Delayed Justice

by Marvin Perkins

  Chuck and Carson, still sitting in their unmarked unit across the street, watched Bill get into his late model BMW and pull slowly into traffic. Carson cranked up and eased in behind Bill, a few cars back. Where the hell is this guy going now the detectives wondered. It didn’t take long for them to realize where Bill was going. He was heading for National City and as they followed, he pulled up in front of Emma Harris’ place. Bill was making the rounds. He got out of his car, walked to the front door, and was let in the house almost immediately. Apparently the good doctor was expected, he disappeared inside the house.

  Driving past the house and turning around, the detectives parked down the street on the other side, so as not to be seen. Again they set up shop and waited for Bill to make his next move. The fact he paid Emma Harris a visit was not in itself suspicious, since he was her son Junior’s doctor. So they waited and in about fifteen minutes, Dr. Riley came storming out of the house, looking mad as hell, got in his car and roared off down the street.

  Struggling to keep up, Carson cranked up and hurriedly followed Bill, who was by now heading south at a high rate of speed. They followed as best they could until Bill pulled up at another residence the detectives knew, the home of Connie Sanchez. Bill was making his rounds for real . Again, coming to visit a woman who had just lost her husband was not in itself incriminating.

  Once again Carson and Chuck parked down the street and waited. It wasn’t long until Bill immerged from the house, got in his BMW and roared off like a bat out of hell. This guy was on a mission, but up to this point nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  But all that was going to change. His next stop was NASCCO. Bill pulled up across the street on Harbor drive, right across from the entrance of the shipyard and parked.

  Chuck and Carson pulled on down the street, made a u-turn, and parked as well, at a spot giving them full view of the scene. They waited as Bill waited, but it wouldn’t be long before the action began.

  A man wearing work clothes, walked out of the shipyard lot, waved at Bill and crossed the street to lean in his car for a talk. He was a Latino man in his mid-twenties, dirty from his day’s toil in the shipyard. He was looking none too happy to see Bill and they were engaging in a heated conversation.

  Pictures were being flashed by the detectives with a telephoto lens, hopefully they would be able to identify this character. They watched almost in disbelief as the conversation continued. This could just be a patient of Dr. Riley or an old acquaintance, but the detectives didn’t think so, as they watched intently. This could be a breakthrough moment they were experiencing. The break they had been looking for since they began this case. They were itching at the chance to bust this smug ass doctor in his fancy sports car. They watched for a while, and were further amazed to see Dr. Riley hand the Latino man an envelope. This seemed to calm him down and shortly the conversation was over. The man headed back across the street to the shipyard and Bill cranked up and was on the move again.

  What was in the envelope? Carson and Chuck had their suspicions of course, but there was no way to know for sure. Their guess was it was hush money. The Latino man had did the deed for Bill and now he was fleecing the doctor for some additional cash. Made sense, but there was still that little nagging thing, proof.

  Where was this guy going now? He certainly had been a busy boy. The detectives followed to find out. This time led to disappointment, as Bill continued on to downtown San Diego and his office.

  Chuck and Carson had work to do. Who was the Latino man at the shipyard and what if anything did he have to do with this murderous business? It was starting to look more and more like the death of Roy Harris was no accident. After all the detectives concluded, he along with Frank were planning on going to the authorities about the tragic episode in Vietnam. Sounded like a good motive for murder to the detectives. But what about Rick Sanchez, how did he fit into this puzzle, why did anyone want him dead?

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Another Piece of the Puzzle

  In another part of town, La Jolla, to be exact, a doctor sat in his private office in deep thought. He had told his receptionist to hold all calls. He doodled on a piece of paper on his desk, writing down names over and over again. He thumbed through a book stopping periodically to study more closely the contents of certain pages.

  The doctor seemed very upset and agitated as he continued to peruse the book he was reading. He finally got up and started pacing frantically around his office. He paced for a while, then sat back down to his book once again. About half way through he stopped at a page that seemed to soothe him somewhat. He started taking notes on the pad he had been doodling on, filling up a couple of pages before he was finished.

  He closed up the book, grabbed his note pad and stormed out of his office, telling his receptionist he would be gone for the rest of the day. She tried to protest, but he waved her off and hurried out of the office. The doctor jumped in a late model Mercedes and drove off at a high rate of speed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Raphael Fuentes

  The NASSCO shipyard was unusually quiet, no horns and bells, only the clanging of metal and sparking of welding apparatus. Raphael Fuentes drew his day’s tools from the issue room and started across the yard to a USNS ship that was almost complete and ready to be launched. He was a young man, rather slight in build, with a mustache and a neatly trimmed goatee. Working for the shipyard had been his only choice when he got out of jail. There weren’t a whole lot of job opportunities for young Latinos in San Diego, especially if you had a criminal record.

  Raphael had gotten into some trouble when he was younger, stealing cars and selling drugs. He did a year in city for assault and possession of an illegal hand gun. He was involved in gang activity before and after he went to jail, something that was almost impossible to avoid in the neighborhood where he grew up.

