Delayed Justice
Page 9
“We need to see the personnel manager, please,” Carson said bruskly.
“What is this concerning? May I help you?” The secretary replied taking another bite of pastry.
Chuck replied, showing his detective‘s shield, “No, this is an important matter concerning an ongoing investigation. We need to speak to him personally.”
The secretary made a call reluctantly, and shortly a stocky, balding gentleman appeared from a back office. He walked with a limp, huffing and puffing as he made his way like he had just climbed a large flight of stairs. He had a handkerchief in his hand and was mopping his brow as he approached the detectives and stuck out a clammy hand to introduce himself. “I’m Doug Fredricks, the personnel manager, how can I help you gentleman?”
“We need to talk to you in private about the incident involving the death of a Roy Harris, a few months ago,” Carson said, after they finished shaking hands.
They proceeded to a back office and continued their meeting behind closed doors. This was just the sort of thing that can spread quickly, so the detectives didn’t want anyone to find out that they were looking into the case as a murder. Of course they didn’t have any concrete proof that Roy Harris’ death had been murder and not an accident like the shipyard’s report had stated. They just had that gut feeling and Carson’s gut was usually pretty reliable in such matters.
“Mr. Fredericks, we are here concerning the death of Roy Harris. We have new information that leads us to believe that his death was not an accident. We need to see all related reports concerning the matter and speak to all the individuals who were working that day,” Chuck laid it out.
“That is a matter for our legal department, gentleman,” Fredricks replied still wiping his face. “ I can however put together a list of the individuals who were working that day and make arrangements for you to interview them, if that would help.”
“Actually, that would be very helpful, Carson interjected. “And when could these interviews be scheduled?”
Fredericks sat for a few seconds, looked at detectives curiously and replied, “ I’ll set up as many as I can this morning. How would that be?”
The detectives went to get some breakfast at a nearby joint and returned an hour later ready to begin the interviews. They really didn’t expect much, but maybe someone saw something suspicious that day, at least they hoped. They were basically on a fishing expedition, since the incident was ruled an accident. The only problem was they didn’t even have any bait. Not even a lure.
The first interview was an older African American gentleman who claimed he knew Roy Harris well and went on and on about what a shame a good man like him had to die. Though a sympathetic testimony, not anything to help the detectives in their quest.
A heavy set, mannish looking woman was next. She didn’t know Roy Harris at all, but was awful sorry nonetheless about his untimely demise. She of course didn’t see anything suspicious on the day in question. The interviews were going pretty much how the detectives had predicted.
An interesting fact came out in the next interview of a long time employee of the yards, Scott Peters. Although he had not seen anything personally, he said he had had a bad feeling ever since the incident that something just wasn’t right. He had worked the scaffolds for twenty five years and had never seen or heard of one falling. “We build those damn things too carefully. Afterall our very lives depend on the integrity and strength of the structure. It’s just so unlikely that a scaffold would completely collapse like they claimed it did,” Scott pleaded his case.
Most of employees interviewed thereafter , even though they had not seen what happened personally did agree it was unlikely that a scaffold would completely collapse.
Curious and perplexing as this information might seem, it still wasn’t proof of wrong doing. But it certainly was some food for thought.The next individual the detectives interviewed looked to be just what the doctor ordered. He claimed to have actually seen somebody tampering with the structure on the day in question. Why didn’t he come forward sooner of course was the first question that needed to asked.
His name was Emilio Rodrigues, a big burly Mexican, with lots of tatoos on his arms. He spoke with a heavy street accent, behind dark shades that hid his eyes from revealing the truth. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but since you homies are here asking about the shit, I might as well tell you. I knew this dude you guys are asking about, Mr. Harris. He was a hard ass, but he was cool. He pretty well kept to himself. The day he got killed I seen this young Mexican cat up on the scaffolds alone. He looked out of place, but I didn’t think anything about at the time. I thought homeboy was just getting an early start. But now that you’re asking, he could have been tampering with the scaffold, rigging it to fall.”
What was this young man’s name?” Carson hastened to ask. “Why didn’t you mention this on the original investigation.?”
“Hell nobody asked, they just closed the case and called it an accident. I didn’t want to get my homeboy in no shit, so I just kept my mouth shut, “Rodriques explained. “Dude’s name is Raphael, Raphael Fuentes.”
“If in deed this Raphael Fuentes was messing with the scaffold, what reason would he have for killing Mr. Harris?” Chuck inquired.
“Hell if I know, but there had been some talk around the yard that Mr. Harris was into some heavy dudes on some bets he placed and couldn’t pay. But I don’t know if that’s true or not,” Rodrigues said in explanation.
So it was back to Fuentes again. Something seemed a little too easy to the detectives for some reason. Rodrigues coming forward at this point and making an eyewitness claim that he saw Fuentes messing with the scaffold on the day in question was suspicious. This guy just didn’t seem like the type to be volunteering information in a police investigation. He was an obvious ex or current gang member of some sort. Maybe there was a connection between Fuentes and Rodrigues. Some bad blood between rival gangs was certainly a possibility.
