Killer of Killers

by Mark M. DeRobertis

  “Yeah, what’s so hard to believe about that?”

  “I didn’t say it was hard to believe. It’s just that...” Trent looked away because he didn’t want to talk anymore, especially to a cop right after killing someone. It didn’t matter if Stiles had it coming. The law would call it murder, and the irony, to Trent, seemed brazenly obvious.

  “It’s just that what?”

  It was clear to Trent she wouldn’t let it go, so he figured to say the words she expected to hear. “It’s just that I never saw a cop as pretty as you. But I suppose you’ve heard that line a thousand times already.”

  “Not a thousand times, but I have heard it before,” she affirmed, seemingly no less delighted for hearing it one more time. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Trent.”

  “Well, hello, Trent. I’m Samantha.” She reached out a hand.

  “Samantha Jones?” Trent shook her fingers.

  “Yes, Samantha Jones. And you are Trent...”

  “Trent Smith.”

  “That’s interesting,” she chuckled.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Trent had enough of the small talk. More than ever, he didn’t want it to continue, but he didn’t want it to be evident. He may be a killer, but he wasn’t rude.

  “So, Mr. Smith, what do you do?”

  “What do I do?”

  “You know. Are you a doctor or a lawyer? An engineer?”

  “What do I look like?”

  “I told you. You look like a football player, remember?”

  “You did. No, I’m a teacher,” he said, steadfast to provide no details. Though she was charming and drop-dead gorgeous, Trent was not prepared for company and wished the talking would cease.

  It was a wish granted when the captain’s voice sounded electronically, advising the passengers that take-off was imminent. The flight attendants gave their performance of emergency procedures, and Trent was relieved for the finished conversation.

  Shortly after lift-off, however, Samantha ended the respite. She asked, “Are you leaving or returning?”

  “Returning.”

  “I’m returning, too, but I can’t say I look forward to it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m working on an assignment that just hit a major snag. The person I was supposed to meet... Well, let’s just say he didn’t make it.”

  “So who were you supposed to meet?”

  With eyelids descended, she answered, “Benjamin Stiles.”

  Again, Trent responded with a double take.

  Samantha added, “Yes, that Benjamin Stiles.”

  “I thought the whole deal regarding Stiles was finished.”

  “His case is closed, it’s true, but he was cooperating with us on an unrelated investigation.”

  “I didn’t think he was cooperating with anyone. The bum was living the high life since his acquittal, giving his middle finger to just about everyone.”

  “Yes, that’s Benjamin, all right, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Like I said, he didn’t make it.”

  Trent frowned. Was Stiles really cooperating with the police? Was this policewoman aware, somehow, that Stiles was dead? Her eyes flittered as she spoke. Something wasn’t right. “Where was he supposed to meet you?”

  “At Luigi’s. It’s the Italian restaurant at the airport. We were supposed to meet there and then fly to San Francisco.”

  “But everyone knows that Stiles is a New Yorker. Was he already in L.A., or was he flying in from back East?”

  “He was supposed to arrive from New York via Minneapolis.”

  Trent had learned of Stiles’ arrival at LAX after a stopover in Minnesota, but the flight to San Francisco that same evening was a well-kept secret. He had one more question. “Why didn’t he just fly straight to SFO?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss it any further,” Samantha replied. “All I can say right now is that it is finished as far as Benjamin Stiles is concerned.”

  The words were smug, and to Trent it was clear. She knew the man was dead, and he started to wonder if he was a suspect. He was convinced not everything she told him was true, but how much wasn’t, he couldn’t be sure. “So what’s your department?” he asked. “Homicide?”

  “Yes, I’m Samantha Jones, Police Detective, and a two year veteran in the Homicide Division. I’ve been a cop for nine years, though.”

  “Are you a San Francisco cop?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then why are you flying to Oakland?”

  “Because that’s where I live.”

  Trent nodded, but he still had the feeling something wasn’t right. Even so, he ditched his curiosity to avoid steering the chat back to the slain athlete.

