"I don't know, boss. All I know is that I wake up this morning hearing all sorts of noise down the river from me. I reconnoiter and see cops and dogs, so I figures I better get to higher ground. But they’re not coming for me, they are checking under a bridge. Now I know this is where Gibbs usta hang out, so I begin to wonder, maybe something's happened to the boy. So I maneuver until I’m nearer the bridge, and I can see that they have a body and are searching the area. Now I’m worried, because they might come to my hooch and force me out. But so far, they don't. So I ask some peeps standing nearby what's going on, and they tell me that Gibbs was shot last night. It was afore midnight, and several people musta heard the shot, but what can we do about that, boss? Call it in to 911? So it wasn't ‘til morning that someone tells the cops what they heard. And the cops come out and find Gibbs, all dead."
MacFarland was silent. He couldn’t believe that Lucas or Schmidt would do something like this. Was Gibbs killed because he was keeping surveillance on WA and Newsome? Or was this just another unfortunate poor-on-poor killing? "I’m sorry to hear that he was killed, Rufus. I had no idea that you knew him."
Rufus stared back at MacFarland in disbelief. "It ain't like I ever left here, boss. You don't know many of the people on the street anymore, because you got a place to live. You forget what it's like being on the street. Now those two cops have gone and killed him. Boss, you're getting’ us killed. You gotta stop this!"
"I don't think it was the cops who killed Gibbs," said MacFarland. But he couldn't deny what Rufus had said. He probably was the reason people were getting killed.
Chapter 59
Tuesday, January 26, 0805 Hours
For the next three days, Rufus Headley avoided the downtown area, specifically the corner where MacFarland had his cart. Finally, on Tuesday morning, just as MacFarland finished moving his cart into position, he saw Rufus heading up the street. He smiled, glad to see that his friend had finally decided to forgive him for putting people's lives in danger. Rufus was the kind of individual who didn't hold grudges, and if something went wrong in his life, he was usually convinced it was due to Charlie ambushing him or HQ screwing up again. While MacFarland was concerned about Rufus’ absence, he found himself reflecting on other events that had happened this weekend, events that should have meant more to him than they did.
The first incident on Saturday morning at ten o’clock. Benny Lockwood approached MacFarland's cart. MacFarland was surprised to see him, since Pierson was at home that morning. He assumed Lockwood would have the day off also.
"Good morning, detective, how are you today?"
Lockwood held up four fingers, indicating everything was okay. "Mac, do you know anything about Bozworth's--uh--operations?"
MacFarland smiled. "I don't really think Bozworth has operations per se, but I get your drift. I have no idea how they work, other than a significantly large number of the homeless people look to him for protection and leadership."
Lockwood nodded, checking out the sparse number of people on Fourteenth Avenue. There wasn’t much business on cold, Saturday mornings. "How do you make any money doing this?" he asked.
MacFarland looked around. "It's usually busier in the summer," he said. He didn't add that he really wasn't trying to make money. That had never been one of his motivators. As long as he made enough to replenish his product, pay for coffee, and give a little to Pierson for rent, he was happy. "What's up with Bozworth?"
"We were working with one of his guys, and he's disappeared. I was supposed to meet with him this morning, but he was a no-show."
MacFarland frowned, wondering just how involved Pierson and Lockwood had gotten with Bozworth. It seemed strange that Bozworth would work that closely with any cop. Lockwood didn't have the skills to persuade someone like Bozworth; it must be due to Pierson's influence. MacFarland found himself feeling proud of his former partner. She had matured quite a bit since he last worked with her.
"Who was your contact? Maybe I know where he is."
"The party's name is Gibbs. Aaron Gibbs. Black, male, one sixty-five pounds, dark hair, brown eyes, slight build. You ever see him?"
MacFarland stared off in the distance, unable to focus. Yes, he had seen Aaron Gibbs. Didn't Lockwood know that his Confidential Informant had been killed the day before? It seemed strange that there was so little communications even within Major Crimes. He could almost understand there being little contact between Major Crimes and maybe Special Operations, but this murder should have been brought to everyone's attention. Then he remembered that Pierson and Lockwood were on loan to Vice and Narcotics. It might be days before those idiots realized that their CI had been killed. No, he told himself. Communications couldn't possibly be that bad!
