The Protector

by Danielle L Davis

  “Not right now.” I turned to Bernie. “You?”

  “I don’t think so.” He strolled to the door. “We’ll be in touch if we have news.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Harrington. Good luck with Chester and Liz.” I headed out thinking it was nice to see the rich get down and dirty, even if by accident. She didn’t appear angry about the pups at all.

  Cynthia grinned and nodded. “Goodbye, Detectives.” She turned and padded up the steps. We headed to our car, better informed, but more puzzled than when we’d arrived.

  13

  That evening, I sat across the table from Randall, my second date from the website. We’d been exchanging emails for a little while and eventually arranged to meet at the Starbucks on Third Street. Unlike Greg, Randall looked exactly like his profile photo. A thirty-year-old Latino, he worked as a systems analyst for a bank.

  “So, how long have you been dating online?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’ve had my profile for almost two years.” He stared at me, hands folded on the table over his cell phone.

  “How many women have you met?”

  “Maybe a couple hundred.” He shrugged, then grinned.

  “I’m sorry. What? Two hundred?” This guy was a serious serial dater.

  Damnit! I can sure pick ’em.

  “Yeah. I’d say at least that many give or take fifty or so.”

  “Seriously?” I was amazed beyond words. How did he find the time? I tried to do the math but was too shocked to work it through. Randall was physically attractive, and I figured he was leaving a trail of broken hearts all over town. Hell, there could be broken hearts throughout the country, for all I knew. “Did you go out with any of them more than once?”

  “A few.” His phone’s ringtone sounded. “Excuse me.” He picked it up, read a text, and chuckled. Then, he started texting back! I couldn’t believe it. He finished and set the phone down. “How long have you been dating online?”

  “Less than a month.”

  “You’re a virgin then.” His ringtone sounded again, but he didn’t respond, just kept staring at my breasts.

  “I’m up here.”

  He raised his eyes to my face, totally unapologetic. “How many men have you met?”

  “You’re the second.”

  “Sleep with the first one?” he asked, smiling.

  “Well ... excuse me?” I leaned away from him. His phone vibrated. He lifted his shoulders and turned his palms up. He picked up the phone and began texting. I stood, strode away from the table, and left him to his first love, the cell phone.

  Jackass!

  Outside, a sliver of moon and a sprinkle of stars did little to illuminate the night sky. Not ready to go home, I gave Khrystal a call. We hadn’t hung out as much since she and Bernie had gotten together. I sat in my car and dialed. “Hey, Khrystal. It’s Sydney.”

  “Hi, Syd. What’s up?”

  “Just wondering if you were free to meet for a drink or a bite to eat.” Dead air. Silence. Was she still there? I looked at the display. Still connected. “Khrystal? You there?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.”

  “Is everything okay? If you can’t, it’s no big deal. I just had some unexpected free time.”

  “I can’t. Can I have a rain check?”

  “Sure. Give me a buzz when you’re free.”

  “I will. Sorry about that.”

  “No problem. Talk to you later.”

  “Bye.”

  Weird. What was going on with her? My phone chirped. It was Mac, checking in on my date, no doubt. How did she know the date was over? She was probably living vicariously through me. I gave her the details and she provided the appropriate shocked commentary.

  I started my car and put it in reverse. A pounding on my passenger side window made me jump. I backed up, trying to shake the person. The door handle jiggled. What the hell? The person mumbled something and rapped on the glass. It was too damn dark to see who was there. I rolled from the space and turned my car around, shining the headlights at them. The person shielded his or her eyes. I hopped from the car as the figure staggered.

  “Police! Hands in the air!”

  It was a man. Not much larger than me. He mumbled and swayed.

  “Why were you trying to get into my car?”

  A woman spoke from behind me. “He said, ‘Help. My keys.’”

  “How do you know what he’s saying?”

  “My daughter’s deaf. She speaks in muffled tones, like him.”

  Deaf. Yeah.

