Dawson's Web

by William Hutchison

  Nothing more.

  Nothing less.

  To sell them anything, he had to focus on that.

  And he did.

  He had them sized up in five minutes and within two weeks; they were the proud owners of a 51 foot, 2015 Bavaria Cruiser 51 sailboat worth over $400,000. Mac’s commission check was $40,000, which was more than he grossed in the last six months.

  Chapter 3

  Jeff Dawson was a man's man. He was 33 years old, weighed 180 pounds, and had not an ounce of fat on his six-foot one-inch frame. He had steely blue eyes, and the physique women died for……. literally.

  Jeff glanced up at his reflection in the rearview mirror as he rounded the corner on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu and smiled.

  What a night he had had.

  He met some young chick at a bar. They got together, and when she became too questioning of his marital status, he did what he had done several times before. He eliminated the problem, but not before having his way with her.

  He accelerated his black Mercedes to 65, well above the 35-mile an hour speed limit, trying to make the light. The fact that it was 5:30 in the morning made this maneuver a little safer, albeit not entirely so.

  Two early morning anglers were in the crosswalk 50 yards ahead when Jeff rounded the corner. He flashed his bright lights, honked his horn and gunned the engine.

  The illegals dropped their poles and dove for cover.

  Jeff rocketed through the intersection and didn't even look back. He had no intention of harming them, but they didn't know that. It was all merely a game to him anyway. He had to be at home by six to change clothes and get the call from his wife, Sherry, who would be giving him the time when her plane would land at LAX.

  Sherry, an equally attractive woman of 32, was a flight attendant. She was coming in from San Francisco on the early morning flight. That gave Jeff about 15 minutes to change. He then had to make the hour trip back to the airport with probably 10 or 15 minutes to spare if he was lucky, and the traffic on Pacific Coast Highway didn't back up.

  Jeff saw a stop light up ahead. Only this time instead of accelerating, he slowed, put on his blinker, and turned left into his driveway that was a mere 5 feet from the southbound lanes of Pacific Coast Highway.

  The garage door opened, Jeff pulled his car in and shut the engine off. It was 5:55 am when Jeff walked around to the back of his car, opened the trunk and pulled out the gym bag.

  It still had a few bloodstains on the exterior. He then carefully rolled up the plastic tarp he had lined the back of his truck with on more than one occasion and took it over to the sink, rinsing it carefully and spraying it with bleach.

  He would deal with the gym bag later.

  Chapter 4

  Across town, Fred McCallister took the last sip of his hot cocoa, wiped the powdered sugar from his mouth from the donut he had eaten in two bites and put five dollars on the counter.

  “Is that all for you?” Sally, the waitress, asked as she scooped up the money.

  Yeah, hon. I have to get back on my beat. In three more weeks I can retire, turn in my badge and head up north to Bridgeport to spend the rest of my days fishing for trout, hunting, and skiing. All thanks to you lovely taxpayers. I've put in 30 years in the LAPD, and I'll be glad when I’m finished.

  Just then, his radio mike pinned to his shoulder squawked.

  “Calling all units! Calling all units! Proceed to Dockweiler Beach. We have a report of a homicide in the public restrooms there.”

  Fred shook his head and quickly got up from the table. His partner José Ramirez was already halfway to the door.

  Fred rolled his eyes at Sally. "See you tomorrow!"

  He turned and followed José.

  It took twenty minutes to make the trip from the donut shop on Manchester Boulevard to Dockweiler. The sun was peeking over the mountains, casting a pink and purple glow on the Los Angeles sky. The pinkish haze was an indicator that the Santa Ana winds would be screaming through the canyons later on as the desert high-pressure system built strength. The dust particles were already being picked up, sent aloft and trapped in the upper atmosphere. They reflected the early morning light. It was calm for now but wouldn't stay that way for long. Still, for early September it was going to be a beautiful warm Southern California day.