MacFarland was about to enlighten the young detective when he stopped. He didn't know if there was a connection between his case and the Gibbs killing. He didn't know if there was a link between Pierson's and Lockwood's investigation and the Freeman murder. What he did know was that if he mentioned the circumstances under which Lockwood's contact was killed, then any leads MacFarland might get were going to be lost in the ensuing confusion as Major Crimes and Vice competed for control over the case. Besides, thought MacFarland to himself, I’m not a cop any longer. He had no professional reason to make Lockwood's life any easier.
He shook his head, as though to clear troubling thoughts. No, he couldn’t withhold the information he had. With a deep sigh and the depressing realization that he was going to regret this, he told Lockwood about Gibb's murder.
Lockwood had a lot to say in response to MacFarland's revelation, but not one word of it was thanks.
When he got home that night, Pierson met him with an icy greeting. "Why didn't you tell me last night that Gibbs had been killed?"
"Well, shit, Cynthia, first of all, I figured you would have heard about it at your morning briefing, and second, how the fuck was I supposed to know that Gibbs was a person of interest in your case? How much have you shared with me?"
Pierson looked sullen and turned to go upstairs to her room. "You're not on the force any more, Mac. I didn't think it mattered to you."
For the next couple of days, that remark continued to bother him. I'm not on the force any more, he kept repeating over and over in his mind. He had thought that he had accepted not being a detective, but clearly he still had issues. He had convinced himself that the only concerns he had was the loss of access to police resources. If he had the ability to work with the forensics team, the investigators and detectives, and the technicians that made the Denver Police Department one of the best in the country, he could have solved this case long ago. But after hearing Pierson's comment, he began to wonder if he missed more than the ability to use the resources of the department.
Maybe he missed the daily contact with people who felt the same way he did--other cops.
Maybe he missed working with Cynthia Pierson.
"Morning, boss," said Rufus, bringing MacFarland back to Tuesday. Rufus handed MacFarland a cup of hot coffee. "There's no more cops down by the river. Don't know that they arrested those two bad cops, though."
"I don't think it was cops that killed him, Rufus," said MacFarland. MacFarland suddenly realized that three different suspects might have killed Gibbs. The cops Gibbs was following; the man Gibbs saw coming out of the CCP building; or someone associated with the undercover case Pierson and Lockwood were working on. But here was the one possible deciding factor. Only one of those three options might also have murdered other people.
Rufus glanced at MacFarland out of the sides of his eyes. "You know who did kill him, don’t ya, boss?"
Slowly, MacFarland nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. "I may not know who pulled the trigger, but I’m pretty sure that I know who was responsible for Gibbs getting killed."
"That's great, boss! Let's go capture the bastard and make him pay!"
MacFarland felt his shoulders slump. "It may not be that easy, Rufus. It m
ay not be easy at all.”
Chapter 60
Thursday, January 28, 1314 Hours
Rufus was disappointed that MacFarland had not already apprehended Gibbs' killer. MacFarland tried to explain that arresting someone was not simply walking up to them and slapping handcuffs on their wrists. "I need probable cause, for one thing. I also need a real suspect.” He wiped down his cart, looking up at the massive dark clouds flowing in from the north. The weather forecast called for dropping temperatures, increasing winds, and up to a foot of snow by midnight. What a miserable day, he thought. "I know who the suspect is, in a general way, but I don’t know his actual identity.”
"It just don't seem right someone getting away with it."
MacFarland agreed with that. Justice was no longer concerned with making the guilty party pay for his crime. It also involved doing things in a specific way that supposedly protected the rights of the accused. Who protects the rights of the victim, he wondered. Pierson had once told him that the weight of society protected the rights of the victim. Society had the resources to prove its case against the suspect, whereas the suspect often had no resources to protect himself. For this reason, she insisted, we have to do things the right way.
