The Doomsday Girl

by Dave Stanton

  I rattled the gate and was immediately startled by a bright light.

  “This is a restricted area,” a man said, walking up with a flashlight. He wore a beanie with earflaps and an orange safety vest over a thick coat. “What you doin’ here?”

  “I’m a photographer. I was hoping to go down on the dock and take some pictures.”

  “You cain’t go there. Only authorized persons.”

  “How about in the daytime?”

  “Not unless you authorized. Even then there ain’t no pictures allowed.”

  “Why not?”

  The security guard shined the light directly into my face. “Because it’s a bidness, and they don’t want no one interferin’ with the unloadin’ and loadin’ and such.”

  “Oh. I guess I’ll try somewhere else.”

  The man shook his head and blew in his hands, then turned and walked back to the small shack from which he’d come. I got in my truck and hung a U-turn, and when I reached a dead end a quarter mile away I turned off my lights and parked with my truck facing outward.

  A minute later I was walking along the fence. I wore my dark coat, gloves and a black beanie. A little ways past the marine repair sign, I stopped. It was pitch black and I was a couple hundred yards from where I’d talked to the security guard. On the other side was an empty lot, and further in I saw what looked like a row of concrete highway dividers.

  I looked up and down the street, then pulled myself up on the fence and neatly snipped the barbwire with a pair of cutters I always carried when working. I folded the barbed section back and scaled the fence, silently dropping to the other side. The darkness forced me to walk cautiously, until I came to a row of containers. I slipped between them and stood at a second barbwire fence. Above the fence rose a pair of steel pillars, perhaps a hundred feet high, and at the top I thought I could see canisters. It reminded me of lighting systems I’d seen at baseball parks, but whether or not these lights were functional, I couldn’t tell.

  I cut the barbwire and continued forward. There were more rows of containers and large stacks of steel girders and pipes. I walked past them, staying in the deep shadows, and hopped a waist-high fence. It was only then that I saw the huge black profile of a vessel directly in front of me. I continued forward until I stood within a few feet of the ship’s bow. Across the channel to my right, dozens of small craft were docked, and light spilled out over the water. The damp air smelled of brine and oil.

  The container ship in the berth was empty, and the hull floated high above its waterline, the paint turning a rusty brown at least twenty feet above the black seawater. Four tall cranes were mounted on its deck, stretching into the dark sky. I walked the length of the boat until I came to a cement block stenciled with number 207. I stared up at a ladder welded to the hull and imagined a man descending and jumping to the dock.

  I spent another few minutes in the shadow of the ship, walking under the thick ropes mooring it to six iron bollards on the dock. Could an athletic man climb down one of the ropes to the dock? It was definitely possible.

  Ten minutes later I was back at my truck. Nothing I’d seen gave me any hint why Jeff Jordan would have met someone hereabouts at dawn on a November morning. But that wasn’t a disappointment; I hadn’t expected to learn anything specific from my nocturnal visit. I just wanted to be here, to retrace footsteps, to get a sense of the place, to soak it in. This is something I always do in an investigation. I always put myself at the place of occurrence, even when it seems to serve little tactile purpose.

  And every now and then, in the most confusing phase of a case, I’ll wake from a night’s sleep with a subconscious revelation hovering near the surface. Not long afterwards, I’ll have a moment of clarity, and the previously opaque will present itself plainly. This usually occurs when I’m distracted with some mundane task, like tying my shoe or talking to a convenience store clerk.

  But I didn’t dwell on those abstractions as I drove to the nearest hotel. I needed to focus on more tangible issues, like finding out what boat arrived at berth 207 at 5:15 a.m. on November 16. I needed to know where it came from and if possible, get the ship’s manifest. I was tired and not looking forward to the task, but I told myself to stay positive, and maybe the information would be easy to find.

  ******

  By one a.m. I had a headache and my eyes kept closing. I tried to power down my notebook, but I hit the wrong button and the program froze. I slapped the screen shut and had to catch the computer before it fell off the desk.

