I grabbed Boomer’s leash, and we returned to the crash site. Sure enough, the pickup had slammed my SUV at some ridiculous speed. There wasn’t much left of the front half of either vehicle. His was still on the road, barely, but mine had tumbled down the embankment and landed on its roof.
The truck’s driver was a mess. His head had slammed through his windshield, and his torso ended up halfway out of the cab. The top of his skull was gone, splattered all over the cab and hood. The coppery scent of blood mixed with the stink of smoking oil and engine fluids.
I doubted he’d felt a thing. His brain had disintegrated too quickly. I assumed that was his plan.
Jason ran up to me. “Jesus Christ, Hank. What the fuck happened?”
I shrugged. “I guess he decided he wasn’t going to be arrested. I’ll never understand these insane fucking morons. What did the son of a bitch steal? The Hope Diamond?”
“A bottle of beer. Coors Light longneck. On sale for two bucks at the store.”
My hands shook. I screamed at the top of my lungs.
-o-o-o-
Naturally, every cop within fifty miles had to come and see this crash for themselves. It’d happened well within Pitkin County, but that didn’t matter. Cops from Garfield County, Eagle County, and several nearby towns showed up.
They commiserated with me but nobody could explain why a petty thief would kill himself instead of doing a few months in jail for such a petty crime. Naturally, folks wanted to see the video from my dash camera, but it’d been smashed to bits.
Thankfully, the EMTs cleaned up my bruised hands and knees and gave me a Percocet. They also recommended I go to the hospital for some shots, but to hell with that. I hated needles.
The worst part was my fingers wouldn’t flex, but the EMTs told me that was probably temporary. For a good hour after the crash, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The pill probably fixed that.
Randy showed up and threatened to put me on admin leave again, but I reminded him, I wasn’t involved in a shooting or a vehicle accident. I was well away from my SUV when it sent the pickup driver to hell. Randy let me stay on the job, at least temporarily. There was no cell signal here, so he couldn’t talk to the DA.
-o-o-o-
Ninety minutes after the crash, I made it back to Slugger’s Heaven. Linda drove me there but refused to go inside. Pauline was too chatty, she said.
Dogs weren’t welcome inside the bar, so I started to tie Boomer’s leash to a post on the railing in front of the covered porch.
Dylan, one of the local fishing guides, was eating at a table near where I stood. “The hell with that, Hank. Linda and your bad boy can come over here. We’ll keep an eye on the hound, and he can lick my plate when I’m done.”
Linda nodded. I thanked them and headed inside. The place was packed. Two days ago, the Rockies’ last game of the season had been rained out. They were making the game up this afternoon, and if the Rockies won, they’d qualify for a wild card playoff spot.
Inside, all dozen TVs were tuned to the game. The folks in the bar were already swearing. The Blake Street Bombers were down two runs at the end of the third inning.
Pauline’s loud voice boomed from behind the bar and pulled my thoughts away from the game. “Hey, Hank, how’s it hanging?”
That was an inside joke between us. We both worked in male dominated professions, and we had to be tough to hang in there. “Getting along. Those damned Rox are breaking my heart, again.”
She blew out a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m fed up. All summer, they led the division despite the fucking Dodgers, but in the last two weeks, agghh.” She put her hands to her throat like she was choking herself.
It made every fan crazy, but it was worse for her. If the boys in purple didn’t make the playoffs, Slugger’s Heaven would take a big hit.
I ambled over to the long oak bar and whispered, “Can I bend your ear for a few minutes while I scarf down the brisket and rings? It’s about Sherm.”
Her mad evaporated, to be replaced by a long face. “Okay, let me get your order in. We’ll sit in the corner.”
She pointed at an empty table in the back then turned to one of her bartenders. “George, this won’t take long.”
He nodded.
I headed to the corner farthest from the TVs. Pauline’s solid tables were made from local spruce, and so were the chairs. Each included a soft cushion so people could sit comfortably for hours.