But what about suspects who could afford million dollar cars and multi-million dollar homes? Or other suspects who could afford to buy juries, prosecutors, and judges? How did the victim protect herself from that kind of situation?
MacFarland hadn't heard anything from Jerry Baker, another contributing factor to his depressed mood. He wondered how soon the snow would start falling. Perhaps this was going to be a short day for him.
Rufus finished his coffee, got his daily hot dogs, and wandered off towards the park, seemingly unconcerned about the impending storm. Once the snow started falling, however, Rufus would seek the shelter of his hideaway. With the temperature dropping, MacFarland worried about Rufus staying warm. MacFarland wished once more that Rufus would let him bring him to Pierson's house. Even Pierson's basement was warmer than it would be outside along the river this evening. This was just one more factor that added to his sense of helplessness.
At one-fourteen in the afternoon, the sun peeked through the clouds long enough to fool the casual observer into thinking that the storm was just a figment of the National Weather Service’s over-active imagination. Walking in the midst of the bright sunlight was a figure familiar to MacFarland--Lord Bozworth. MacFarland began automatically to prepare a bratwurst for his Lordship.
"Depressing news about young Mr. Gibbs," said Bozworth when he drew near to the cart.
MacFarland nodded. "Yes, it was. You wouldn't happen to have any information about the crime or the perpetrator?"
Bozworth took off his gloves and reached for the bratwurst. "Thank you, my fine fellow.” He started eating, then, between bites, he mumbled, "It is very difficult to separate fact from fancy in situations like this, Mr. MacFarland, as I am sure you well know. There have been rumors that Mr. Gibbs was done in by the very same coppers who assaulted poor Mr. Jones, though I discount these rumors. Firstly, Mr. Gibbs had excellent relations with said officers. Secondly, he has had little contact with them in the past several weeks, devoting himself to the services of aiding your former Partner, Mistress Pierson. And thirdly, he told me that he had been following an individual who might be of interest to you in regard to the incarceration of Madam Freeman."
"The fisherman," said MacFarland.
Bozworth smiled broadly, his face glowing with some private joke. "Ah, I surmised from Mr. Gibbs description that the individual he was following was indeed a man who pursued the fine sport of fly fishing. From descriptions of the man's clothing and demeanor, I concluded that he spent much of his time in the high country, fording streams, wading along the edges of mountain lakes, perusing the idyllic sport of matching wits with a fish."
MacFarland stared at Bozworth in disbelief. There was no way he could have gleaned all of that from the scant descriptions of the man's clothing. How had he discovered that the man was the fishing buddy?
Bozworth smiled sheepishly. "Ah, I guess there were some other elements in the equation that I considered. When Mr. Gibbs reported to me that he thought the suspect had observed his clandestine surveillance, I asked another of my fine men to assist in the pursuit of this subject. He observed the gentleman going into a tackle shop near the Sixteenth Street Mall, and, using the ruse of having found some keys that the said gentleman 'dropped' outside the store, ascertained from the shopkeeper that the man was, in fact, an avid angler, visiting from Chicago."
MacFarland burst out laughing. "Lord Bozworth, you are incredible! I don't think even the police have discovered the identity of this man."
Bozworth tried to wave off the compliment. "I am simply performing my civic duty, my fine fellow. No more, no less.” He finished his bratwurst and wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve. "Now, what is your specific interest in this gentleman?"
MacFarland spoke slowly, but with increasing conviction. "I think that he is the man who killed both Otto Freeman and Aaron Gibbs."
"If that is indeed true, my friend, then you or whatever constabulary we may bring to bear on this situation must apprehend this culprit."
MacFarland looked Bozworth in the eyes. "I fully intend to do that, Lord Bozworth. I promise I will get justice for Aaron Gibbs. He deserves nothing less."
