Croaker: Grave Sins (Fey Croaker Book 2)

by Paul Bishop

  DNA matching, or genetic fingerprinting, was the current evidence du jour. Just as nobody has the same traditional fingerprints, everybody’s genetic DNA make-up is different – with one exception. Using blood, semen, or other biological samples, scientists can read the DNA strips and match them to the individual who produced them.

  Semen had been found and recovered from the rectal cavities of the three buried boys. The DNA readings from the semen had all matched with each other. Further the DNA readings from the semen had been matched with the DNA readings worked up from samples of JoJo Cullen’s blood.

  The one exception to individual DNA readings is identical twins. Identical twins, split from the same female egg, would have different traditional fingerprints, but matching DNA readings.

  “I heard this coming in to work today on the news,” Brindle said from her desk next to Alphabet. “Wyatt is standing up and saying that the reason JoJo DNA matches that found in the bodies is because JoJo is an identical twin who was separated at birth from his sibling. Wyatt’s making a big deal that the police aren’t searching for this missing twin.”

  “Give me a break,” Monk said. “Does he expect anybody to buy off on that baloney? That’s about the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Alphabet put his coffee mug down after taking a long swallow. “The old my evil twin did it defense.” He snickered.

  “Where the hell is his proof regarding this twin?” Brindle asked. Her exasperation with the justice system was obvious in her tone.

  Cop work had worked its way into Brindle’s psyche. Despite her best efforts not to be swayed by it, Brindle was finding herself rapidly becoming attached to a job that she had once seen as strictly a temporary career move until something better turned up – something better in the shape of a man with a lot of money. Along the way, however, Brindle had been infected by the work and was beginning to find a depth of intestinal fortitude that she hadn’t figured on. She still didn’t see herself becoming like Fey, but neither did she any longer see her career goal as letting a man keep her.

  Max Cassidy had returned from vacation and immediately tripped down one of the station’s stairways breaking a leg and throwing his back out of whack. With Max long-term injured on duty, Hammer and Nails were still carrying the sex crimes case load.

  Chip Hernandez hadn’t even bothered to come back from vacation – just mailed in his badge and gun. With ten years invested in the LAPD, he’d pulled the pin and moved on to help his brother run their father’s construction business. Even though Chip’s position still hadn’t been filled, Fey wished him the best. She had seen the signs of discontent running through Hernandez for several years. She figured he was better off out of police work and wished him the best of luck.

  The uproar over JoJo Cullen’s arrest seemed to have put a damper on major criminal activity in West L.A. There had only been one other murder since JoJo became big time news for something besides throwing up three-pointers. It had been a smoking gun scenario that Monk and Alphabet had cleared up without raising a sweat.

  Fey and her crew had been called out earlier in the morning on an unusual suicide. Normally, the whole unit didn’t roll on suicides, but this one was distinct enough to get everyone’s attention.

  The victim was a twenty-eight year old coroner’s deputy – a co-worker of Lily Sheridan’s named Dan Potter. Fey had worked several murder scenes with Potter, but mostly he had been assigned to other areas. He’d been tall and skinny with bad acne scars and a bad haircut. Fey had once likened him to a number two pencil with a chewed end and a worn erasure.

  Potter had kept to himself and was considered more than a little odd, which was not unusual for somebody working out of the coroner’s office – not everybody down there had Lily Sheridan’s outlook on life. Potter had been an inoffensive, over-polite fellow who did his job – nothing more perhaps, but nothing less. Nobody had been aware of his depression and despair.

  As a coroner’s deputy, Potter had known all of the procedures and reports that responding officers and coroner’s personnel would go through at the scene of a suicide. When the pressures of life finally became too much for him, Potter still didn’t want to be impolite.