  When they pulled up, Fred and José could see six cruisers with their lights on. The county lifeguards yellow truck was in the center of the parking lot, doors wide open and there were eight officers milling about at the entrance to the public restroom.

  “What have we got here detective?” Fred asked Sam Johnson as he made his way to the door.

  “Not so fast soldier,” Sam warned.

  “It’s a crime scene but we haven’t secured the perimeter yet.” Sam stuck his arm out to keep Fred from passing. Fred was irritated at being held back, but stopped.

  “All right already. What do you take me for, a rookie? I was interested in what was going on. That’s all.”

  “Aren’t you retired yet?” Sam shot back sarcastically.

  “Three more weeks, Sam! Now, what the fuck is it?” Fred demanded.

  “We have a Caucasian female, early 20s, with multiple stab wounds. Someone must've really been pissed at her. I've never seen anything quite like it. The perp damn near severed her head.” Sam said.

  “Who found her?” Fred asked as he peered around the corner.

  In the dim light of the bathroom, he could see the corpse. The girl was laying spread eagle on the floor. Her dress was hiked up around her stomach. She was lying in a pool of her own blood and her panties were around one ankle. She had obviously been raped.

  “A jogger found her about an hour ago.”

  “What's his name?” Fred asked.

  “Name’s John Adamson. He said he was out for an early morning jog on the Strand and had to use the restroom. That's when he found her.”

  “What was he doing in the women's restroom?”

  “I asked the same thing myself,” the officer said,” but when I poked my head in the men's restroom I could understand. In there, someone had vomited right in the doorway and by the looks of the mess that person had way too much Thai food and beer.”

  Fred had only taken one-step towards the doorway before the smell hit him. He turned his head away and covered his mouth. The coffee and donuts he ate earlier were starting to rise in the back of his throat. If he weren’t careful, he’d add to the mess.

  “Okay, I guess his story checks out,” he said while he took a deep breath of ocean air to settle his stomach.

  "What's his relationship to the victim?" Fred queried.

  "As far as we know, he has no relationship whatsoever. He had nothing to do with the murder. Or at least that's what it looks like.”

  "Did you get his particulars?"

  "Yes, and we are following up now," John said. "We ran his driver’s license, and he lives in Playa Del Ray, a few miles from here. We sent a squad car over to his house, and his wife verified he jogs on the beach two or three times a week.”

  The other officer smiled.

  “What's the smile for?” Fred asked.

  "Oh nothing. People are crazy. You know that. I know that. You don't have to be in this job long to figure it out."

  Fred knew precisely what he meant. He had dealt with many lunatics over the past 30 years, and he was fed up with it.

  "So what happened?" Fred continued.

  "Well, when we got to his address, a woman in a pink robe came to the door. When she saw our uniforms, she almost went ballistic. Apparently, she watches too many cop shows and thought we were there to tell her that her husband had been run over. Before we could even ask her a question, she started in on us.”

  "I told him he should wear those reflectors on the backs of his shoes, but he refused. He never listened to me. He never listens to me,” the woman said.

  “We endured her rant for a couple of minutes, trying to tell her what happened, but she continued her hist
rionics. We finally had to get in her face, grab her by the shoulders and tell her to shut up. We asked her if husband’s name was John Adamson.”

  “He's okay; we need to know if he lives here.”

  Joanne Adamson finally heard the words “he's okay” and instantly, calmed down.

  “Yes, he lives here. Why are you here? Where's John? What has he done?” She asked ratcheting up her emotions again.

  We continued. “Look, Mrs. Adamson, he hasn't done anything; He called 911 and reported that he had found a body near Dockweiler Beach. He gave us his driver’s license and told us where he lived. We had to check his story out because he was the only one on the scene. Now that you've vouched for him, we’ll be on our way. We then assured her we would bring her husband back in about 30 minutes after we finished questioning him.

  Fred absorbed the information. "It's a good thing for him his old lady was home,” he remarked to John. Then he moved closer to the women's restroom door and scanned the crime scene with his flashlight, being careful not to enter potentially contaminating it. He stared down at the corpse.