Chapter 61
Saturday, January 30, 1745 Hours
Despite the overcast skies and the foot of snow on the ground, MacFarland was in good spirits. He was fairly certain that the fisherman was the killer. But what was the killer's name? He couldn't very well go to Pierson and say, "I think some fly fisherman killed Freeman.” She would want to know who this individual was, what he looked like, how to identify him. Unless the killer bumped into him on the street, MacFarland had little hope of catching him. It was unlikely that the man would walk up to his hot dog cart and ask for a Coney Island Special.
There was one person, however, that MacFarland was certain knew who the man was.
Brian Newsome.
MacFarland still was not really sure what Newsome's involvement in the murder was. Had he hired the fisherman to kill Freeman? Had the fisherman tried to extort money from Newsome and used the murder of Freeman as a warning? It didn't matter. Newsome would be able to answer all of his questions. As Saturday warmed up enough to turn the streets into dirty, slushy rivers, MacFarland closed down his cart, drove it home, and left it in the yard. He then got back into his truck and drove out to Lakewood.
He parked across the street from Newsome's house. The streets here had already been plowed. Even though none of these streets were snow routes, the average price of the houses in the neighborhood warranted good service from the city of Lakewood. In Pierson's neighborhood, local residents with plows mounted in front of their trucks removed most of the snow. Who needs city services? Only the incredibly rich or the incredibly poor.
MacFarland looked at his watch. A quarter to six. The lights were on inside the house, though he could see no signs of movement inside. Most of the windows were covered, and Christmas decorations, though still up, were not lighted. The walkway up to the front door and the sidewalk in front of the house had been shoveled clean. The ostentatious car was not visible. It was probably parked inside the garage. MacFarland decided that Newsome drew the line on exhibitionism if it meant getting snow on his car. In fact, he probably had a second car that he used just for days like today.
MacFarland walked up to the front door and knocked loudly. He waited a moment, then knocked again. Still no response. He tried ringing the bell, but that had no effect either.
MacFarland tried to peer in through the curtains, but he had only limited view of the front hallway and living room. If he were still on the force, he would call in that there was no response to his attempt to get access to the house and come back at a later time. But he wasn't still on the force. He was a hot dog vendo
r, and he suddenly discovered that change in roles also resulted in a change in attitude. He walked to the side of the house, unlatched the side gate, and walked around to the back of the house.
The Newsome's had a large back yard. A separate building contained either an enclosed swimming pool or a greenhouse. A large gazebo sat directly behind the house. At this time, the gazebo looked cold and bleak, covered with drifts of snow and decorated with thin slivers of icicles. He could smell the odor of smoke.. Someone was burning pinewood in their fireplace. He walked over to the back door, then peered in.
He blinked in surprise, instantly alert. He saw a foot and shoe extending from behind a cabinet. It looked to him as though someone was lying on the floor.
Once more, he was torn between his police training and his instincts as a civilian. On the one hand, he wanted to call in for back-up and enter the house with probable cause. But he didn't have any means of calling for back-up, except to call 911. He pulled out his phone and dialed. He identified himself, gave the address of the Newsome house, and described what he saw. The 911 operator informed him to remain where he was and that police were on the way.
MacFarland did not follow her instructions. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. He banged his elbow against the window pain, stuck his hand inside, and opened the door. As he entered the kitchen, he wished that he had his weapon, but he had left it at home, hidden away so Pierson wouldn’t find it. He moved quickly but cautiously towards the body. As he rounded the corner, he found two bodies on the floor, about four feet apart, one male and one female. Both were lying face down, though MacFarland was pretty certain that the male was Brian Newsome. Blood was still pooling from wounds on the woman's body. As he moved closer to examine the bodies for signs of life, he noticed that most of the wounds were downward thrusts, centered on both victim’s face, neck, and chest. As he was looking over the wounds, he heard the front door slam closed. He jumped up and ran towards the front door, certain that it was the killer trying to escape. He raced towards the front rooms of the house. He grasped the handle of the front door and pulled it open. As he was about to exit the house, he found himself staring down the barrels of four guns pointed directly at him.
The Avid Angler - The Hot Dog Detective (A Denver Detective Cozy Mystery) Page 18