  * * * *

  The flight was short, and that was fine by Trent. After landing, he was rising from his seat when Samantha said, “I would like to see you again.”

  Trent turned around and responded, “I would like to see you again, too.” He wasn’t really sure if he meant that, he said it without even thinking. Still, Samantha looked pleased to hear it as she stood up and handed him a business card. She was taller than the average woman, maybe five feet, seven, he guessed, not including the heels.

  Trent walked with Samantha across the loading bridge, and once they reached the concourse, a towering gentleman stood out in the crowd. Trent recognized the ex-football star and looked on as Samantha hugged him. Then she pulled back and said, “Josh, this is Trent Smith. I just met him on the flight from L.A.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the giant man said.

  Trent noted he was even bigger than he appeared on television, standing well above everyone around him. Trent placed him a foot taller than his sister and put his weight near three hundred pounds—and every ounce of it rock solid muscle. His blond hair matched Samantha’s, and his clean-cut countenance showed a clear family resemblance.

  Trent shook his hand and felt the natural power of a pro lineman, but his own iron grip seemed to surprise the former sportsman. “That’s quite a hand shake,” Josh remarked. “What are you made of, steel?”

  With narrowed eyes, Trent answered, “Isn’t that what they said about Benjamin ‘Steely’ Stiles?”

  Josh hedged, and then responded, “Yeah, we called him ‘Steely’... But to those of us who knew him, he was just a big cupcake.” He tossed a baffled glance to Samantha.

  Samantha added, “Josh finished his career in New York as a free agent.”

  The tension was palpable, and Trent didn’t know what to say at that point, so he simply nodded and spoke no more.

  It was Samantha who broke the chill. “Well, call me.”

  As if that was his cue, Josh took Samantha by the arm and turned to leave with her in tow. He grumbled, “Nice to meet you, but we have to go now.”

  Again, Trent nodded and watched them vanish in the crowd. It was time for him to do the same.

  * * * *

  Josh Jones sat with his sister in a black limousine as it shot across an Oakland freeway. He saw in the mirror the driver’s eyes, and was content that the soundproof glass kept his discussion private. He posed the question, “So who was that guy, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure, really,” Samantha said. “The most I could get out of him was that he’s some kind of a teacher, but I could never find out what he teaches, or where.”

  “A teacher? Not a chance. No teacher walks into a restroom and kills Benjamin Stiles, and then walks out like he just took a piss. He must work for someone, and we’ve got to find out who.”

  “Well, I have this.” From the purse on her lap, Samantha produced a clear plastic cup.

  Josh crumpled his brow. “What’s that? Are ya gonna give it to him for a sample the next time he goes into a restroom?”

  “It’s the cup he drank from on the airplane, dummy. I can get forensics to trace his fingerprints or even his DNA, so we can find out who he really is.”

  “At least that’s something,” Josh conceded.

  Saman
tha frowned. “You know, I don’t like any of this, either.”

  “It’s gotta be tough,” Josh said, “but I know you can do it. You’ve always come through, and you will this time, too.”

  “What if the prints turn up nothing? What if he doesn’t call me? What will I do then?”

  “Just do the things you can do.” Josh offered a brotherly smile. “We need to know who this guy is and who he works for. Don’t you realize how this changes everything? What will we tell Manoukian?”

  At the mention of the name, Samantha’s face melted into an expression of trepidation. And while the limousine carried them in silence across the Bay Bridge, Josh wondered how he would answer the query.

  * * * *

  Inside his Oakland condominium, Trent reclined in an easy chair with a glass of water in one hand and his TV’s remote control in the other. Changing channels with indifference, he landed on the national news and decided to see if anything might be mentioned of the recently deceased celebrity.

  Presently, an archive photo of Benjamin Stiles appeared on the screen, and the announcer verbalized the breaking story: “Benjamin Stiles was found dead tonight in a public restroom at the Los Angeles Airport. Although the cause of death is not immediately known, authorities have not ruled out foul play.”