  To make matters worst, Raphael was also diagnosed as manic depressant and suffered from clinical depression. He had met Dr. Bill Riley while he was incarcerated. Bill used to see patients at the jail one day a week as a tax write off. Raphael was doing better as long as he stayed on his medication, and had been lucky enough to land the job at the shipyard on a probationary basis after he got out of jail. He wanted more than anything to leave the violence of the street gangs behind.

  His pathway to his goal had not been an easy one. There were many of his old home boys that didn’t want him to succeed. They kept trying to pull him back into the life. He wanted more for himself and for his girl friend Giselle and the baby. He had a son Raphael Jr. he loved more than his own life. They deserved a decent life away from the gangs, the violence, the drugs and the poverty.

  To this end, Raphael sometimes did things he shouldn’t in an attempt to provide for his family. His justification was simple, it was all about family, they came first and foremost. He struggled to be able to afford his medication which was costly, but necessary. Without his medication and the help of Dr. Riley he would be lost. He still remembered the days before he met him and terrible feeling of being totally out of control. The depression, the thoughts of suicide and even homicide that plagued him now was a thing of the past. He owed the doctor a lot. A debt he couldn’t even to begin pay with no amount of money, he felt an overwhelming allegiance to Dr. Riley.

  He needed special help, mentally and financially. He had begged Bill to meet him on his break. Thankfully the doctor had agreed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Carson and Chuck

  Chuck and Carson were once again back at the office , milling over their leads and theories. “This Doctor Riley is behind the whole thing, Carson. I’m certain of it.” Chuck pleaded his case, but Carson wasn’t buying it. “He hired Roy Harris Jr. to kill Frank and that Latino kid to kill the father, Roy Sr. Think about it Carson, both of the victims were threatening to go to the authorities about the Vietnam thing.”

  Carson bit down hard and on a fresh cigar, trying
not to be too harsh with his partner. “That’s all well and good genius, but where’s the proof. It’s just a little thing, but it’s kind of important. And what about Rick Sanchez? How does he fit in your neat little scenario?”

  “Haven’t figured that out yet. But I bet Riley had something to do with it.”

  “When you figure it out, be sure and let me be the first to know. “Cause right now I ain’t got a clue.”

  Bill Riley was a slimy, smug son of bitch, who was probably guilty, but they still had no real proof, only conjecture. They would continue to follow him and monitor his calls, but for right now they needed to find out who the young Latino man Riley was talking to across the street from the shipyard.

  With great ease they found out who Dr. Riley had been speaking to with the assistance of the shipyard personnel department. With a little coaxing they managed to get the home address of Raphael Fuentes and headed to his house to have a little talk. They had a few questions for this young man and they were hoping he had some answers.

  Raphael lived in a Latino neighborhood in a rough part of San Diego called Logan Heights. They passed by the infamous Chicano park where several young men with jail house tats played basketball, while others stood in a group passing a bottle around. Some young ladies pushed their babies in strollers, while the bigger kids ran along side playing joyfully. One youth was busy tagging a wall with his gang sign, another young man looked on giving him moral support. It was just getting dark as the detectives pulled up in front of his modest home that ran along the back side of the park.

  A group of likely gang members stood on a street corner and eyeballed the detectives as they eased cautiously out of their unmarked unit. Carson and Chuck both had their hand on their concealed weapons as they made it across the yard and knocked on the door of the Fuentes household.

  They could hear loud music playing in another room and the sound of a man and a lady in a heated argument. They knocked the door again louder and finally a Latino woman in her mid-forties peeked out of the window and inquired who was knocking.

  The detectives flashed their shields and identified themselves. “We need to speak to Raphael Fuentes,” Carson yelled.

  “What is this all about, officers?” The lady inquired with a harsh look on her face.

  “Ma’am, we need to talk to Raphael. Is he home?” Carson further explained.

  The lady reluctantly let them in and called for Raphael. After a minute or so he finally appeared from a back bedroom. He was shirtless, bearing numerous jailhouse tattoos and multiples scars from a violent life. He was pencil thin, but muscular and hard. The expression on his face was defiant, as he leered at the detectives like he would just as soon kill them as look at them. “What the hell do you pigs want? I did my time, can’t you just leave me alone?” Raphael asked almost pleading.

  Chuck started, ignoring Raphael’s bad attitude, “We needed to ask you a few questions about your relationship to Dr. Bill Riley. Are you a patient of his?”

  “Yeah, what if am? Is that a crime or something? Why don’t you just cut to chase. What is this really all about?” Raphael said defiantly.

  Carson jumped in, “Okay, let’s do cut to the chase. We are investgating the possible homicide of an individual by the name of Roy Harris, a former employee of NASSCO, just like yourself. This Mr. Harris was a good friend of your doctor, Dr. Riley, who we saw handing you an envelope and engaging in a heated conversation with you just yesterday across from the shipyard lot. Would you like to tell us what was in the envelope and what your conversation with the doctor was all about?”

  “That’s none of your business. It’s private and I don’t have to tell you shit. So why don’t you get the hell out of my house?” Raphael yelled, still defiant.