  My problem was, I couldn’t find a way to trace the arrival time and date without knowing where the cargo ship came from. There were numerous websites that offered tracking databases, but none allowed me to search based solely on the arrival date. Frustrated and fighting my temper, I fell into bed, wondering if I could sleep, but within a minute I fell into a dreamless slumber. I must have been more tired than I thought, because I slept seven straight hours before waking.

  ******

  The next morning brought good news in the way of strong coffee, free and available in sixteen-ounce cups from the Long Beach Best Western hotel lobby. Halfway through my second cup, I was back at my computer, determined, focused, and vowing to be patient. After trying several different search patterns, I ended up routed to a shipping company’s website. KTM was a large, global freight carrier, operating container ships serving hundreds of ports. At eleven a.m., after immersing myself in their online database, I finally found what I was looking for. A ship named VMS VIRGO had arrived at POLA on November 16, docking at berth 207 at 5:24 a.m. It came directly from the Port of Freetown in Sierra Leone, Africa. Its previous ports had been Capetown, South Africa, then north to Luanda in Angola, with one more stop at Port Banana in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

  By noon I had the ship’s manifest, which I learned is publicly available information. However, it required me to buy a subscription to a site which would provide the document. I printed the manifest on the hotel’s printer, and studied the varied cargo, and the names of all aboard the ship. Nothing seemed unusual; there was no gold or diamonds aboard, at least none listed, but I didn’t expect there to be. I didn’t know exactly how a country would ship precious commodities, but I doubted it was by container ship. I was more interested in the ship’s company, which was the term the manifest used to record those onboard, including rank from captain to civilian. The names were all foreign sounding, except for two listed civilians, who could have been British, Canadian, or American. I highlighted those two names.

  When I walked outside I saw the overcast had turned dark and thick bands of gunship gray clouds were roiling to the north.

  “Storm brewing,” I said.

  CHAPTER 8

  By the time I reached the freeway, the first raindrops were splattering on my windshield. Within five minutes the rain was hammering down, the sound like a roomful of clattery motors. At full speed my wipers couldn’t keep up with the torrent. Streams ran across the pavement and traffic slowed to thirty miles per hour.

  I drove cautiously, fully aware that most California drivers are in a perpetual hurry and not used to inclement weather. The combination would probably result in an accident shortly, I mused. Resigned that any chance of making time was shot, I turned up my radio and listened for weather and road updates. Sure enough, after a minute the traffic ground to a halt.

  For the next hour I crawled along, passing two wrecks, until the downpour finally lightened in Anaheim, and the flow of cars resumed at thirty, and then forty MPH. I drove patiently, and mulled over what I’d learned earlier in the morning.

  Jeff Jordan had met an unnamed person near berth 207 at dawn, shortly after the docking of a cargo ship from Africa. The text message had said to park on the street, which made sense since that was the closest an unauthorized person could get to the berth. It was logical to assume Jeff met someone disembarking the ship. Why else would the meeting be near the port? And for what purpose?

  I thought about
it as I drove, my mind circling and searching for connections. What about the black man who had been one of the intruders at the Jordan’s home? There was almost no black population in Cedar City. Could this man have been an African national, arriving in the U.S. on the freighter? If so, it presented the possibility that Jeff Jordan knew his murderer.

  The other angle was diamonds. The stones I found in the Jordan’s safe, based on the appraisal from the Cedar City jeweler, were possibly worth well over a million dollars. And the stones were uncut, which was something I’d never seen before. I didn’t think uncut diamonds were available to ordinary consumers. Which led me to ask, how did a construction contractor like Jeff Jordan get his hands on them? Did they come from Africa, a continent known for its diamond mines?

  It stopped raining outside of Pomona, just as I turned onto I-15 North. The skies stayed dry as I approached the grade splitting the San Bernardino and San Gabriel mountain ranges, then it started raining again over the pass. The visibility lessened when I drove into a cloud sitting on the summit, and the sleet turned to snow. My phone rang, but the road required my full attention, and it wasn’t until I descended out of the hills and onto the high desert floor that the clouds dissipated and the sky turned blue.