Carson and Chuck finished up with the rest of the crew, not really learning anything new, and headed over to the Sanchez neighborhood to do a canvass, hoping to find someone who saw anything suspicious on the day Rick Sanchez was killed. This was a definite long shot, however it was the only one they had.
They weren’t through with Rodrigues, his story didn’t sit right with the guys and they were going to check it out, you better believe that. They also still wanted to take a look at the accident report and the pictures of site where it happened. The shipyard probably wouldn’t turn them over easily, especially if a coverup was involved. But they would get them, one way or the other.
Chapter Thirty One
The Canvass
Canvass is a old method of looking for clues and witnesses that has been proven time and time again to be effective. However, this being the case, Chuck and Carson still didn’t relish the idea of knocking on a hundred doors looking for a needle in a haystack. But alas, they had no other choice. This had been a well thought out and planned attack. The perpetrator had been meticulous in his planning and execution. If there were any witnesses they were going to be difficult to find. Such was the detectives’ task as they pulled into the upper middle class neighborhood around noon to begin their quest.
As with most of these types neighborhoods in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, the streets were deserted. The inhabitants tend to keep pretty much to themselves, venturing out only for necessities, living their lives behind the confines of their dwellings. Unfortunately for the detectives as well, they rarely even know their neighbors names much less any other pertinent information concerning their day to day lives.
A single late model Audi passed as the detectives pulled to the curb and parked. The inhabitant of the vehicle was a lady, struggling to put on her makeup and care for an infant carefully placed in a car seat in the back. She didn’t notice the noon time guests as they got out of their car and approached the first house to begin their search.
A beautiful, middle aged lady, peered out of her window and inquired as to whom was knocking at her door. The detectives introduced themselves and she consequently opened the door far enough to give a cursory glance at Carson and Chuck. She apparently liked what she saw and opened her door fully, looking at her visitors curiously. She was clad in nothing but a two pieced bathing suit, sporting a tan she apparently had been working on at the detective’s unexpected arrival.
She spoke with a Southern accent which seemed out of place, but nonetheless extremely provocative. “Yes, could I help you gentleman.” She peered over the top of her designer shades and batted her baby blues at the detectives.
Chuck, of course, always the ladies man, started the ball rolling. “Yes, ma’am were making inquiries into the murder of one of your neighbors, Rick Sanchez. We are looking for persons who might have seen anything or anyone suspicious on the morning of his death. That would be two days ago, to be exact.”
The lady in the bikini, pulling her hair back off of face, stood thinking for a few moments. “Oh, Mr. Sanchez, I didn’t know he was murdered. Oh my God! Poor Mrs. Sanchez. I don’t know what I would do if someone killed my husband.”
Carson hastened to get into the fray, “Did you see anything unusual on the morning in question, ma’am?”
“Well let me think,” she said, still pulling at her hair. “ I do remember seeing a small, funny looking man getting out of black Mercedes a couple of days ago. I was going out for my morning power walk. This guy had on a jogging suit and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled tightly over his head. And dark glasses. Very dark shades on. I had never seen him before. He looked out of place for some reason. I remember thinking that at the time, but I didn’t really give it much thought.”
“Can you describe this man a little better than just funny looking? You say he was short about how tall. Was he white, black, Hispanic, Asian or could you tell?” Chuck fired off questions, hoping for a more detailed description.
Bikini lady, tugging at her top and scrunching her nose said, “I don’t know maybe five foot six and weighing a buck fifty maybe. I think he might have been Asian, but he could have been Latino. I can’t say, I didn’t really look at him, to tell you the truth.”
“And the car. What about the car?” Carson prompted.
“Oh, yeah, the car,” she continued. “It was a black Mercedes S300 with a license plate that said ’Dr. D.’ or something like that. I just happened to notice. Does that help at all?”
Leaving the bikini clad beauty behind, Carson and Chuck knocked on another fifty or so doors. Most of the occupants were not home and the few that were didn’t see anything. They had hoped someone else had seen this mysterious “Dr. D”. Unfortunately they were not that lucky. They had a lead, as weak as it was. Someone owned a black Mercedes with that custom plate. It would be easy to trace
Chapter Thirty Two
Fred Sanders
Beautiful Coronado California lies just across the bridge by the same name from the impoverished area of San Diego known as Barrio Logan. It is in stark contrast to the ghetto area in such close proximity. Huge million dollar mansions and smaller, but just as affluent homes dot its landscape.
The city is home of the U.S. Naval Base North Island, where the awesome aircraft carriers make their berths. Near the base many retired admirals live, choosing to spend their twilight years close to the ships that they love so much, and to the navy that afforded them the opportunity to now retire in the lap of luxury.
Here also lived one of the Seven, Fred Sanders. He was Frank Desio’s radioman and close friend in Vietnam, as well as years later as a member of their secret club. He had left the Marine Corps shortly after the war and like many former sailors and marines had chosen San Diego to be his home. He had came from Memphis, Tennessee originally, and making good barbeque was in his blood. He had grown up eating and making this great dish and had decided to bring it to San Diego.