  As a result, before killing himself, Potter took pains to ensure nobody would be inconvenienced. He strung crime scene tape around the outside of the small two bedroom house that he shared with his recently deceased mother. He laid the two hunting rifles that had belonged to his deceased father on the bed in his room. To save authorities the effort of searching for other weapons, he laid a printed note alongside the guns stating that they were the only firearms in the house other than the handgun he was to use on himself.

  Another printed sign was taped next to a wall phone providing the information that he had used that particular phone to dial 911 emergency. On the kitchen table, completely filled out, were all the necessary coroner’s forms. Next to the forms was a Mr. Coffee with a fresh brewed pot of java and a box of doughnuts. Yet another printed note informed that the coffee and doughnuts were for the responding paramedics and cops.

  Polite to the end, Potter had dialed 911, gave his address and stated he was going to kill himself, hung up, pushed Mr. Coffee’s brew button, and walked casually into his bathroom. Inside the bathroom, he’d taken off his clothes, tied a completed corpse identification tag to his toe, climbed into a black body bag, worked his way into his bathtub, and closed the shower door.

  Dan Potter had laid waiting. He heard the sirens coming, heard the patrol cars and the paramedic’s ambulance pulling into his driveway. Still waiting, he heard the crunch of heavy boots on his front porch. He heard the knock on his front door, heard the ringing of the doorbell. He heard somebody call his name.

  And then he put the barrel of his father’s Army issue .45 in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  The Mr. Coffee finished brewing as a cop the size of Mount Rushmore shouldered down the front door.

  Fey and her unit had all been at the sad little scene. There wasn’t much they could do. It wasn’t a homicide. There was nothing to investigate. The coroners’ office would handle all the follow-up and only a couple of uniforms were needed to keep the place secure. Still, the set-up was out of the ordinary enough for them all to put in an appearance. It was more attention at one time than Potter had ever received when he’d been breathing.

  Returning to the station, Fey had taken a break with the paper only to be bowled over by Devon Wyatt’s astounding allegations.

  “This guy Wyatt is a piece of work,” she said, continuing to read the article.

  “Who does he think is going to believe him?” Brindle asked again.

  Fey turned back to the front page. “It says right here that Reverend Aloysius Brown and the First Black American Evangelical Church will again be making statements of support for JoJo. They will also be making demands for law enforcement to begin a reinvestigation of the case in order to bring the true suspect to justice.”

  Monk had stood up to move over behind Fey. Looking at the article he read a quote out loud. “Reverend Brown denounced law enforcement efforts in this case as reactionary and shoddy. ‘How can we sleep safe in our beds with a mad killer still on the loose?’“

  “Yeah, like he fits the victim profile,” said Alphabet. “I bet the old reverend is quaking in his boots.”

  “Whether we like it or not, it makes good copy,” said Fey. “Wyatt’s smart. People will believe Brown simply because he is a power base within the black community.”

  “I don’t get it,” Brindle said. “They want us to believe that JoJo couldn’t do it because he is black. But his twin brother would be black also.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Fey said. “He’s already got you accepting, if not believing, the nonsense about an identical twin.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “No, I’m serious. People out there are going to believe this simply because it’s a way to attack the police. You know the world we live in. How can yo
u underestimate the stupidity of the masses? Look how many copies of tabloid newspapers sell each week – all with ‘news’ made up out of thin air.”

  “Check out Geraldo’s ratings,” said Monk.

  Alphabet nodded. “There are people who still think professional wrestling is real.”

  “You mean it isn’t?” asked Brindle.

  Everyone from the unit except Fey had either gone to lunch or was out doing follow-ups. Fey stuffed the last of a dry bagel in her mouth and then threw her signature down on the last piece from a pile of paperwork. As she shuffled the stack together, the front page of the Times caught her eye again. She set the stack of paper work down and picked up the newspaper.

  An evil twin, she thought. Nah, no way. She read the article again. Not a shred of truth there, she was sure.

  But she still harbored instincts about the case. Earlier she’d called down to RHD and talked to Keegan. He’d told her what she’d known all along – Wyatt was full of it. No way was there a twin. Keegan had checked it out himself. JoJo was an only child whose poverty level mother had died in childbirth. There had been no other relatives. JoJo had been born an orphan.