  Cruising at eighty under a cold sun, I checked my cell and saw it was Cody who’d called. I pushed the callback button, and he answered and began speaking without preamble.

  “So, I went over to see the Las Vegas PD and spoke to Denise Culligan, the lieutenant in charge of the sex crimes division,” he said. “They recently assigned a few detectives to focus on kiddie porn. Seems there’s been an increase in underage prostitution.”

  “Did you talk about Abbey?”

  “Yeah. I told her, look, this is my daughter, for all I know she’s a virgin. Why would you let her be part of this?”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She said her first inclination was to tell Abbey to go elsewhere. But after they talked awhile, she said she sensed something in Abbey, something she doesn’t see often in cops.”

  “Like what?”

  “She had a hard time describing it, even though we talked for half an hour. But she was very impressed with her, and said she felt Abbey could make a meaningful contribution, maybe help some people.”

  “Hmm. Sounds like a positive discussion.”

  “It was, actually.”

  “I’ll be rolling into town in a couple hours. You want to go get a steak somewhere?”

  “Ah, no, I’ll be tied up. Denise and I decided to continue our conversation over dinner.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I think it’s a good idea for me to know her, know what Abbey’s getting into."

  “I see. What does Denise look like, if you don’t mind me asking?” I was smiling and trying to keep my voice even.

  “Not that it makes a difference, but she’s pretty damn cute.”

  “No, of course that wouldn’t make a difference,” I said, no longer able to keep from laughing.

  “Christ, Dirt, your mind’s always in the gutter.”

  “My mind?”

  “Yeah, you’ve always been a horn dog, so don’t try to pretend you’ve changed. So get this—I’m leaving the police station and I run into this patrolman and two detectives I know, back from that incident a couple years ago.”

  “You mean the time you boned the mayor’s daughter and ran into his car when you dropped her off?”

  “All right, let’s make sure we have this straight, once and for all. She was about thirty, and she latched onto me while I was just trying to enjoy a drink. She literally wouldn’t let go of my arm until I took her to my hotel. She was insatiable, a complete nympho, and once she wore me out, I asked if she wanted to spend the night. She said, ‘Hell, no, it’s only midnight,’ and she wanted to go back to the bar. Being the responsible citizen I am, I thought it would be better to take her home. But right when we pulled up she started groping me, and my foot slipped while I was trying to park.”

  “Thanks for the clarification. I always thought you were getting ripped and hopped into bed with a loose woman and then drove her home drunk.”

  “I did not drive drunk. All the exercise sobered me up before I drove her home.”

  “Well, that’s good to know.”

  “Anyway, I’m walking through the main reception area and I hear my name, and these three cops are snickering like a pack of jackasses, so I stop and look over. One says, ‘The man, the myth, the legend,’ and I ask what that’s supposed to mean. They got these shit-eating grins, and one of the beat walkers asks if I’m there to fill out an application. I tell him, ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not interested.’ Then the other patrolman says, ‘Just keep it in your pants.’ They start laughing like this is high comedy. But I got more important things to do than deal with those bozos, so I start walking away, and the patrolman says, ‘Hey, Gibbons. This is Las Vegas, not San Jose. Don’t even think of stretching the law.’ What do you make of that crap?”

  “Sounds like they’re pissing on the fire hydrant.”

  “Why lay it on me?”

  “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “And I thought I was keeping a low profile.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said.

  ******

  The Plaza Hotel and Casino was north of The Strip, right off Fremont Street in old downtown Vegas. I got there late in the afternoon and checked into a room on the tenth floor. I set up my notebook computer and got online, but then I stood in the dark interior and stared out the window. The sun was setting and the clouds over the jagged horizon were streaked with orange and red.

