What Happened To Flynn

by Pat Muir

  “Really,” said Jackson.

  “Yes. Flynn’s car went out of the park before Monday morning. These campers’ van left on Tuesday, apparently driven by just one of them. We think the other one, a woman, may have driven Flynn’s car away the same day or the previous one. She claims she was in the back of her boyfriend’s van when it left the camp.”

  “Do you know when Flynn’s car arrived in Compton?” asked Ryan.

  “No. We don’t. The residents living near where the car was found are unwilling or fearful of cooperating with law enforcement. We doubt if we’ll ever learn its arrival date and time.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There was another pair of campers nearby, one of whom has been tentatively identified as a man called Bailey and who has a history of violence. His fingerprints, at a seventy percent confidence level, were found in Flynn’s home, where we believe he attempted to explode the house.”

  “Really,” said Ryan. “How did he do that?”

  “By breaking a gas connector to the stove.”

  “Why aren’t you concentrating on this other pair of campers if you think Bailey is one of them?”

  “We have been unable to identify their car or the other man with Bailey. Also, their car left after the first pair of suspects did.”

  “So, you believe Flynn was murdered, but you don’t know how or by who or where it was done, and you haven’t found Flynn’s body,” said Jackson.

  “That is correct,” I replied slowly.

  “Your theory is that the murder took place at or near the fishing camp. That would be in Sonoma County’s jurisdiction. Have you discussed this with the sheriff there?”

  “Yes. I have discussed the matter with homicide detective Angie Haigh at the Sonoma County sheriff’s office. Since it is unclear where the murder took place, she is not prepared to take over the investigation or send out cadaver dogs. She suggested we pursue the case here as a missing person and keep her office posted.”

  Jackson stroked his chin before he said in a judgmental voice, his new Jersey accented voice grating on me, “I would tend to agree with her. You’re a long way from charging either suspects with murder or conspiracy to commit murder, which would provide the justification for us to investigate Swift.”

  I did not like having our case taken apart and would have defended it, but Thompson took up the cause. “We believe strongly Flynn was murdered somehow at the fishing camp. We believe an attempt was made on his life by tampering with the gas in his home, and we believe these efforts were to stop him from giving evidence of money laundering.”

  “You don’t have things very far along,” said Jackson. “Flynn could have been hijacked on his return to San Marcos with all that cash on him. You say Bailey may have damaged the gas connector in Flynn’s home. But there is a thirty percent chance that the fingerprint is not Bailey’s, and a further chance that the connector failure was just due to wear. And you don’t have a firm identification of Bailey at the campground.”

  Jackson looked at me as though expecting some rebuttal, but I had nothing to say, so he continued. “I appreciate your bringing us this information, and it certainly adds more validity to the letter Flynn wrote us. In my view, you haven’t established a sufficient tie-in of Flynn’s murder to money laundering by Swift. You need to figure out which of the two pairs of suspects could have murdered Flynn and how they accomplished that. Furthermore, you need to show the connection of these suspects to Swift’s operations. Only then would I consider setting up a joint task force to investigate the alleged money laundering by Swift.”

  I could sense Thompson was crestfallen that the prize of seized assets had been put out of his reach. I thought Jackson’s conclusions were logical. Thompson finished the conversation by saying, “We are convinced there is a tie-in, but understand your concerns. We will work hard to develop the evidence you need and hope to meet with you again when that is accomplished.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Thompson was not in a good mood when we got in the car. “Why the hell did you have to comment on his handgrip?”

  “Harry, the man’s an asshole to squeeze as hard as that,” I replied. “Somebody needed to say something about it.”

  “And you, Shane, are the one, right?” There was no need to respond, so Thompson continued. “It probably set off Jackson against us.”

  “Well, Drew Ryan seemed to think my remark appropriate, since he winked at me,” I said.

