by Dave Stanton
“Nope.”
“Shit. I guess I’ll have to ask Marcus Grier.”
“Like you say, he’s your good buddy.”
• • •
Calling Marcus Grier on a Saturday night was not something I thought would be productive, so I slept on it. When I woke Sunday morning and remembered he’d be at church, calling him seemed even less promising. Problem was, Grier was a limited resource, and I had to play my cards carefully with him. But I didn’t have the same reservations about Bill Worley. So far, the old Texan had been pretty cooperative.
“We’re already working on the truck,” he said, answering my call after a single ring. “Care to guess how many Ford Rangers are registered in California?”
“Thousands?”
“Many thousands. The ’98 to 2002 models were a big seller.”
“How about if you reduce it to Northern Cal and Reno?
“Still thousands.”
“How about just the Tahoe Reno area?”
“Hundreds.”
I leaned forward, my elbows on my desk. “What are you doing with the list?”
“We’re working it. But it’s a lot of names.”
“I know this is irregular, but I could help.”
“I appreciate the offer, son, I really do. But you’ll have to talk to the sheriff on that.”
“Hell, Bill, it’s Sunday. I doubt Marcus would take my call.”
“You know him better than me. Maybe best you wait till tomorrow.”
I thanked him, and after we hung up I sat for a minute. On my desk was the case file I’d compiled, containing the names and numbers from Valerie’s phone, as well as a list of Blood Bastard and War Dog members. I looked over the names and considered devoting the afternoon to phone interviews. This was the proper thing to do, I told myself. It might well be a waste of time, but it still needed to be done. If I had a boss, I’d probably be ordered to do so. Cases could be solved by this type of due diligence. But my gut was pulling me in a different direction.
I closed the file, got into my truck, and backed down the icy driveway. Five minutes later, I crossed the state line and turned into Pistol Pete’s. A stream of SUVs, skis and snowboards clamped on their roof racks, were exiting the parking lot as I arrived.
I went through the glass doors and hiked across the quiet casino floor to the roulette table where Terry Molina had met Nick Galanis. From there, I circled outward to a nearby bank of slots, then I walked over to the bar named the OK Corral. Except for a couple playing video poker at the bar, the area was deserted.
I sat at a cocktail table and imagined the casino swarming with gamblers and revelers. The tapes I’d viewed showed every seat taken at every table, around which the crowds jostled and maneuvered. If someone was following Galanis that night, the mass of people would make it easy to go unnoticed, but difficult to maintain surveillance unless in close proximity. Also, the person would have to be standing; sustaining visual contact from a seated position would be next to impossible.
I got up and walked to the security counter next to a cashier’s cage. “Is Chris Davies here?” I asked a uniformed guard.
“I’ll check,” he said. “Your name?”
I gave him a card and waited while he spoke on the phone. It didn’t take more than a minute for Chris Davies, the employee I’d met when I was here last, to open the door that led to the stairway to the casino video room.
“Hi, Chris. I didn’t know if you’d be working today.”
“I take off Mondays and Tuesdays. To avoid the crowds on the slopes.”
“I never ski weekends myself.”
He nodded. “You need to look at some more video?”
“I do.” Pleased and a little surprised at his obliging attitude, I followed him up the stairs to his desk, atop which sat three monitors. He hit a couple keystrokes, and a screen showing an overhead diagram of the casino came up. It was marked with blinking red arrows showing camera locations.
“Which views do you want to see?” Davies said.
I studied the screen and selected three arrows pointing at areas from which a man might watch the gaming tables or the lounge area.
“These three. From 11:00 to 12:15 New Year’s Eve.”
“How’s the investigation coming along?”
“Still lots of unanswered questions.”
“I’ll go get you some CDs.”
“Thanks. Hey, Chris?”
“Yeah?”
“It looks like there are four exits from the casino.”
“That’s right.”
“But the cameras would only show the faces of people entering, not leaving?”
“Correct. People leaving, you’d just see from their backside.”
“Hmm. Can you also get me these four cameras, midnight to 12:30?”
