Later that evening, Genghis and Jeff were watching the local news. Genghis was also monitoring the Westberry Police Department's computers for anything of interest when he heard a car pull into the drive.
“Twinkie just pulled up.”
“What, what do you mean?”
Genghis turned toward Jeff. “Monica was going to drop Twink off after work, remember? They just pulled up.”
Jeff got up and walked to the living room window and looked out. “Yeah that’s them, and Monica is coming up the side stairs with Twinkie. Quick, Genghis, put your dog face on!”
“Sure I can do . . . my what?”
“You know? Like on that sporting event we watched last Sunday with Twinkie.”
Genghis thought back. “You mean the one where all those guys facing one another stood up from a crouching position and started punching each other?”
“Yes, that one. Remember that little angry fellow who was yelling at the group that had less points and shouted ‘Get your game faces on!’ Meaning to act like performers and possibly win.”
“But they didn’t!”
“Yes, I know. But that’s not the point!”
“So, why can’t I put my game face on?”
“Because we’re not playing a game!”
A key was inserted into the front door’s deadbolt and unlocked.
“Act like a human canine!” Jeff quickly said, as the door started to open.
“Hi guys,” Jennifer said, as she held the door open for Monica.
Genghis produced a high-pitched unnatural bark as they entered, knowing that it wasn’t a convincing sounding bark for a humane canine. He looked up at Trent, who just rolled his eyes.
“Well, hello, Monica and welcome to our home,” Jeff said. “So, Twinkie, how was your first day on the job?”
“It went great!” Jennifer said.
Monica knelt down and started petting Genghis, “Hey big guy, how are you?” She giggled brightly, “Have you had any coffee today?” Genghis and Jeff both liked Monica, she was a naturally sweet girl. She looked up at Jeff, “She did great, Jeff. She caught on really fast and is real good at customer service. All the regulars liked her and said she fits right in.”
“That’s wonderful! Twinkie, did you have a good time?”
“Yeah, I really did. It’s a fun place to work,” Jennifer said. “Hey, Jeff? Monica and I are going to the movies. Would you like to come with us?”
“To the cinema?”
“No, silly. To the movies!”
“Oh, thank you very much, both of you. But I think I’ll take a rain check, if that’s okay? You two should go and celebrate, have a good time.”
Jennifer and Monica disappeared into Jennifer’s room to get out of their Dave’s clothes and came out twenty minutes later. Jennifer was wearing a different pair of jeans and another shirt, while Monica was wearing one of Jennifer’s black AC/DC t-shirts. Both were no longer wearing their Dave’s baseball caps and had their hair combed out. “Okay, we’re going. I should be home around eleven or twelve,” Jennifer said.
“Alright, please be careful driving out there, the leaves on the roads are wet and slippery. Have a good time,” Jeff said. Genghis produced a much better bark as the two girls went out the front door and down the side stairs to Monica’s Camry.
Monica dropped Jennifer back off at 12:45. After the movie, they had gone shopping at Walmart. Jennifer entered the apartment with a plastic shopping bag and an artificial Christmas tree in a large box. She pulled the fully assembled tree out and attached it to the stand. Then, Jeff and Genghis helped her unfold and fluff the branches of the four foot tree. It came already pre-wired with tiny colorful lights. They set it up in the corner of the living room and started putting ornaments on it that Jennifer also purchased.
Jennifer thought back while trimming the tree and couldn’t remember a Christmas where she wanted to celebrate the season. When she was a very little girl her mother and she used to decorate the tree all the time together. And on Christmas morning she would roll out of bed early and run to see all the presents under the tree. Her mother would be waiting for her, sitting in that old wing-back chair with camera in hand. But then her mother met and married Doug, and as Jennifer got older, less presents were given. Then, her mother and stepfather got more involved with drugs and booze, and the decoration of Christmas trees and presents stopped altogether. Christmas mornings became just another day. On several occasions she would wake up on Christmas morning to an empty house, just her and her little dog. She remembered one particular morning waking to find her mother and stepfather passed out in the car after a Christmas Eve party. She physically had to drag them into the trailer. She was thirteen.