  On the floor was an absolutely drop dead (pun intended) gorgeous blonde-haired woman in her early 20s. “Why in the hell would anyone do this to her?” he said aloud.

  He continued shining his light into the darkness looking for clues. It was a typical beach bathroom. Slab concrete walls, cold concrete floor. The air was rancid and smelled of ammonia. The beach city lawmakers thought that saving a few extra dollars on the beach maintenance wouldn't affect their Caucasian constituency since most of the beachgoers near LAX are Hispanics and blacks. It was as if they were saying to them it doesn't matter how bad the bathrooms are, go ahead and piss on the floor. The beaches farther south in Manhattan Beach, Redondo Beach and Hermosa were not nearly as foul. These higher-class beach cities have more money and a higher tax base.

  John watched as Fred continued scanning the crime scene. Fred was inching closer to the door.

  “Look, old man. You can't be in here. Neither the coroner nor the detectives have arrived yet. You don't have any jurisdiction over this case, and certainly, you shouldn't be here at all given the fact that you're three weeks from retirement.”

  Fred understood, and backed up, but not before his flashlight caught a glimpse of a half broken blade of a knife hidden in a crack in the floor next to the victim.

  Fred held his light steady and motioned John to come closer.

  “See, right over there.”

  John shook his head in acknowledgment. “You see that.”

  “We’ll have the lab guys get it as soon as the detectives get here. Good job old man. You still have it. Now get on home to your wife. There's nothing more you can do here.”

  Fred snapped his light off, put it back in his utility belt and walked toward the cruiser. José was already there. He fired up the engine, and they headed south on Vista Del Mar.

  Chapter 5

  Sarah Tidwell wrapped her fingers around the hair lying on her right ear and tugged. She always did this when she was nervous. This was a big deal. It was her first interview since she started her new job at the Daily Inquirer, and it was with a mortgage broker who was stuck firmly in the middle of the loan crisis.

  The camera operator was struggling with the electrical cords, which were balled up in a knot.

  “Can anything else go wrong, Dammit!” she thought to herself. She put her bottle of water down and helped untangle them. The operator looked up and shrugged his shoulders sheepishly thanking her.

  The room was hideous, Sarah thought. It wasn’t right. It was too professional and appeared too staged. Magazines were neatly arranged on the desk in a fan arrangement; Golf Digest placed on the top. The pen blotter was positioned perfectly in the center of the desk opposite a comfortable black leather captain’s chair.

  She moved to the desk, rearranged the magazines into a random pile, and picked up some of the papers from the in-basket and scattered them on the desk creating a picture of havoc.

  That’s better. How can anyone think that this CEO of US Mortgages Inc. has everything in its place? This office is perfect chaos now, like the financial crisis the country was a few years earlier. The company was a house of cards, and shit was raining down on everyone associated with it. How could the CEO’s desk be “P-E-R-F-E-C-T?”

  It wasn’t now thanks to Sarah…Now it represented what was truly happening….Chaos…with a capital C.

  Good timing.

  Hans Morgenstern, that dashing darling of Wall Street, pushed open the door. Makeup had done wonders. He looked at least 20 years younger than he actually was, Sarah thought, “he is pretty damn good looking, but what a scumbag.”

  Hans spotted his desk and his eyes grew wide as he surveyed the mess.

  Sarah looked at the camera operator who had a close-up of him. He got the expression on tape and gave a big thumb’s up.

  Sarah nodded and took the chair near the desk and sat down. Hans spotted the red light from the camera indicating it was on, gained his composure and sat opposite her. He reached over the desk, extended his hand cordially to Sarah and put on a handsome Tom Cruise-like smile.

  “Sarah Tidwell, so nice to meet you in person. I’ve seen some of your interviews and they are fabulous,” Hans said, still holding her hand, much longer than needed. He exuded charm and confidence.

