spewed a jaunty, happy tune. She sensed that he was ready to kick the living shit out of her if he had to.

Are you OK? he asked pointing at her nose. She felt it. It was tender to the touch.

Did she hit you?

Sarah went over to the mirror hanging next to the door. She had a goose egg on her forehead and her nose was a red, close to purple.

You want me to call the police?

No, no, it's OK.

He looked at her face closely.

I actually hit my head getting out of the car.

He knew that that was probably a lie.

Did she hit you in the nose?

She might have.

So you were in a fight?

Not really.

You hit each other.

Not really hitting, more like shoving and stuff.

She gasped.

A boy, about eleven, was sitting at the heavy dining room table, homework spread out in front of him, staring at them with vacant eyes.

The former football player was leaning up against the kitchen counter, arms folded. There was a small blue vase of wilting yellow flowers on the breakfast table. Whatever other family the man had were out for the evening.

Answering machine.

Dammit, she said, pulling the receiver from her ear. I guess they're not home yet.

She hung up the phone and took a deep breath.

Need a ride?

Uh, OK, if it isn't too much trouble.

The car stereo purred. Intermittent tree canopies formed tunnels over the two lane highway.

The Saints are really good this year, I don't think DeLaur has a chance against us, she said.

You know Jeff Milliman?

Yeah, plays defense, right?

Jeff's my son.

Oh, really? Oh, he's good, real good, real solid.

Now I'm remembering, I've seen you at the games a lot.

She shrugged.

Yeah, I go. I'm a Saint, too. I mean, technically speaking.

Oh, yeah?

Volleyball.

Oh, great.

It's OK, she said. "We could win a few more games."

Milliman smiled.

Hey, what about that girl who is going to, what is it? Boston University?

Oh, yeah, Millicent. Millicent Friedman.

Howard snapped his fingers.

"That's her name."

Yeah, she's great. Her dig is amazing.

Now, remind me, what's a dig? I'm a footballer, so…

Dig is a defense. Preventing the ball from touching the court. You dive for the ball, and you hit it over the net, hopefully.

I've always wondered what they call that.

Her dig got her a full ride.

Howard whistled and shook his head.

The DJ cooed about something. Sarah couldn't hear this car's wheels on the road like she could the Honda's.

So you want to tell me what happened back there with that girl?

Not really- if that's OK. I mean, it wasn't anything illegal, it was just stupid.

She rested her head on the head rest, and watched the outside pass by their window. Tall cartoonish shadow play on passing bushes. They were friendly shadows. Her eyelids grew heavy. Her cheek found her shoulder.

A car over revved and approached from behind; headlights flooded the inside of the Volvo. Milliman averted his eyes from the rear view mirror. The Honda tailgated, the driver punched the horn. Sarah snapped awake.

The Honda's front bumper was inches away from the Volvo's. The Honda swerved. The Honda came so close that the interior of the Volvo went from nuclear blast white to night normal. Milliman could see the some of the Honda's driver's features in it's faint green dashboard light. Miliman sped up. The Honda sped up. Milliman sped up again. He looked for a turn he could take. None.

The Honda downshifted and backed into the darkness, like an eel backslithering into an underwater cave.

He looked over to Sarah. She was looking over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth a perfect o.

You OK?

Sarah didn't answer.

Hey!

Sarah sucked in a startled breath, and looked at him. He was blurry to her.

Are you OK?

Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine.

I am going to call the police when I get home.

A straightaway opened up. Milliman sped up. He looked into the rearview. No cars, just a red rim from the Volvo's tail lights and behind it, only blackness.

133 Ortega: Sarah's home was a two story Tudor. Lawn in front, stone path bisecting the lawn, a single middle window for the attic, windows with heavy dark wood sills, diamond shaped panes locked in pewter. The windows were dark, the porch light was off. The nearby creek trickled, the frogs in the creek sang a full-throated song to the moon.

Milliman's headlights passed over the back of the Honda. It was parked under the shadow of an oak tree about twenty yards from Sarah's home, it's engine and lights off. Milliman didn't register it.

The Volvo pulled up in front of the house.

Is anyone home right now?

Sarah shook her head.

I'll call the Sheriff when I get home.

OK.

They'll probably call you.

She nodded. She bit her lower lip.

You weren't supposed to be out, were you?

She shook her head. He let out a deep breath.

Go on, he said.

She gathered her suit bag and duffle, and got out of the car. She walked in front of the headlights, momentarily looking like a gaslight player. He pulled away, and tapped the horn. He looked into the rearview, and saw Sarah take the first step onto her porch.

She couldn't find her keys. She dug into her purse's side pocket, and pushed aside her collection of receipts (diet Coke; sugarless gum; mascara and an eraser; many other items), didn't find them, and dug back into the purse's main compartment. She shoved the crap to one side. Fingers feeling grooved metal. She pulled out the key ring. The keychain, a small Eiffel Tower her father had gotten for her on a business trip to France, had drifted to the bottom left corner of the purse.

She chose the front door key from the key ring. Her hands shook. She aimed for the bolt. The key tip missed by two or three inches. She backed her hand up and tried a second time. Her forearm and hand did a jerky dance, and the key tip hit the metal of the bolt, but did not find the keyhole. Her hand dropped the key ring. She picked it up, and switched hands, and this time the key found the bolt and she turned. She heard running footsteps come up the stone path and felt a tickle on the back of neck that felt something like a kiss before the knife went in all the way to the hilt into her lower back left of her spine.