They finished off their new Christmas tree with shiny tinsel, then Jennifer turned off the apartment lights and plugged in the tree.
“Wow, Twink! This is nice,” Genghis said, colorful lights reflecting in his eyes.
“Yes, Twinkie.” Jeff had a silly grin on his face. “Just like a real human family.”
“And that’s not all,” Jennifer said, as she reached into the plastic shopping bag and pulled out two movies on DVD. They made coffee and popped popcorn, then settled onto the couch and watched A Charlie Brown Christmas, followed by It’s a Wonderful Life.
Chapter Sixty-One
Dawson DeLaRue walked into the fourth floor break room of the Westberry Police Department and found Frank McVie sitting at a small round table unwrapping a sandwich from a brown paper bag. He glanced up as the Lieutenant entered.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” Frank said, taking a bite.
DeLaRue walked over to the coffee maker with his cup and pushed down on the red dispenser, filling his cup with hot water. “Hi Frank, brown bagging it today?” Dawson turned and leaned against the counter to face him while submerging a tea bag into his cup.
“Yeah, I just didn’t feel like having a greasy burger today.”
“Eating that shit everyday will kill you, yah know.” Just then, another police detective walked into the break room.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch!” Frank responded, while getting up, “Eugene, how yah doing?” He extended his hand. “What are you doing out here?”
“Frank! Long time,” he said, taking Frank's hand. “I’m doing okay. I stopped by to pick up a case file. How’s Mary? Still a dispatcher?”
“Yup, she sure is. About to get ready to retire in another six months. Eugene,” Frank turned toward Dawson, “This is my boss, Lieutenant Dawson DeLaRue. LT, this is Eugene Mitchell. He and I worked Narcotics together before I switched over to Homicide.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of you, but not had the pleasure.” The two men shook hands. “I read about the commendation you received a couple of months ago for that drug ring you busted.”
“Oh, thank you, Lieutenant, but it wasn’t just me. I have a good group of guys and gals working with me. And besides, it was more luck than anything else.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Frank said.
“Yeah, well, wish I could get that lucky with this new shit that’s on the street.” Mitchell pulled a Styrofoam cup from a tall stack of cups.
Dawson took a sip of his tea. “New shit?”
Mitchell reached for the coffee. “Yeah, it’s something that hit about six, eight months ago. Its street name is Dragon's Breath, and it's really addictive. One hit and you're hooked and incredibly easy to OD on.” He poured himself some coffee, then replaced the coffee pot back into the coffee maker. “The OD count is up to nine. It’s something the lab is trying to break down, but they can’t figure it out. Strange stuff!”
“Well, if there is anything I can do for you,” Frank said, “let me know. It’ll be like old times.”
“Yeah same here,” DeLaRue added. “If there’s anything my department can do for you don’t hesitate.”
“Thank you Lieutenant, Frank, that would be great. That is if you can find the time. You two have been pretty busy yourselves with this se
rial killer running around. If I hear anything through any of my CI’s about that, I’ll definitely let you know.
“Oh, speaking of, I was out in West Compton meeting up with a CI by the old cemetery. Don’t know if you guys have heard or not, but that girl that was found in the playground was buried out there this morning.”
“I was told the other day that it would be today,” DeLaRue responded. “Would have liked to have gone and paid my respects.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Mitchell said. “Pretty sad when you really think about it.”
“I try not to think about it anymore.” Dawson said, as he took a drink of his tea. The string from the bag with the maker's tag attached swung as it hung over the edge of his cup.
“Anyone show up for the poor kid?” Frank asked.
“Only some guy and a girl. Funny thing, they brought their damn dog with them.”
Earlier that morning, while Eugene Mitchell was meeting his confidential informant, there was a cold drizzly rain falling. Jennifer Winkles and Genghis Khan huddled close to either side of Jeff Trent, shielding themselves under the umbrella he was holding. The priest made the sign of the cross over the open grave that held a simple wooden casket. He then looked skyward. “Because God has chosen to call our sister Trisha from this life to Himself, we commit her body to the earth . . .” Jennifer quietly sobbed, while Genghis and Trent thought that this wouldn’t be the last victim of Prodor Moffit.