  I should’ve figured that out but focusing on his pounding on my window and the attempt to enter my car got in the way. Since the recent motorcycle attack, I wasn’t taking any chances. “Do you know sign language?”

  “I do.” The woman dropped her shopping bags and stepped closer to the man, who’d calmed down.

  “Can you ask him his name? And why he was trying to get into my car?”

  She signed, and he responded in a flurry. “His name is Norman Jones and he locked his keys in his car. He needed to get to San Sansolita Memorial Hospital because his wife went into premature labor. He panicked. He thought you seemed friendly and tried to get you to help.”

  “Tell him he looks like he’s had too much to drink and he shouldn’t be driving anyway.”

  She signed it. He nodded and signed back.

  “He’s sorry.”

  “Okay, but you almost got yourself killed, buddy.” He watched my lips, nodded, then slumped. A patrol car cruised through the parking lot and I flagged it down.

  “I’ll have Officer Jenkins take you to the hospital, Mr. Jones. It’s not far.”

  “Thank you,” he mumbled.

  I understood that. “You’re welcome. I hope your wife and baby are okay.” After sending him on his way with Jenkins, I thanked the woman without getting her name and trudged to my car, ready to call it a night. I just wanted to go home, put on my PJs, and watch a funny movie. Buckling up, I leaned my head back on the headrest, closed my eyes, and sighed, feeling glad I had at least been able to help Mr. Jones. What a day.

  A thunderous crash erupted from the back of my car.

  What the …?

  I ducked, pressed my face to the steering wheel, and covered my head with my arms. Pieces of something bounced off my head, back, and arms. Stuff rattled on the back of my seat. My neck and ears stung from the debris. A motorcycle roared! I lowered my arms, turned my head, and peeked out the window. Taillights raced away from me. I turned around, wrenching my back. Glass covered the rear seat from the shattered window. I unbuckled and opened my door, gun drawn, and glass pellets fell from my hair and clothes. I didn’t dare give chase. How could I on foot, anyway? Even if I used the car, the rider was long gone. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and shook it.

  “Damnit! Not again.” I asked the crowd of rubberneckers if they had seen anything. Nobody had, of course. Expecting nothing, I called in a BOLO for the motorcycle and returned to my car, assessing the extent of the damage. There were two flat tires I hadn’t noticed before.

  Crap!

  Glass granules crunched under my boots. The window was a rim of crumpled glass bits threaded with spidery fractures. Glass sprinkled the inside of my car all the way to the dashboard. As far as I could tell, the object responsible for this carnage remained with the rider of the motorcycle ... again. I dug my flashlight from the glove compartment and shone it on the floor in the back, then on the seats until I found what I was looking for. A baggie containing more Scrabble letters; “C” and “T”. I called Bernie. No answer. I left a message.

  “Bernie, it’s me. Sydney. Call me back!” I continued searching the area. No note was included with the letters. I didn’t need one. I got the message loud and clear. What set it off? Were we getting too close? To what or whom? Tenley? Monty? I didn’t have a clue. Why me and not Bernie? That made me think it had to have something to do with Monty. Although he wasn’t that stupid, if he felt his world collapsing, he might work to defend the l
ife he’d made for himself. He’d built a lucrative career and had prestige and respect amongst his peers.

  My phone rang, and I read the display—Bernie. “Hello?”

  “Syd, what’s going on?” I heard music in the background, as if he was at a club. What the hell? I thought he was home with Khrystal. “Syd!” He jolted me from my reverie.

  “I can’t hear you! I’m at the Starbucks on Third Street.”

  “Okay. What’s up?”

  I told him, speaking loudly.

  “Whoa! You think this has something to do with our case?”

  “Yep. We have Scrabble tiles again.”

  “Shit! You hurt?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “You were in the car at the time?”

  “Yep. About to drive away. I have two flat tires, too.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes. Stay there, okay?”