Pauline joined me a minute later. Brought me an iced tea without asking because I was on the clock. She was kind enough not to mention how I’d messed up my skirt and hands.
“Sherm was a goofball,” she said, “but fun. I’m a sucker for a sob story, and that hot blonde skank was robbing him blind. He needed me.” Tears welled in her eyes.
The truth was, she was a nympho, would bang any guy who didn’t push her away—as long as he paid his bar tab. “I don’t judge,” I said. “I’m just trying to figure out who wanted him dead and why. How long were you two going at it?”
“A week. Maybe ten days. The idiot was on the verge of buying her a ring, but then she told him she wanted to double her allowance. To ten grand a month! You believe that? Hell, I don’t make that kind of money, and I’m working my ass off seven out of seven.”
I gave her a fist bump because even though I put in a ton of overtime, I still didn’t make that kind of money. “Do you think she knew she was about to be replaced by twice as much woman?”
Pauline gave me a crooked smile. “I love the way you put that. We big gals have to be proud of our strength.”
“Amen, sister.”
She thought for a moment. “I really doubt the bimbo knew. Sherm kept promising to tell her, but you know how that goes. I wasn’t pushing him, as long as he dropped by every couple of days to shake my bush. He was pretty good in the sack. In fact—”
I held up my hand to stop her before she could get into the grisly details. She had no personal limits. “What I really need to know is whether one of your other recent bed buddies might’ve resented Sherm?”
She grinned as George walked over with my lunch and set it down. I was starving, and the brisket sandwich was great.
When he left, she said, “Let’s see. Andy couldn’t make bail after he started that fight out on the front porch. Simon locked him up, so Andy couldn’t have killed Sherm. Jeff took up where Andy left off, but two weeks ago, Jeff left for Pinedale, Wyoming. Got a job on an oil rig up there. Those were the only two keeping my heart pumping before Sherm came along. Now, I gotta find somebody else, again.”
“Sorry about that.”
“How bad was it for the poor guy?” Pauline asked. “I’ve heard some gruesome rumors.”
“You don’t want to think about that. Remember him in his happier times.”
That shut her up.
I pulled my credit card out of my purse. “Thanks for the info,” I said. “I’m gonna take this out on the porch with Boomer and Linda. Maybe catch the end of the fourth inning.” She had the only bar I knew of with a TV outside.
Pauline nodded and stood. “Find whoever did it, Hank, and lock him up. Sherm wasn’t that bad. I’ve seen lots worse.”
Not exactly high praise, but I knew what she meant. Justice needed to be handed out by trained judges, not some hothead with a grudge.
I finished my meal outside and chatted with Linda. Dylan had already taken off. Pauline brought me my card, said hello to Linda, and returned inside.
As she and I talked, I realized my jealous lover theory had fallen apart. Now, we had no decent theories. Time to go back to the beginning and find the trail we’d missed before.
-o-o-o-
While Linda drove us to the office, I called Willow and updated her on my fun times on East Sopris Creek Road. She knew enough of the locals around her new place now to hear rumors, and I didn’t want her to get some garbled version of what’d happened.
She mostly listened until
I finished. Then, she said, “Are you sure you’re in the right line of work? I’ve lost count of the times you’ve been hurt. I suppose I should be grateful that your latest injuries aren’t life-threatening, but I’m not.”
“I’ve been a cop for a decade, and most of the time, it’s been boring. This is just a streak of bad luck. It’ll be over soon, I’m sure.” I wasn’t snowing her. I really believed it. Linda looked at me and nodded.
Willow simply said, “Maybe you should request a desk job.”
“I have,” I said with a grin. “Jenkins never gets involved in dangerous situations. If I win the election, I’m sure my life will quiet down.”
But even as I said it, I had my doubts. Aspen seemed to have become a much tougher town. It’d been laidback in the halcyon days of yore, but not anymore.