The cemetery was located in the far west corner of the Compton Square district of Old Town. It was a potter’s field, the last stop for the homeless and indigent; all of them with no family to claim their remains. At the conclusion of the service, Jeff shook the priest’s hand and thanked him. Jennifer bent down and grabbed a handful of wet dirt and tossed it onto the casket and said her final goodbye to her friend Trisha. Then, the three walked back to the cruiser without a word and headed home.
“Why anyone would bring a dog to a funeral is beyond me.” Eugene Mitchell said, as he finished his coffee.
“Not all that unusual,” Frank said. “A lot of people see their dogs as actual family members.”
“I guess so, seemed like the only family she had,” Eugene said, as he tossed his empty cup into the trash. “It was pretty much just a simple service, real quick. After that, the three of them got into this sweet old Ford and drove off.”
Dawson DeLaRue looked up from his cup. “A white Ford?”
“Yeah!"
“Was it a Thunderbird?” Frank added.
“Yeah, how’d you guys know?”
Dawson looked over to Frank, then to Mitchell. “Was it a 1959 Thunderbird?”
“Oh, couldn’t tell you the year, Lieutenant, but it was a Ford Thunderbird. Not the kind Suzanne Somers drove in American Graffiti, but one of the big battleship Birds.
Fifteen minutes later, as Dawson and Frank were in the elevator heading down to the third floor, Dawson said, “Frank?”
“Yeah, Lieutenant?”
“Why was that ‘59 Ford at my crime scene? Then that very same Ford at the funeral for the victim?” The elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open.
“Yeah I know. But, it doesn’t make sense. The guy whacks our vic, then brings the family to her funeral. Just doesn't add up, Lieutenant.”
They continued to walk the expanse of the floor where cubicles of police officers were busy at their desks. “Frank, what’s my number one rule on coincidences?”
“Ah . . . your number one rule on coincidences?”
“Yeah! My number one rule on coincidences.”
“Oh, that rule! That there’s no such thing as coincidences.”
DeLaRue stopped at his open office door and turned to face McVie. “Exactly! Frank, would you do me a favor? Put out a BOLO on that Ford. I don’t want him stopped or detained unless it’s necessary, but I do want to know what he does when he comes into town.”
About the time Frank McVie was putting out the Be On the Lookout for the white 1959 Ford Thunderbird, William “Billy Bourbon” Jamerson was parking his Buick Skylark at the curb overlooking Grant Park. He got out and started the five minute trek deep into the park to the large oak tree to meet Bollar. Bollar was standing under the tree waiting for him. “Mr. Bourbon, on time as usual.”
“Will you quit that Mr. Bourbon shit? It’s Billy, just Billy.”
“Very well, Billy. I want to apologize for my friend's behavior.” Bollar handed Billy a white envelope. “And apologize for not letting you know his true profession.”
“Well, Bollar, if I had known that up front I would have taken different precautions.” He looked into the envelope and raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, I doubled what I was going to pay you. Let’s just say it’s for the inconvenience.”
Billy broke out into a big gold grin. “Well, I do thank yah for that, Mr. Bollar.” He slipped the envelope into his back pocket. “Will you be okay without my help? You seem to be getting around just fine now.”
“Yes, I am doing much better, but will always carry the scars of this town.” Bollar stepped beside Billy and they both looked out upon the vast park. “Which is why I’ll be moving on.”
“Where you headin'?” Billy asked.
“Oh, probably north. But before I leave, I’ll have to tie up some loose ends here.” Bollar calmly looked around the park for any joggers or hikers. The park was empty. He then removed his IPF survival knife, reached over, and plunged it deep into the left side of Billy’s abdomen. Bollar quickly drew the knife across Billy’s waist, easily slicing through his thick winter coat, then pulled it out.