Sarah expelled the air out of her lungs. She could feel the girl holding the knife in place. Sarah swung around. The knife slid out of her back.

The attacker's face was silhouetted, but Sarah could tell the girl looked down at the knife as if it had suddenly sprouted out of her hand. She plunged the knife into Sarah's solar plexus. Their faces were so close their noses were an inch apart. The girl gripped the knife with both hands and lifted Sarah five inches off the ground. Sarah's arms flailed. She dropped her. She landed on her feet, and fell on the girl. The girl shoved her backwards. She hit the front door and bounced back onto the blade. The girl pulled the knife out, and plunged it back in. Sarah gagged. She pulled the knife out. Sarah closed her hand around the blade and held it, as if to say oh no you don't. The blade broke her palm skin. Sarah growled. The girl yanked the knife out of Sarah's hand, slicing her palm open. She grabbed her bleeding hand and looked at it, and fell onto the front door. The girl raised the knife overhand. Sarah held up her hands. No…no… She shook her head violently. No…no…

The knife came down again, puncturing Sarah's left breast, then came up, then down again, skidded off the right breast, punctured her bicep.

The girl took a step back and bore witness to her work. The sound of her lungs working like bellows traveled upward and was boomeranged back downwards by the curved wooden porch overhang. Her breathing singing it's own chorus.

The girl looked down at her clothes. A few splatters on her. More on her hands. A lot on the ground.

The girl's silhouetted head moved as if she were saying something or breathing hard. She spun around and ran off the porch, down the path, turned right onto the sidewalk, and disappeared.

Sarah screamed. She screamed at the top of her lungs. The frogs in the creek stopped croaking. No lights came on. The moon hung in the sky. The neighborhood responded like a dead thing.

Sarah collapsed into a sit. Her legs splayed out in two absurd diagonals. She felt her blood, warm as fresh piss, soak through her underwear and pool under her.

She looked up. The house key was in the lock, the tiny Eiffel Tower dangled. She reached up and turned it. She heard the bolt recede. She pressed the worn and polished brass door handle tab. It clicked and she pushed the door open with her weight. The door swung open violently. It's handle slammed into the inside wall, notching the plaster. She fell onto her back over the threshold. The closest phone was the wall mount in the fucking kitchen, through the dining room, which was down the hall and to the left,

Laying on her back, she tucked her legs under her, got some traction on the floor with the hard rubber soles, and pushed. She could move one and a half, two feet or so per push.

It was dark in the kitchen. She couldn't see anything clearly, she just knew where everything was. The yellow phone was mounted on the kitchen's center support beam, out of Sarah's sight line, about fifteen feet away from the kitchen threshold. Mother Fucker.

Why am I still alive? Because I am going to get to that phone, that's why.

She used her palms on the floor for traction, the cloth of her sweater to slide, and again her maryjane's hard rubber toes to push. The blood from her wounds made for lube. Pain became relative. She dared not look behind her. She knew she was leaving a trail of blood; she knew that if she breathed harder, or got scared, she would die.

She got under the phone. She reached up and yanked the cord outward in a whipping motion. Once. Twice. The third time, the receiver unhooked from the cradle, and fell next to her. It suddenly occurred to her: how the hell am I going to dial?

She pushed herself to sitting upright. She reached upwards. The dial was about eighteen inches away from her hand. She pushed herself up with both hands and both feet. Her organs shifted. She bellowed. Her right index finger reached the zero on the dial. She pushed upward, she dialed, she screamed, she fell back down onto the floor. She picked up the receiver and put it to her ear. A ring on the other side. A song from a distant planet.

Operator, it said. Operator, hello?

Ambulance, Sarah said. She sounded like one of the frogs outside.

Hello?

Ambulance, I need an ambulance.

Did you say you need an ambulance?

She swallowed. She could feel nothing below her waist. She was cold all of a sudden.

I live at 133 Ortega street, she said.

Was that One Three Three Ortega spelled o-r-t-e-g-a?

Yeah, she said. Her teeth were chattering.

Which city?

What?

Which city?

Fidelis.

Fidelis?

Yeah.

She blurred.

What's happened? What's wrong?

She remembered when she was very young, when she started swimming lessons, how she would stay under the water until she couldn't stand it anymore. She wanted to see who would jump in and rescue her.

Huh?

I just dispatched an ambulance. What's wrong?

I've been stabbed-

Oh, no-

A girl stabbed me.

OK, where?

All over the place.

"Are you bleeding right now?

Yeah.

From where? From where are you bleeding?

My-my-my-stomach.

OK, what we have to do right now is to get the bleeding to stop.

Where's the ambulance?

It's coming, it's coming. What we have to do right now is that you have to help me. Help me to make the bleeding stop.

"Police, hello? Police…

The Uni saw the blood trail on the floor.

What the fuck is tha-

Sarah groaned.

Police, hello?

A uniformed cop came into the kitchen with his flashlight high beam on. Sarah groaned his attention toward her. He shone the light onto her. He saw Sarah on the floor, holding the receiver. She turned her head from the scorching beam. The cop felt around near the door way and found the light switch. He turned on the light. He bellowed. He ran to her.

The other cop ran into the kitchen. He gasped.

The first cop grabbed her wrist. Weak pulse.

Honey, can you hear me?

Sarah nodded limply.

OK, that's good, that's good, he said. I need you to tell me where you're hurt.

She stabbed me in the back,