  “Not much choice unless I call a cab.” After disconnecting, I circled around my car. A patrol car had arrived—different than the one that had taken Mr. Jones to the hospital. This Starbucks was a popular stop for cops on the job. I left them to canvass the bystanders but doubted they’d learn anything of use. I asked the officers, Jacobs and Rodriguez, to have my car taken to the garage. I planned to call my insurance company in the morning.

  “Hey, Syd.” Bernie strolled around the front of my car, whistled, and gazed at the mess.

  “You got here fast. Where were you?” I asked.

  “Not that far away.” He leaned closer and squinted. “You’re cut. You need to get that looked at. Make sure there’s no glass under your skin.” He reached for my face.

  I slapped at his hand. “I’m fine.”

  “All right. If you say so.”

  I handed him the bag of Scrabble tiles. He held it up to the dim light provided by the flickering lampposts. “So, who’d you piss off?”

  “Me? No clue. You’ve been with me throughout the investigation, except when you were out sick. Why me and not you?”

  “It’s personal? Maybe Harrington? I don’t like him for this though.” He frowned. “But, I can’t think of anyone else.” Our phones rang. Dispatch. Yet another dead body.

  “C’mon,” Bernie said, ending his call. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  We took off a few minutes later. A couple who’d been on Morrison Park’s walking trails had found the latest victim at the same park where Mac and I had worked out that morning. It seemed so long ago. We wouldn’t be out there tomorrow, for sure.

  Someone would have to inform another family their loved one wouldn’t be coming home.

  Sometimes, I didn’t love my job so much.

  When we arrived at Morrison Park, we found it cordoned off and the nearby streets barricaded. Police cars and other official vehicles filled the street, parking in many directions. Uniformed officers had scattered, walking the perimeter. The park covered ten acres and had playgrounds, a wave pool, pavilions, ball fields, and a two-block-wide grassy area used by people exercising their dogs. I’d been to picnics, family gatherings, and birthday parties there. It sat on land donated to the city decades ago by a relative of one of San Sansolita’s founding families.

  We headed toward a bench, to the victim. The flashing lights of the police cars, fire engines, fire rescue vehicles, and an ambulance flickered over the nearby buildings. People had begun to turn on lights in the homes closest to the park. A few residents had come out onto their lawns to gawk, and others gathered in their driveways and on the sidewalks. We pulled on our disposable gloves while walking through the grass, which had been freshly cut and smelled of spring.

  “Lots of brass here.” Bernie watched the people moving through the park. “Only a matter of time before the TV crews arrive.” He gave a half-hearted shrug and sighed.

  “Yeah. I spotted Mayor Bradley behind the barricade. Let’s get this done before the news birds start flying overhead.” Nothing like the continuing racket and downwash of the news choppers to spoil a quiet investigation. At the picnic area, a uniformed officer I didn’t recognize stood guard. We signed the log. Bernie moved ahead of me.

  “Oh, shit.” Bernie spun on his heel, almost knocking me over. I skipped out of his path, but not before catching a glimpse of what had caused his grimace.

  “Jesus.”

  I stared at the victim and scanned the area around him. No blood on the ground. This wasn’t the kill site. He’d been a fit white male in his early- to mid-fifties and lay sprawled on his back, naked. Dried blood caked his torso and legs. Cuts and abrasions covered him, as if he had been dragged across asphalt. What appeared to be ligature marks scarred his wrists. He’d struggled. Who wouldn’t, if they could? A lot of good it had done, though. A bloodied and folded wad of black fabric—maybe some type of robe—lay beside him.

  Interesting.

  Terror glazed his gray eyes—the type of terror brought on by torture and excruciating pain. The kind where the victim just wanted to die to escape the agony. Major bruising darkened his thighs. One testicle was missing, and the surrounding skin had been shredded. The remaining testicle had swollen to the size of a large tangerine, or maybe a peach. The extensive bruising and swelling in this case would indicate the victim had been alive for some time during the mutilation. He’d probably bled to death slowly, but Dr. Lee would know.