  Sarah was caught up in his web. She could see how good he was. Hans was a handsome man. Not only that, but he was also gracious. For a moment, Sarah forgot that she was here to rip him a new one and enjoyed the touch of this hand on hers, longing to get to know him better……DAMMIT.

  She began her interview.

  “So what's going on with the bailout? Why are you and your minions trying to screw the American public? What’s up with that?”

  Hans looked at her squarely -- his gray eyes burning a hole in her head -- and simply said, "What’s it to you?"

  “What's it to me? What's it to me? How in the hell can you even say that? You have investors that have lost whole life savings into your bank because of your firm’s unscrupulous business practices. Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  She paused and turned to the camera operator. He stopped taping and erased her last comment. He then gave the thumbs up for her to continue. The F-bomb she dropped was now on the cutting room floor.

  Hans looked at her nonchalantly and replied. “No need to get hostile.”

  “Did you lose any money?” He asked. He was probing, trying to find out if she had any loved ones or if she had been hurt by his company and their misappropriation of funds and underhanded buying and selling derivative bonds that were worthless. His company was in such dire financial straits and had bent the rules of accounting so much he had forgotten the truth. But he had not forgotten that there were people out there that relied on him who had been taken to the cleaners by his firm. Hearing Sarah's words reminded him that he was a scumbag. In some ways, he was trying to redeem himself by asking that question.

  “It's not about me,” Sarah replied. “It's about what you have done or rather your company has done to the countless thousands who invested in you and put their faith and trust in you. How do you explain what you’ve done? How do you redeem yourself for the financial toll you have taken on them and their families? How can you explain that or live with yourself?”

  Hans heard her words and nonchalantly ignored them. Although his dealings with people were not on the scale of Bernie Madoff, still he had bilked millions in secondary derivatives that his company had packaged and sold to domestic and foreign investors. This was before the financial meltdown, and it was one of the primary reasons the US economy nearly collapsed. Hans knew he represented just one of thousands of companies in the mortgage and financial industries that had forgotten assets must have some basis of value behind them.

  All this started under the Clinton administration with the federal government pushing financial institutions into making loans to people who could not aff
ord homes. Hell, they couldn't afford to rent much less pay a mortgage payment. But like other failed policies, the siren song of deals based on humanitarian principles and sold as being good for the downtrodden ultimately won out over common sense. The US taxpayers inherited the debt of those who could not pay. Regardless, Hans rationalized he wasn't a crook. He was, after all, just one of many others in his position who were doing similar transactions daily. It was simply business. And that business had earned him millions. At 62, he didn't have to work another day in his life.

  He got back on point and looked at his accuser across the table. “Ms. Jenkins. Or should I call you Sarah?”

  “Sarah is fine,” she said.

  Sarah grabbed at the hair around her ear and tugged even harder. She was very nervous now. He was starting to get to her.

  Hans leaned into the table resting his chin on the palm of his hand; his elbow neatly tucked underneath and stared straight into Sarah's eyes.

  “Sarah, it’s just business!’ With this, he abruptly got up and motioned towards the door ushering both her and her camera operator out.

  “I really must be going now Sarah, I have a conference call that starts in five minutes.”

  She was dumbfounded. She never expected this. She had been given the assignment to put the spotlight on Hans Morgenstern as a representative of the lowest of the low, and here she was summarily brushed off.

  Her backbone stiffened as she stood up. “Mr. Morgenstern,” she said rather matter-of-factly. “Although the interview is over today and you’ve won this round, I'm not out of the fight yet. If you don't answer my questions about your firm's dealings, then perhaps some of your competitors will.” This veiled threat was meant to get a reaction and a possible follow-up interview.

  It was ignored. Hans merely held the door open and waited.

  The stalemate was over. She got up and walked out.

  Then the most amazing thing happened.

  Hans acquiesced.

  He turned to her and spoke. “Have my secretary look up my availability next week so we can continue this conversation then. I'd much rather have an opportunity to set the record straight myself than for you to get lies from the likes of Smith Barney or Lehman Brothers. They would love to have the chance to torpedo me.”