  “We understand all that patient, client confidentiality bull, but you not answering the question makes you look even more guilty,” Chuck added.

  Quickly joining the questioning, Carson said, “How much did Dr. Riley pay you to kill Roy Harris? I hope it was enough.”

  “God, I can’t believe you guys. I didn’t have anything to to with killing anybody. I’d asked Dr. Riley to see me yesterday. The only time that we could work it out was during my afternoon break. I asked him to borrow some money, okay? We had a big argument about me not taking my meds. That’s all it was about, I swear,” Raphael said, hoping the detectives would buy his story.

  “So we’re supposed to believe your doctor was just lending you some money out of the goodness of his heart, right,” Carson interjected. “C’mon you can do better than that Raphael. Tell us the truth. Why was he really giving you the money?”

  “Damn it, here’s the truth. I did some work on the doctor’s condo and he owed me some money. We were arguing about how much he still owed. He was trying to short change me, the cheap bastard,” Raphael changed his story somewhat.

  Chuck, still not believing his story said, “ That’s a little bit more believable, but we still don’t buy it.

  “Too bad, that’s the truth, I swear. Do I need a lawyer, ‘cause I got one, a good one. In fact I’m done talking to you clowns. Get the hell out of here,” Raphael said, getting pissed.

  “Yeah, we’ll go, but we ain’t through with you, not by a long shot. We’ll be back, so maybe you better call that lawyer of yours,” Carson added.

  Raphael said in conclusion, “Later gentleman, it’s time for our dinner, so please show yourselves out.”

  The detectives did show themselves out. They felt it was a good first interview and the real story was still left untold. In time it would be revealed, but for now they’d keep a watchful eye on this young man. They decided to go back over to the shipyard the next day and see if they could uncover any further evidence that Roy Harris’ death had been murder, not an accident like their report had said. They might need a court order, but they very much wanted to take a look at the accident report. They also wanted to interview the other workers that were there that day. It was a long shot but sometimes they pay off.

  Of course the detectives still had the murder of Rick Sanchez to investigate, a case they had no leads on. They knew it had been done by a highly skilled individual, which left them with thousands of possibilities, none of which led them to anywhere. They decided to do a canvass of the neighborhood to see if anyone had seen anything or anyone suspicious that morning. More than likely no one saw or heard anything, but they had to start somewhere.

  It was getting late and as darkness set in the weary detectives decided they had did all they could for one day and headed home. Carson to his wife Veronica and a delicious home cooked meal and Chuck to his bachaelor abode and a TV dinner. They had much to consider as they made their ways home, but one thing was sure they had a lot of work to do. That’s what tomorrows are for.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  The Doctor

  In a remote workshop the doctor frantically worked on a device, stopping periodically to receive further guidance from the notes he had meticulously made. He was constructing a device, one that would surely cause great death and destruction. He worked tirelessly at his craft, driven by an almost overwhelming passion.

  On the wall was a single picture of a smiling woman. It seemed to be almost a shrine, set up to look over his little workshop. The picture was old but had been treated with great care and respect. The lady’s eyes were haunting, compelling, and beautiful. The doctor looked at the picture periodically, almost as if he were asking for her approval in the task he was performing.

  Many years of anguish showed on the doctor’s face, deep lines earned by years of hardship marked his weathered features. He carried a heavy burden that permeated his very soul deep to the core, a burden that had been his life for many years.

  He finished hooking up all the wires and the timer to the explosive material and carefully placed it in a box. The time was at hand for him to further his lifelong project. Destruction and death was his mission and he would not stop until the
job was completed.

  His wife’s picture looked down on him approvingly . He gently touched the picture as if she was still in the land of the living, as a tear streamed down his cheek. “It will soon be done and your soul can rest in peace,” the doctor said wiping tears from his face.

  Grabbing the box he hurriedly left the workshop, jumped in his car and roared off. He had important work to do.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Shipyard

  The streets were alive with the hustle and bustle of the early morning commute as Carson and Chuck pulled into the NASCCO lot and flashed their badges at the security personnel, who nonchalantly let them in the yard. They found a parking spot and got out, and headed for the main office.

  The yard was in full working mode, sparks flying from welding jobs high up on scaffolds, big cranes busy hoisting mammoth pieces to be put in place, and the unnerving sounds of the accompanying horns and whistles. Huge forklift trucks made their way across the lot carrying heavy loads, shipyard workers in hardhats and safety harnasses walked and talked as they made their way to awaiting ships in varying stages of completion.

  An annoying bell tinkled, announcing the detectives’ arrival as they entered the shipyard main office. A somewhat chubby, middle aged Latino woman sat behind a desk eating a doughnut and talking on the phone. She looked up from her pastry and conversation long enough to give Carson and Chuck a short wave of admission. “Have a seat, I’ll be with you in a minute,” she managed to say in between bites.

  The detectives obediently took a seat and waited for the secretary to finish her call. The office was small , the walls were lined with all manner of safety awards and community involvement plaques. On the secretary’s desk was a picture of her and presumably her husband and two teenage sons. At long last she finally got off the telephone.