  “Why did you have to emphasize that Flynn’s car left the day before the other two cars did?” he said brusquely. “Why did you have to say Bailey’s identification at the camp was tentative? You gave them a damn good excuse to stall investigating Swift. Don’t you know how important seizure of drug money assets is to our budget?”

  I have never liked Thompson. This tirade merely added to the reasons for disliking him. I replied forcefully, “I was perfectly truthful in there. I did not want to give the impression we were further along in our investigation than we were. You could have delayed meeting with the DEA until we developed more evidence.”

  Thompson did not like being challenged. “Damn it, Shane. How was I to know they had already dismissed Flynn’s letter? They might have been pursuing Swift and his associates already.”

  He was right there, so I dropped the matter. Steve, sitting in the back, said nothing. I sensed his political acuteness. After a minute of silence, I asked Thompson a question on the issue he had raised. “How important are seized assets to our budget?”

  “Damned important,” he snarled. “Seized assets form an average of about twelve percent of our budget. The best thing about them is that we can do what we want with them without the County Board of Supervisors telling us otherwise. They allow us to more quickly update our fleet of cars…like this one for instance (a one-year-old Chevrolet SUV). They allow us to give laptop computers to all patrol men and to pay for their training to use them effectively. They allow us to keep our forensics department up to date with the latest technology and equipment.”

  “I understand we can seize these drug money assets before there is a conviction. Don’t we have to give them back if the person is found not guilty?”

  “Technically, yes. But we get guilty verdicts or pleas in the majority of cases, so it’s a small percentage in that category. But these trials often take time, years in some cases, to reach a verdict. By then, the assets have been spent, so the perp has to sue us to get anything back. Most of them don’t have the resources to sue us.”

  I noticed that Thompson had used the word “perp” to describe somebody found not guilty. “That doesn’t seem fair,” I said.

  “Fairness is not the issue, Shane. People who are found not guilty are not necessarily innocent.”

  I had been to enough trials to remember every judge’s instructions to the jury panel: “The accused is presumed innocent. You are not to assume that because he has been charged with a crime means he must be guilty of something.” So, I asked Thompson, “Are you saying that it is fair to seize a person’s assets and not return them if he is found not guilty?”

  Thompson replied more deliberately and with less anger in his voice. “No. I’m not saying that. We don’t charge a person unless we have good evidence to support the charge. In that sense, the district attorney protects the public by refusing to take the case to court unless he reasonably expects to have that person guilty as charged. He doesn’t have the resources to take marginal cases to trial. That’s when he negotiates pleas.” He paused. “I don’t have sympathy for people who sell illegal drugs. They get their customers addicted, which leads to health and social issues. You’d be surprised how many babies are taken away from their drug-addicted mothers. And those poor babies suffer so much as they are weaned off the addiction their mother has given them. That addiction leads to drug users resorting to robbery and fraud to obtain the funds to buy the drugs. The people who launder drug monies are no better in my mind. And those with plentiful assets hire top-floor
lawyers to throw roadblocks in the trial, claiming entrapment or improperly obtained evidence. Just remember that if a man can’t explain to the Internal Revenue Service or us where he got his money from, you can bet he obtained it illegally and doesn’t deserve to keep it.”

  After we returned, Thompson summoned me and Steve Hall into his office. “Shane,” he said, “this case is important not just because it’s a homicide, but because we all believe it was a consequence of money laundering. I want Steve to help you in tying people at the fishing camp to Swift and his associates. If we can do that, the DEA will set up a joint task force. Given that Swift is a very prominent member of society and given his connection to vicious drug dealers, you should not discuss this case with your family, friends, or peers. So, go to it.”

  Steve and I looked at each other. We were too professional to talk about cases to family and friends, so that part of Thompson’s stricture was unnecessary. However, being asked not to talk to fellow detectives was unusual. We returned to our desks, where Steve asked me how he could help. I gave him the task of following up on the alibi data sheet that Moorish had given us and seeing if any other park visitors had interacted with Bailey or his companion. I now believed them more likely involved in Flynn’s murder. Neither Dollar, Watson, nor Mrs. Brown had been able to tell me about the Mason car except that it was a Toyota and was black. Perhaps Mr. Wellhouse might tell me something about it since he would have seen it directly for a short time after Dollar had left. I phoned and was relieved to find Mr. Wellhouse himself answering the phone.