  Maybe JoJo did have a brother somewhere, Keegan had said, but it wouldn’t be a twin and no way would the DNA match, and would Fey please stop wasting his time.

  Fey agreed. Didn’t she? Didn’t she? She didn’t know. Not an evil twin, perhaps, but something else. What? She didn’t know.

  Fey set the newspaper down. She knew if she hesitated she’d never do what she had in mind. She picked up her phone. With her other hand, she dug in her purse for a business card. When she came up with it, she punched the number on it into the phone.

  She had to be out of her mind.

  Her heart was thumping around in her chest.

  Ash answered on the third ring. “Hello.”

  “Hi, this is Fey Croaker. I’m sorry to bother you –”

  “What took you so long to call?” Ash asked, interrupting her flow of words.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to call for over six weeks. You don’t buy any of this stuff with JoJo, do you?”

  Fey didn’t reply at first, and then committed herself. “No I don’t. Haven’t done from the start.” Her voice held a strong determination.

  “Neither do I”, Ash said.

  “Then what are we going to do about it?” Fey asked.

  “I don’t know, but it could get messy,” Ash said. “I can feel it.”

  “I’m not known for backing down when things get tough,” Fey told him.

  Fey remembered seeing Ash for the first time. Something fluttered in her stomach. A hell of a thing to base a career decision on. She wondered fleetingly what Ash’s hand would feel like as it touched the back of her neck. She remembered how he seemed to look into her.

  “Okay, I’ll fix it,” Ash said into the phone.

  “That’s it? You’ll fix it?”

  “This won’t be the last time you’ll have to trust me.”

  Fey heard the phone disconnect as Ash put down the receiver on his end. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted a drink. Leaving her desk she walked out of the squad bay to go to the bathroom.

  Before finishing in the bathroom she freshened her eye makeup and brushed her hair through. Looking in the mirror she was aware of her slate blue eyes questioning her. She noticed the crow’s feet and other lines making themselves into permanent fixtures on her countenance. I’m too old to be wearing my emotions on my sleeve, she thought as she examined herself. What the hell do I think I’m doing? Isn’t my life complicated enough? What the hell do I expect from Ash after such brief contact? Sex? Love? The instant solution to a murder? Am I reacting to him out of instinct or lust, or is there a difference?

  Oh, well, she thought. Nobody ever said I was smart.

  Just stubborn.

  Chapter 37

  The Federal Building at the corner of Wilshire and Sepulveda played home to numerous government agencies including the L.A. office of the FBI. On the sixteenth through eighteenth floors, the FBI had laid out a rat warren of partitions to supplement the already complex maze of standard corridors and offices. White collar crimes, bank robberies, fugitive, anti-terrorism, narcotics, and numerous other investigative details all fought for space. The hierarchy pecking order determined how large, how plush, and how many windows with which your office was equipped.

  The largest and most plush office was reserved for Freddie Mackerbee, the Special Agent in Charge – SAC – of the FBI’s Los Angeles branch. The room was fifteen by fifteen and dominated by a huge mahogany desk and a high-backed leather chair. There was also the standard American flag, and a portrait of the current FBI director. If you took a close look at the portrait, you could see several dart holes between the director’s steely eyes.

  Two picture windows gave the office a wonderfully open feel. The view beyond them was of the beautiful green and white expanse of the veteran’s cemetery across the street. It was a peaceful view, and one that Mackerbee appreciated after his last assignment in D.C.

  The office, however, was impersonal. There were no private mementoes of any kind. Mackerbee had been the Los Angeles SAC for three years, but he knew he could be moved on at any time. That was simply a fact of life in the Bureau.

  Mackerbee sat behind his desk, studying a man he not only considered a top resource, but also a friend – if the man could be said to have any friends. “This is an unusual request coming from you, Ash.”