  Lots of pain here.

  I stepped back and took a moment to breathe.

  “Know who it is?” Bernie frowned, his skin pale.

  “Can’t say I do. You?”

  Strips of yellow duct tape hung from one corner of the victim’s mouth. Blood had dried on the sticky side. His mouth was open, as if in a scream, his lips bruised and crusted with blood.

  “Don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him before ... somewhere.” Bernie shook his head as if to clear away the memory. “At first, I thought he was someone else I knew.”

  “It’s Judge Cecil Franklin,” Jake, the young tech, said, looking as though he were about to reach for a vomit bag or faint. “One of the juvenile court judges. His court ID is under there.” He aimed his flashlight under the park bench.

  “Did you know him?” Bernie asked.

  “Me? No. I overheard Mayor Bradley talking. The mayor said he played golf with him yesterday.” He looked off toward the street and pointed. “Here comes the ME.” A Riverside County Coroner vehicle pulled up behind a squad car.

  “Since the victim is a juvie judge this could be related to the CPS murders,” I said.

  “Possibly.” Bernie moved around the body. “Wait a minute.” He knelt.

  “What? What is it?” I leaned over his shoulder, crouching.

  He pointed.

  Holy shit.

  I had a sense of déjà vu.

  “See that?” Bernie looked up at me, his expression grim.

  Scrabble tiles. Shoved to the back of his mouth. I stood aside. “Victim number three.”

  “Let’s see how many letters this time.” Bernie tried to look without touching. “Looks like two to me, but we’ll know for sure once the ME gets through with him.”

  “Don’t forget the two I received tonight.”

  “This murder is more violent than the others.” Bernie shook his head again. “Sadistic, even. Maybe personal.”

  “Is he escalating, or did the judge trigger something in our killer?” I asked. “He wasn’t killed here.”

  Bernie nodded his agreement. “Not enough blood.”

  “The judge probably tried hundreds of cases in his career. Could be any number of them, or none,” I said.

  The techs lugged their equipment and samples to their vehicles. We were finished and let the uniformed officer standing guard know.

  Time to interview the couple who called it in.

  14

  We found the people sitting in a patrol car. The night had cooled since I’d left my trashed car in the Starbucks parking lot, and I pulled my leather jacket tight around me. Bernie tapped on the window and pressed his shield agai
nst it. He pulled the door open and two men slid out. They both wore the wide-eyed expressions of the frightened.

  Bernie introduced us. “Your names?”

  They wore warm-up suits and running shoes. The taller of the two, a muscular man in his early thirties, stepped up. He resembled a dark-haired Ken doll. “I’m Derek Jamison.” He flipped a hand toward the man beside him, who appeared to have puked and looked like he might repeat the performance really soon. “This is my ... this is Ben Parker.”

  “Your addresses?” I’d gotten out my notebook. The squad car had parked near a lamppost and I had enough light to see.

  We took note of his address.

  I peered at Parker. “And you?”

  “The same. We live together.” He scrunched up his face and held a shaky hand over his mouth. I stepped away from him. No way I wanted vomit on me or on my almost-new cowgirl booties.

  “What were you doing when you discovered the body?” Bernie asked.

  Both men’s heads jerked toward Bernie. A flash of anger crossed Ken Doll’s face. Parker swallowed hard and took in a huge gulp of air.

  “Whoa!” Bernie held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not implying ... I meant, were you running, walking by, sitting on the park bench gazing at the stars, or what?”

  “Oh!” Ken Doll dropped his chin to his chest. “Sorry.” His smile twitched. “It’s just that ... you know.”

  “Sure. Did you see anyone around here?” Bernie asked.

  Both men stared at each other. Parker shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Wait. Remember the elderly couple?” Ken Doll nudged Parker. “The pooper scooping, or rather, the lack thereof?”