  He opened the conversation after I introduced myself. “Call me John,” he said. “Your associate phoned me just a little earlier asking if I saw the colored man’s girlfriend on the Monday or the Tuesday. I’m sorry I couldn’t help. I said I would have Celeste call him.”

  I responded. “Did you see anything unusual while you were at the camp?”

  “The white-haired guy with the Camry must have abandoned his tent. I saw the manager take it down a day or so after the colored couple left, though there didn’t seem to be anything in it.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the cars and the people in the end sites on the other side of the black couple?” I asked, emphasizing the word black.

  “The white-haired man in the site furthest from the river wasn’t there on the Monday. I remember that because that nasty black man next to us left one day later.” Good. John picked up that I was offended by his using the word “colored.”

  “And the other side?”

  “I mostly saw the one man fishing, a big, heavyset man. I didn’t pay too much attention to him, since I was too irritated by that fellow next to me. When he left, thank God, I was able to do some serious fishing. After the Avalon left, there was even more fishing space.”

  My ear pricked up. “Avalon? Are you sure? Are you talking about the black Camry in site R1 or the black car in site T1?” I asked.

  “Detective,” he replied, pride in his voice, “I was a salesman for Toyota for over thirty years. I know the model and year of every car they made from 1974 until 2006, when I retired. The car at the end was a 2003 Avalon before the midyear facelift. The car opposite was a 2005 Camry.”

  “What do you mean by the midyear facelift?”

  “They modified the grill, the headlights, and the taillights. That particular Avalon also had the optional bench seat at the front, not a very popular option.

  “Not a popular option?” I queried.

  “Only six percent of the cars… Detective, you could call the Toyota plant in Kentucky where they assemble those cars. They could probably give you the vehicle identification numbers of those black 2003 Avalons they produced with those specifications meeting California smog standards.”

  I wrote down these details before asking him, “Would you be able to identify the men driving the Avalon?”

  John replied he had just been interviewed by a Sonoma County detective who had shown him several mug shots. “I told him I thought one photo was the heavyset man with dark hair, but I wasn’t real sure. Celeste couldn’t tell, since she spent more time at the community center gabbing with the gals. The detective showed her shots of some black ladies, and she picked out one right away.”

  “Can you describe the man who accompanied the big, dark-haired man?”

  “No. I never saw him. He wasn’t fishing with his friend.”

  I phoned Angie Haigh right after this conversation. She said a unit detective had interviewed Johnson’s mother and concluded the account of Alisha’s stopover was truthful. Angie confirmed John Wellhouse had made only a tentative identification of Bailey. Celeste, on the other hand, had positively identified Alisha Johnson as being at the community center on the Monday. That meant Dollar and Johnson remained suspects only if the dead body had been stashed somewhere, the less probable of my two theories. I relayed all this to Steve. Then I called Roger Moorish and asked if his clients would help in identifying Bailey, since I didn’t want to ask them directly. He asked me, “Does this mean my clients are no longer suspects?”

  I wondered how to reply. They were not fully in the clear, so I temporized. “They are not currently our prime suspects.” Moorish thanked me and said he would be in touch with his clients. I then called the Toyota plant in Kentucky, as John had suggested. I was told to submit my request in writing. I promptly wrote up a request for those 2003 Avalon VINs on sheriff’s office letterhead and faxed it off. I then telephoned Tom Small and asked him about the Mason party again. He brought Terry to the phone.

  “I only saw the one man who came into the office,” Terry volunteered.

  “When did they call to reserve a camping site?” I asked.

  Terry rustled though his files before he replied. “They made the reservation on Friday, September 12, the day before they arrived.”