  “Are you telling me I can’t have her, sir?”

  Mackerbee held up a placating hand in Ash’s direction. “No. All I’m saying is that for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been fanatical about working alone. Now you’re asking for a partner. It’s like the Pope asking to get married.”

  Mackerbee was a short man built like a throw pillow on legs. He had a happy, but florid face that spoke of too many late night stakeouts, too many murder scenes, and too many fingers of Jameson’s.

  For some reason, women were attracted to Mackerbee like bees to honey. Something about him made women want to cuddle him and take him home. Ash had seen the reaction time and again at office parties and even during professional or official meetings. Mackerbee, however, never appeared to take advantage of this knack. He had a beautiful, devoted wife – a tall, blond, statuesque Amazon – and never strayed. Mackerbee knew when he was well off. He also knew that if he was ever caught fooling around, his wife would tear him in half and throw his stuffings everywhere.

  Ash stared at Mackerbee in silence. Waiting.

  Mackerbee finally shook his head. “You’re a weird one, Ash. I swear to Buddha, the Bureau ain’t never seen the likes of you before.”

  “You have a complaint about my clearance rate?”

  “Hell, no!” Mackerbee held up both hands in Ash’s direction this time. “As far as I’m concerned, I wish I had another dozen like you.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Mackerbee shook his head. “Same old stuff. The other guys see you as some kind of prima donna. They don’t like to see you get the long leash all the time.”

  “That’s their problem. I’m retired, remember?”

  “That was just a wheeze to buy you some time,” Mackerbee said. “This special consultant business is wearing thin for some of the other agents. Call it professional jealousy or anything else you like, but it’s a fact of life. You’ll never live to be retired, and you know it. “

  Mackerbee was one of the few people who actually knew the truth about Ash’s physical condition.

  “The problem is that some of the brass are also starting to ask questions,” Mackerbee continued. “They’re hearing the rumblings of discontent from the troops and wonder if I’m not giving you too much leash. It’s a case of what have you done for us lately.”

  “The brass is your problem.”

  Mackerbee looked at Ash through lidded eyes.

  “Do you want this monster
caught or not?” Ash asked.

  Mackerbee leaned back in his chair. “LAPD is telling the world they’ve already caught the monster. JoJo “Jammer” Cullen, homosexual basketball player and sadistic murderer.”

  “They’re wrong,” Ash said simply.

  Mackerbee picked up a letter opener and spun it around between his hands. “If LAPD has indeed got the wrong man and you catch the real killer, the brass from the Director on down will get on their hands and knees and lick your ass.”

  “Then get me Croaker.”

  “As easy as that? I get you Croaker, and you get me the real killer?”

  “It’s never that easy. You get me Croaker, and somewhere along the line she and I will bring you the real killer. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe sometime in the afterlife.”

  “I didn’t know you believed in the afterlife, Ash.”

  “Everybody has to believe in something.”

  “Yeah? Well, I believe you better bring me the real killer sooner than later.”

  “Are you trying to tell me I don’t have a lot of time left?”

  Mackerbee didn’t flinch from it. “I saw your last medical report. We both know you don’t have a lot of time left.”

  Ash shrugged. “You itchin’ to ask me why I’m not spending my waning days sunning on some beach in Tahiti, drinking fruit vodkas with umbrellas in them, and chasing grass skirts?”

  “No,” said Mackerbee. “I know that answer. What I want to know is why one more monster is so important to you?”

  Ash looked out the window over the veterans’ cemetery. “I think you’ve known me long enough to also answer that one for yourself.”

  Mackerbee waited a beat.

  Ash waited with him.

  “I know Croaker,” Mackerbee said eventually. “She may be wound a bit tight, but she’s a heck of a detective. Rumor has it she’s so tough she rolls her own tampons.”

  “She does have a razor-sharp tongue,” Ash agreed, and then let silence fall again, waiting his boss out.