-o-o-o-
I’d run down every evidentiary trail in our investigation and proved nothing. Needed time to think…and pray. Back at the office, I sat alone in my cubicle, except for a sleeping Boomer, and gazed upward. If you want the good guys to win the big ones, now’s the time to show the way. I’m lost.
Nothing happened.
I started reading my case file again and pored over every line, looking for something I’d missed. No blinding insights popped off the page. This was beyond depressing. My best idea was to bang my head against my desk until something new shook loose.
But before I could try that, my phone rang. It was Dr. Dan, the coroner. “Sometimes I’m so right I just can’t stand myself. Remember how I said there was something fishy about Blatter and Rodriguez?”
His bubbly voice made me want to wring his neck over the phone line. “I do remember, but you don’t get points for that. Everybody knows their deaths were weird.”
“Whatever, but remember how I said something was wrong about how they behaved? I told you, they seemed sedated.”
“I’ll give you that,” I said, “but only if you give me something.”
“Abracadabra. The tox results just came back for both deceased men. Tequila mixed with secobarbital. Man, that brings back fond memories of my misspent youth. Peace, man.”
Aspen could beat anywhere when it came to the percentage of old hippies in the area. “I’ll bet you were at Woodstock.”
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Back then, mixing alcohol and barbiturates was very popular. Knocked off some real legends, like Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Elvis, too many others to name.”
“Secobarbital isn’t a drug I’ve heard much about,” I said.
“Seconal, girl. I’m talking reds, downers. Back in the fifties and sixties, they were common sleeping pills. Also great for coming down off of speed or just getting mellow. These days, barbiturates are rarely prescribed. Too damned dangerous.”
“Okay, so you got to relive your counterculture days for a few minutes. Did the killer use that mixture to make Blatter and Rodriguez manageable? I wondered, too, why they hadn’t fought back.”
“Exactly,” the coroner said. “In the doses found in their bodies, they would’ve been heavily sedated but still conscious. A slightly larger dose would’ve killed them outright, but the killer apparently wanted them to live and suffer. They surely did. Each lingered for hours. At least, Blatter managed to die before the bear showed up.”
I cringed as my memory of the poor bastard flashed through my mind again. “Okay, thanks for the news—”
“Wait. Haven’t gotten to the best part. Like I said, barbiturates are rarely used these days, either legally or not. They’ve been replaced by benzodiazepines, like Xanax. But—and here’s the weirdest part—that same combo of tequila and Seconal was found in another recent murder victim. A few months ago, in Grand Junction.”
“Oh, you’ve got my full attention, Doc.”
“Remember two summers ago, a female drug addict was arrested for child abuse because she’d gotten stoned and left her six-month-old son in his car seat in front of her house?”
The poor little boy had died from heatstroke on a hot day. “She pled guilty, but the judge cut her some slack because she’d gotten off the junk and found a job.”
“That’s the one,” he said. “But somebody killed her by tying her up in her car and leaving her to bake on another different summer day. Well, when she was autopsied, her blood contained the same combination of Seconal and tequila we found in Blatter and Rodriguez.”
Even though I was sitting in a warm office, a chill ran through me. “Are you saying a serial killer has been working for months?”
“And he has a grudge against people who avoid the sharp teeth of justice.”
“Just what I need,” I said. “Another damned murder to solve.”
“You’re welcome,” he said with a laugh.
Again, I wanted to smack him for his cheerful attitude, but at least I had something useful to investigate. “I’ll contact the cops in Grand Junction to get more details.”
-o-o-o-
After a round of automated phone hell, I got ahold of Detective Lenny Roberts at the Grand Junction Police Department.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m working the case, or I wish I was. I’m getting nowhere.”
I knew the feeling and summarized for him what I’d learned about our two murders, including the Seconal-tequila combination in our victims’ blood.
“I don’t see many barbiturate cases either,” he said. “I graduated from the Academy in 1997. During my twenty-plus years, I’ve only come across Seconal a couple of times.”