  “When did they leave?” I knew the answer, but wanted to check.

  “I don’t know,” replied Terry. “They paid in cash for six days and didn’t come in for a charge card receipt like most of the others.”

  I asked Terry for more detail on Mason’s appearance. “He was a man in his thirties, about seventy inches tall, perhaps two hundred pounds since he was heavily muscled,” he said. “He had sandy-colored hair and wore thick-rimmed sunglasses.”

  “Any tattoos or birthmarks?”

  “I didn’t see any of those, but now that I think of it, he had a small ginger mustache.”

  “Was he wearing anything noteworthy like rings, belt buckles, or neck chains?”

  “Sorry, I don’t remember.”

  I thanked Terry and entered the description of Mason into the case file. A few days later, the VIN numbers from Toyota arrived. There were fifty thousand Avalons sold nationwide in 2003, thirty thousand of them before the midyear change. Twelve percent of those went to California, twenty percent of which were black, and only six percent of those had the front bench seat. That amounted to forty-five cars, not such a huge number. If it hadn’t been for Wellhouse, we would have had to track down the owners of twelve hundred and fifty cars, an impossible task. We ran the VINs to get the names and addresses of the California owners, a tedious business since some owners change their addresses without notifying the DMV. Once I had a confirmed name and address, I would get a phone number from the telephone company. I didn’t want to alert Mason, so I used the following pitch after introducing myself.

  “There was an accident involving a speeding red Mazda on Highway 118 on Tuesday, September 16, just outside the Russian River camp, which your car was apparently seen leaving around that time. Did you see the Mazda driver, and can you describe him?”

  I managed to contact only one person that first day, who responded: “My God, did Charlie drive all the way there! I’ll get back to you.” Later, that car owner said his son had borrowed his spare car to drive from San Jose to San Francisco and had never been near the Russian River camp. A few days later, Steve told me the calls he had made to campers about the Mason couple had not
developed any useful information, so I asked him to help me call Avalon owners. I received an e-mail from Roger Moorish. In it, he stated his clients were not prepared to assist law enforcement in any identification process. I considered their response shortsighted since it would help to fully clear them.

  CHAPTER 14

  Danny Chu phoned me with a message that greatly complicated the life of Dollar and Johnson.

  “We’ve examined that stack of cash you brought me. There were several fingerprints on the notes. It took me a while to analyze them all. I had to wait until I had Flynn’s prints and those from your Carson City couple.”

  “And?”

  Danny loves keeping us detectives in suspense as he springs surprises on us. “Dollar’s prints were on the bills, of course. But Johnson’s and Flynn’s were not.”

  “That means it wasn’t Flynn’s money and Alisha Johnson never handled it.”

  “Well, you can’t really say that about Flynn. Ten thousand bucks in hundred-dollar bills have a total thickness of nearly half an inch—too thick to fit into a man’s wallet. Flynn probably had those funds given to him by the bank in an envelope, which he might never have opened.”

  “Oh! You’re not helping my case.”

  “However, the notes did not come directly from the bank.”

  “Really. How can you tell?”

  “Because, in addition to Dollar’s fingerprints on the notes, I found some from Ricky Jones.”

  “And who is Ricky Jones?”

  “A member of the Crips gang in Los Angeles.”

  Since the Crips gang epitomize illegal activity, this put a new wrinkle on the case. Danny added he did not find Alisha’s fingerprints on Flynn’s fishing rods. I thanked Danny and told Steve the news. I called the Compton sheriff station and told them about Ricky Jones’s fingerprints being on the stack of cash and was asked to ship it back to their head office immediately. I asked Thompson whether we should do so, pointing out its drug provenance. “Well, you found the cash on their turf, and we’re not going to charge Dollar in San Diego County for drug money laundering, so send it back to them. Point out they owe us. Perhaps, in exchange, they might put a little more effort into finding when Flynn’s car arrived in Compton.”