He had saved some money while he was in the corps, enough to open up a tiny little restaurant near the 32nd street Naval Station. Because of it’s close proximity to the base and the outstanding barbeque, the place soon became a hit with the sailors from the base as well as the people of the surrounding neighborhood. A year later he opened another one in downtown. It became a big hit as well and he was on his way.
Fred met his wife Rosie while a student at UCSD, the prestigious university in one of southern California’s most affluent towns, La Jolla. He was majoring in business and finance, her in pre-med. She graduated and went to medical school at the university’s school of medicine and later became a pediatrician. The couple dated for a year or so and married in the mid-seventies. They had three children, a boy and two girls of whom they were of course immensely proud.
It was another beautiful southern California morning as the couple sat at the breakfast table having a leisurely meal. Rosie was off that day and Fred didn’t have to be at the restaurant until ten. The children had already left for school and the Sanders had the big old four bedroom home to themselves, which was a rare event. One they fully intended to take full advantage of this particular morning. They were still in love after twenty years of marriage, a fact they were very proud of.
Their breakfast conversation had come back to something they had been discussing a lot, where their oldest daughter would attend college. “Rosie, I still think Ashley should go to UCSD. It was good enough for us. Why does she need to go to some Ivy league school? And financially, it would save us thousands of dollars if she stayed at home.”
“I agree Fred, but it’s her education. She should be allowed to go where she wants to go. I’ll miss her too, babe.” Rosie put the breakfast dishes in the sink and went over to Fred who was finishing up his second cup of coffee and gave him a tender kiss on the cheek. She sighed and said tenderly, “We’ve just got to accept the fact that our little girl is grown, and let her make her own decisions.”
Fred pulled Rosie close, returning her kiss, “I know, I know. But it’s just so hard to let my little girl go.” He hugged her tighter and gave her a passionate kiss on the lips.
They made love like newly weds, kids on a prom date, it was wonderful. Their problems faded into the background for those few minutes. Nothing mattered but the two of them, their bodies entwined in incredible passion, totally lost in the moment. It was amazing how they could be so in love after all these years.
Rosie lay in the bed, not wanting to get up, as Fred showered and started getting dressed for work. His task complete he walked over to bed and kissed Rosie at first on the forehead and then deeply on the mouth. “Don’t start something you don’t have time or the ability to finish there buster,” Rosie said playfully. She gave Fred a long, deep kiss and pushed him away gently. “Go on to work and let me get some rest. I’m exhausted,” She said yawning.
Releasing his hold on Rosie, reluctantly, Fred grabbed his car keys and started downstairs when he remembered something. His attorney was coming over that morning with important papers for her to sign. He just wanted to remind Rosie and to tell her goodbye and say again how much he loved her. He tenderly kissed her on the cheek and again made his way down the stairs.
The house was quiet, which was unusual for this time of the morning at the Sander’s house. Fred looked upstairs as if to tell his wife goodbye one more time, and grabbed his keys off the hook where they always hung. He sighed, really hating to leave. Looking at his watch he decided he better pick up the pace or he was going to be late.
Down the street the doctor waited patiently for Rick to come out of his house. He had planted his deadly package underneath Fred’s car. Once more he was going to play his game of death. Once more an
other good man was going to die. The doctor waited. He didn’t mind, he was a man on a mission.
He watched as Fred came out of his door and got into a late model BMW. What a shame to blow up such a fine vehicle, the doctor thought as Fred started up his car and pulled out of his drive. The doctor followed at a distance, not wanting to alert his prey that he was being hunted.
The streets of Coronado were jammed with cars, that were jammed with people going God knows where. The doctor didn’t want to risk blowing his package in heavy traffic, killing innocent people, after all he wasn’t a monster. No he didn’t want collateral damage, so he would wait until his victim’s car was alone before obliterating it and it’s occupant.
Following a couple of car lengths behind the doctor waited for the right moment, oh it was going to be magnificent. He had long loved blowing things up. The explosion, the resulting fire, and the pure devastation was such a rush to him. He watched as the BMW turned down a small street, now was his chance. He took the detonating device off the passenger seat of his car. It was time. Time for Fred Sanders to die.
Fred drove leisurely down the street, smiling about the morning’s encounter with his beautiful wife of twenty years. Rosie always did bring a smile to his face. He sang along with an oldie playing on KYXY, a local easy listening station. He had it all, he thought. A beautiful wife, a great business, and three great kids, who could ask for more.
He made the turn on the little street in Imperial Beach, where his newest restaurant stood proudly, number six, and his largest to date. Fred was immensely proud of this one. He admired the business from a far as he approached, noticing how his sign displayed the day’s specials and how it looked from the street.
Someone was following him, but he didn’t notice. He was much too busy admiring his eatery to look in his rear view and see the hand of death stalking him.