He described for me how he’d investigated his case. It sounded like he’d done a thorough job. Most importantly, he’d interviewed everyone surrounding his victim, Heather Langley. Despite months of work, Lenny had gotten nowhere.
He was only about an hour away, so I headed west. He promised to hang around his cop shop to meet me.
“That’ll give me plenty of time to copy my pitifully thin file,” he said.
We did everything electronically, so all I had to do was to give him an account name and a password.
-o-o-o-
Grand Junction was the only real city on the Western Slope. On the way, I called Randy and updated him.
“Thank God,” he said. “All our other leads are crap. The county commissioners are climbing all over me about how another big murder case is killing this town’s reputation.”
“That’s your cross to carry. I’ve got mine. I’ll let you know what I hear from GJPD.”
Boomer slept through the ride, as usual, so my mutt was ready to rumble when we met Lenny. He was an average-sized guy with a deeply tanned face and salt-and-pepper hair. Reminded me of Robert De Niro. Even had a similar gravelly voice.
The detective spent a minute horsing around with Boomer, who acted like a hundred-and-thirty-pound puppy. There was a magical connection between cops and bloodhounds.
Lenny had exaggerated how small the file was. It contained over a dozen witness interviews, plenty of photographs of the crime scene, and the victim’s fingerprint card. The lab techs had dusted everything in the car, but the prints had all belonged to the victim or her dad, the only parent in her life. Their only other physical evidence was the body itself and the duct tape used to strap Langley to the front passenger seat of her ten-year-old Toyota Corolla.
To give me and the dog a chance to stretch our legs after the long drive, Lenny took us to a shady park across the street from his office.
“Any decent suspects?” I asked.
“Not a one,” he said. “As far as we could tell, Heather had lost all of her friends. Most of her family wouldn’t speak to her either. In the two months before she died, most of the people who’d talked to her were strangers, like grocery clerks. The only people she knew by name who would still converse with her were her dad, her boss at the carwash where she worked, and her probation officer.”
I wasn’t surprised given how thoroughly she’d fucked up her life, and her son’s. “We ha
ndle the cases we’re given, Lenny, not the ones we wish we were given. Any idea how she connected with the person who killed her?”
He shook his head. “Nor do I understand how he or she convinced Heather to ingest the drugs and alcohol. She was being tested every three days. All clean.”
Boomer took off after a pair of squirrels, but that didn’t last long. Too many trees close by. He circled the one they chose to hide in until another scent pulled him away.
“Somebody could’ve forced her to drink the mixture,” I said, “to make her easier to handle.”
He nodded. “We’ll probably never know.”
“What can you tell me about the dad?” I asked.
“A saint. For the last eighteen years, he’s worked for the city parks department. His addict wife took off as soon as Heather was born. The mom ended up dead of an overdose in Vegas. Dad raised Heather on his own. Did all the things he was supposed to and more.”
Lenny showed me family photos with Dad at soccer games and band performances and birthday parties.
“When did Heather start with the drugs?” I asked.
“Hard to be sure, but Dad took her to an emergency room for an overdose of cough syrup at age fourteen. Heather moved on to the hard stuff soon after. Apparently inherited her mom’s love for heroin. Dad didn’t have much money to spare, but he spent it all on rehab. Nothing worked.”
My heart literally ached. Drugs had destroyed so many lives, including one of my cousins who’d died of a meth overdose. “Was Heather’s baby born addicted?”
“You betcha. Poor little guy didn’t stand a chance. Born underweight with congenital heart problems. One day, the mom got high to celebrate her eighteenth birthday and forgot about him. He died before a neighbor noticed him strapped into his car seat.”
According to the file, that was a year ago in August. Rightly caused a huge public outcry. Then, last May, another uproar. Heather had pleaded guilty to felony child abuse resulting in death, but the judge, who was usually tough, had cut her a break.
Perverted Justice Page 11