Billy was stunned for a moment and wondered what was spilling onto his shoes. A searing pain started to rise. He began to feel lightheaded. He looked down. It just didn’t register with him. Why were his intestines uncoiling out of him and splattering warmly onto the ground? He looked over to Bollar, wondering if the same thing was happening to him, but Bollar was reaching into Billy’s back pocket, retrieving the white envelope.
Bollar had planned this out the past couple of days. The IPF agent now knew about Billy Bourbon and had confronted him, and Billy was an opportunist who knew too much about Bollar. It was only a matter of time before Billy started talking. He just couldn’t take that chance. Bollar was walking away when Billy’s knees gave out. Then Bollar stopped and thought for a second.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Dawson DeLaRue pulled to the curb next to the other police cars. Another victim was found in the park by a jogger. He got out and started walking across the vast field where soccer and touch football games were played, toward the tree line where the big oak has stood for over a hundred years. Dawson could see Frank in the distance through the trees with the other crime scene techs. Frank saw DeLaRue and started walking toward him and met him halfway. They walked together the rest of the way and under the crime scene tape.
“Well, Dawson, not your serial killer! MO's all wrong,” Doctor Riviera said. “Knife was larger, maybe a hunting knife, and one incision below the stomach which disemboweled him. Could have been a crime of opportunity such as it is.” The three of them walked over to the body. “Maybe he got into an argument or something because robbery wasn’t the motive.” He pointed along the ground. “We have some shoe prints that are not our vic’s. We’re making casts now. Looks to be Todd Welsh men's, size ten. I’ll know better by tomorrow.” He paused for a moment then, “Now, this does not fit our serial killer's MO. But, it does fit with the MO of the Phizer’s murder and heist.” The doctor pointed, “See, his two index fingers were cut off. The perp must have taken them with him, just like the guard's at Phizer’s.”
Frank bent low to get a good look at the man on the ground. “Hey! I know this guy. It’s William Jamerson, street name Billy Bourbon.” He straightened up and addressed DeLaRue. “Local pimp, drug dealer, fence, you name it, Billy’s done it. Just a grade-A piece of shit. He was busted a couple of years back for selling heroin.” Frank grinned, “Eugene busted him o
n that one. I think he got out a couple of months ago.” He circled around Billy’s body being careful not to step on the lower intestines. “I guess he finally pissed off the wrong person.”
Dawson was a little relieved that it wasn’t his serial killer, and now had a connection to the Phizer’s job. But, another murder to solve which would take time and manpower away from the serial killer investigation. He exhaled, his breath thick in the cold air. He looked around the park, trying to recreate the murder in his mind. He imagined the two men walking up together to this very secluded location deep into the park, or maybe one was waiting for the other. Most likely they came in from Seventh Avenue where they could have parked their cars. He could see the road through the dense tree line. Even if someone was standing on the sidewalk and looking into the park it would have been impossible to witness the crime.
Dawson watched the cars going up and down 7th. He watched a new model Volkswagen Bug disappear behind the trees and reappear, then disappear again like an old flickering silent film. It disappeared behind a cluster of trees, and Dawson looked at the end of that cluster waiting for the Bug to emerge, but something else caught his eye. He could see only the rear end of a white vehicle parked at the curb of the park. He walked a few yards to his right in order to see past the cluster of trees. He already knew what he would see. “Frank?”
Frank trotted up to the lieutenant, “Yeah, LT?”
DeLaRue didn’t take his eyes off the vehicle, he just raised an index finger and pointed. “Frank, what do you see right over there? To the right of that bunch of trees.”
Frank scanned the area at which his boss was pointing. At first he didn’t see anything, but then, “Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch!”
“Yup! That fucking ‘59 Ford,” Dawson said, as they both started the long walk toward the parked Thunderbird. Frank reached into his coat for his radio.
Jeff, Genghis and Jennifer were parked at the curb overlooking the park. “Is it really him?” Jennifer asked Jeff, as he looked through the binoculars.
The Interstellar Police Force, Book One: The Historic Mission Page 28