  I’d reached the point in my investigation where I needed to identify suspects, or at least people who could provide information pointing to suspects. All my work to this point now felt preliminary. Learning about the crime and discovering Jeff Jordan’s secret caches of gold and gemstones were no doubt important pieces of the puzzle, but I still didn’t have any real idea what I was dealing with.

  If I was back in Cedar City, I’d interview everyone I could find who knew Jeff Jordan. That would be a standard investigative approach. With luck, I’d come across a scrap of information, maybe from a work buddy or a bar friend who Jordan boasted to about his treasure. Most people can’t resist saying something to someone when they’ve run into good fortune. No matter how secretive you vow to be, all it takes is a moment of weakness.

  For a minute I seriously considered getting in my truck and driving straight back to Cedar City. If I chose to stay in Vegas for any length of time, I’d need to justify it. To that end, the logical angle was the Jordan’s missing ten-year-old daughter. If Mia Jordan wasn’t buried in a shallow grave somewhere, it was possible she was in the clutches of someone who wished to use her to make money. If that was the case, Vegas was a good place to begin searching.

  I walked back to my computer haltingly, trying to fathom an excuse to delay the task at hand. I’d dealt with kiddie porn twice before, and in both cases my disgust and anger had resulted in violence followed by heavy drinking. I stared off, seeing nothing, and finally muttered, “Screw it, I’ll do it later.” I sat at my keyboard, deciding to instead do some general research on Africa’s diamond trade. Fortunately, the data on this subject was abundant and easy to find.

  Beginning in the early nineties and still reportedly happening on a smaller scale, billions of dollars of rough diamonds were illicitly exported out of Africa, primarily to finance civil wars in countries along Africa’s west coast and interior. It was a bloody business involving immeasurable human suffering. Families were ripped apart, children were forced into militias or slave labor, and malnutrition and infectious disease were rampant. Among the most egregious participants was a rebel group called the Revolutionary United Front in Sierra Leone. Their signature atrocity was the amputation of limbs by machete, which they imposed on both adults and children, as a means to terrorize the population. They were also pro
lific rapists, sometimes forcing entire families to watch while they gang-raped mothers, sisters, and daughters. If they ran low on victims, they’d even victimize elderly women and small boys.

  The civil war in Sierra Leone ended in 2002, and while the current government promotes democracy and capitalism, corruption and limited freedom of speech remain in place. The most recent Sierra Leone news to make global headlines involved the deadly Ebola breakout of 2014, which killed thousands.

  I spent half an hour researching Sierra Leone. The existence of large diamond mines in a poor, corrupt African country piqued my interest. If one was willing to bribe, I had no doubt arrangements could be made for a bagful of uncut diamonds to be smuggled into the U.S. Probably not on a plane, but on a cargo ship? Easy to imagine.

  I continued scouring the Internet, saving pages and taking notes. Liberia, just south of Sierra Leone, had its own civil war in the nineties, which crossed the border and exacerbated the conflict in Sierra Leone. The atrocities endured by the people of Liberia were similar to those suffered by their northern neighbor. Liberia also has diamond mines, although not as rich as those in Sierra Leone. But, more recent discoveries of large Liberian gold deposits has spurred a resurgence of mining.

  Liberian gold. A possible connection?

  Next I read up on the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The unfortunate history of the Congo made the difficulties of the two countries I’d researched previously seem minor in scale. After fifty years of exploitation by the Belgium government, the Congo gained its independence in 1960, which immediately resulted in civil war. Leaders took office, followed rapidly by coups, executions, and more war. Starvation, malnutrition, and deadly diseases, including HIV/AIDS, typhoid, malaria, and hepatitis, were ubiquitous.

  In 1971, President Joseph Mobutu renamed the country Zaire. Mobutu was anti-communist, and was able to maintain power with the backing of the United States. Under Mobutu’s dictatorship, Zaire became a poster child for human rights violations, political repression, and corruption. Mobutu’s massive personal theft of tax dollars and international aid funds caused Zaire’s infrastructure to crumble to an estimated 25% of what had existed in 1960.