  The newsman went on to describe Stiles’ football career and the legal controversy that spread his name across the world. Trent, however, was more interested in studying the group of tall agents in the background as the on-scene reporter took her turn in the limelight. He wondered why Samantha Jones wasn’t involved in the investigation. Why did she have to catch a flight home? She said she was supposed to meet Stiles and escort him to the Bay Area. What was that all about, and what did it have to do with Josh Jones? The scenario of ‘Samantha Jones, Police Detective’ and her brother didn’t sit well with Trent. What business did they really have with Benjamin Stiles? Was it police-related as Samantha inferred?

  Trent didn’t want to waste any more time with it and was all but ready to forget the whole thing. Stiles was dead, he deserved to be dead, and it was the first name crossed off the list inside of his head.

  The evening hours slipped away, and although Trent’s eyes were trained on the television screen, his brain stopped processing the electronic images. Instead, he recalled his early training at Tokyo’s Academy of Budo Ju Jitsu, owned and headed by the world famous shihan, Shoji Wada.

  Twenty years ago, Trent stood in awe as the legendary master welcomed his new trainees. And he still remembered the shihan’s first words that day: “Furuki o tazune atarshiki o shiru.”

  Trent’s Japanese was still in its infancy then, but he understood the message as the revered shihan spoke in the Japanese tongue: “You have come to me brash and young, but never forget, you must respect your elders, for they have earned your respect, even before you breathed your first air. Never disregard what they have achieved and what they have sacrificed. If you accept their knowledge and analyze the information they offer, each of you will develop the art in unique ways. For every generation expands upon the old to create something new for themselves...and for generations beyond.”

  At first, the Japanese senseis didn’t hide their skepticism, teaching Trent their finest arts. Trent knew that to them he was a gaijin—a foreigner—but the aging shihan took a liking to him. He recognized a rare combination of speed, strength, and intelligence in Trent. More importantly, Shoji admired Trent’s strength of character and mentored him personally.

  In time, Shoji entrusted Trent with all of his Budo secrets. Renamed Tora, by Shoji himself, Trent became a master in his own right. He was second only to Shoji in technique and skill, but second to none in strength of will.

  Twenty years passed, and the day arrived for Trent’s decision to return stateside. The memory was a self-inflicted wound. It was a pleasant morning in Tokyo, but outside the Shoji Dojo the mood was somber despite the scent of cherry blossoms in the eastern winds.

  “You don’t have to leave,” Shoji said. “We don’t want you to leave.”

  “I must leave,” Trent replied. He moved his gaze from Shoji’s aged face and scanned the Pacific that lay full in view.

  “And what of Yoshiko? She loves you.”

  “It is an honor of which I am not worthy.”

  “You have not lost your honor. You know that.”

  Trent looked again into Shoji’s amber eyes. “I have not lost my honor with you, Kaiso, and for that I am grateful. One day I will return to the dojo. And this is something I can promise.”

  “Then on that day, Soke, we will celebrate.”

  Shoji bowed, as did Trent, after which Shoji returned to his dojo through the opened iron gate. And it was within the gate’s sliding frame his only granddaughter appeared. Her eyes were red and filled with tears, but they didn’t fall. “I know you won’t talk about it,” she said to Trent.

  “I must leave, Yoshiko.”

  “Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave.”

  They embraced for long moments until Trent pulled himself free. “I must leave,” he said once again.

  “I’ll wait for you,” Yoshiko sobbed. Her tears were falling now. “You know I’ll wait for you.”

  Trent turned and walked away, carrying only a light bag, but with it a heavy heart. A final time he heard Yoshiko’s words as she wept farther and farther behind him. “I’ll wait for you, forever.”

  * * * *

  Trent closed his eyes and wondered if anyone could really mean words like that. To remember them tore open his heart, so he purged the scene from his head. Still, Yoshiko was a woman he would never forget, and it was impossible to keep her gone for very long.

  * * * *

  Technician Roger Shafer peered through the observation window of the SFPD forensics lab. A tense Samantha Jones was standing in the lobby, wearing a skirt suit of police blue, hemmed just above the knees. Her arms were crossed, and she was tapping the toe of her high-heeled shoe on the lobby’s linoleum floor. He considered her anxiety. It didn’t become her, nor did it lessen her beauty. Her nose was small and pug, her lips, full and luscious, her face, a Barbie doll come to life.

  In both hands, Roger held a stack of papers, which contained the results of his research. He approached the door, but halted to smooth what was left of his red-orange hair. He harbored a deep crush for Samantha ever since they joined the police force together nine years earlier. Honored with the opportunity to perform a favor, he wanted to make the most of his time in her company, so he adjusted his glasses, straightened his white lab coat, and broke into the presence of the woman he adored.

  After a single step, he froze to take in the perfect hourglass shape her outfit emphasized, especially in a view from behind, as he was lucky enough to happen upon. Samantha had entrusted him to examine the fingerprints and DNA from a plastic cup she said she had procured on an airline. Now, he was ready to report his findings to her, but he found himself delayed by his admiration of her.

  Samantha’s sudden pivot snapped Roger from his daze, and the stack of papers slipped from his fingers and into a pile at his feet. Cursing himself for being a klutz in front of her, he bent over to pick them up, but in doing so, launched the glasses off his nose. Hastening to catch them, he overextended himself, and an instinctive kick forward scattered the pile over the floor.

  Meanwhile, the glasses and Roger’s hand were engaged in a frantic juggling act, while his other hand windmilled to maintain stability. The foot that shot forward had one of the papers stuck under its shoe, causing him to slip about like a first time roller skater. Nevertheless, he continued bobbling the rascally glasses until he lost his balance altogether. On the way down, his frenzied arm batted the elusive eyewear across the room. He landed with a thud onto his backside, and the slippery spectacles came to rest at the tips of Samantha’s polished pumps.

  A glance at Samantha revealed a woman making her best effort to prevent herself from bursting into uncontrollable laughter. The attem
pt to hide her amusement behind her red fingernails was less than successful. Shortly, Roger began gathering the strewn papers while admitting to himself he had just experienced the single most humiliating moment of his entire life.

  Samantha said, “Are you—”

  “Yes,” Roger snapped without looking up. He couldn’t face her. He was thinking he might not be able to face her ever again.

  Samantha picked up his glasses and started to help in the collection of the scattered sheets, but Roger wouldn’t have it. “No, it’s all right,” he grumbled. “I’ll get them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” What Roger was sure of was that he wanted to kill himself tonight. He scooped the papers into a mound. As Samantha walked toward him, he pressed the rumpled heap against his chest and climbed to his feet. She handed him the glasses. “Thanks,” he said, sheepishly. He repositioned his eyewear only to learn they were now nothing more than lens-less frames.

  Samantha asked, “Well?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did you find something?”

  “Find?” Roger removed the useless specs, dangling them in one hand while holding the papers with the other. “No, it’s that kind of day for me. I suppose they’re on the floor somewhere.”

  “The fingerprints?” Samantha clarified. “The DNA?”

  Roger shook his head. “Oh, um, no. There’s nothing. As far as we know, this guy could have beamed down from outer space. There’s no match in the database, not even a driver’s license.”

  “What about teaching credentials?”

  “I cross-referenced every school in America. Colleges, high schools, elementary schools, even private schools. These prints are simply not on record, much less his DNA. There’s nothing.”

  Samantha spiked her heel to the floor. “But don’t teachers have to submit their fingerprints when they become teachers?”

  “Well, yes, but that’s only if he really is a teacher.” Roger believed the man in question had lied to her, but he refrained from saying it.

  When Samantha plopped into a chair, Roger put his brain to work. He returned the glasses to his face by force of habit and eyed the blond detective through the empty frames. He needed to say something, anything, to make himself useful, especially now, since he felt so useless. He said, “You know, not all teachers get printed.”