He went to his desk and scrawled on a pad of paper. “I’ll have our technician make the disks. Should be about twenty minutes.”
• • •
Whoever murdered Terry Molina and Valerie Horvachek waited until right after Nick Galanis had seduced the victims. Clearly, this timing was part of the killer’s agenda. I still had no solid idea as to the motivation, but I was beginning to suspect, as Bill Worley suggested, that some dark sexual deviance was at play.
I’d always found Freud’s interpretation of arson entertaining. He viewed it as a substitute for the sex act. The lighting of the fire represented foreplay, the inferno was intercourse, and the eventual extinguishing of the blaze was the climax. Maybe this killer needed to see Galanis hitting on a woman. That would be his foreplay. The strangling would substitute for intercourse. The dumping of the bodies, the climax.
The killer could have watched Galanis’s pad, waiting for him to bring a woman home. Or, he could have followed and staked out Galanis’s car for the same reason. Both were somewhat passive approaches that might minimize risk. But the killings were not the work of a passive, risk-adverse personality. Instead, my hunch was the killer tailed Galanis into both the Vex Dance Club and Pistol Pete’s, in order to witness his seductive ploys. Once Galanis hooked up with the unfortunate ladies, the killer then followed them to Galanis’s place and waited for the right moment. As it happened, both women decided to wait outside for their cab, creating the opportunity for the killer to strike.
Freudian theories aside, the good news was Pistol Pete’s was under constant video surveillance, something the killer might not have anticipated until it was too late. My first viewing of the Pistol Pete’s videos was focused on seeing if Terry had met anyone there. Today, I’d be looking for someone watching Terry, and then following her and Galanis out of the casino.
The young technician brought out two CDs and gave me a quick review of their computer program. After settling in front of a monitor along the wall, I called Candi and told her I’d be tied up until at least midafternoon.
For four hours I stared at hundreds of faces. I saw two drunk young guys get in a scuffle before security guards took them away. I watched a man grab a woman’s ass and she turned around and slapped him so hard his glasses flew from his head. Many of the males stared in the direction of Terry, leers or smiles plastered on their mugs. People passed by the screen smoking and drinking and grinning and they reappeared scratching their heads or wiping their mouths. Their lips moved in silent conversation, and many had eyes glazed in drunkenness, and those sitting dared not rise because New Year’s Eve seats were a valued commodity.
I took note of ten different men. One was the ponytailed Blood Bastards member who’d tried hitting on Terry before Galanis made his move. The other nine were fellows of various ages. They all seemed to be alone, though some were only visible for a few minutes. None of them were obviously watching anyone. If the killer was one these men, he did nothing to distinguish himself.
From my previous notes, I knew Galanis and Terry had left the bar shortly after midnight. I scrutinized the videos from midnight to 12:15, looking to see if any of the suspects left during that time f
rame. A few did, but that didn’t mean they left the casino.
It was two o’clock, and I’d skipped lunch. I ignored my stomach and inserted the second CD, which covered the four exits from the casino. I spent an hour studying the doorways. Galanis and Terry departed through a side exit at 12:10. Although it was difficult to tell since I couldn’t see their faces, none of the men I’d noticed followed them out. More troubling, I didn’t see any of the men leave from any of the other exits.
“Shit,” I muttered. I rubbed my eyes and stood to stretch. A side door opened and Chris Davies came into the room.
“You look like you could use some coffee,” he said.
“No, thanks. I’m about done.”
“Find anything helpful?”
“Hard to say. Are there any exits from the casino other than the four?”
“Besides the employees exit? Yeah, you can get to the parking lot from Puttanesca’s, our Italian restaurant.”
“Is it covered by a camera?”
“No.”
• • •
I left with pictures I’d printed of each suspect, most of them face shots of fair to good resolution. The faces were totally anonymous, with one exception: the ponytailed biker. And I knew nothing about him except that he was a member of the Blood Bastards. But what did that tell me? He didn’t fit my Freudian profile, and he and Galanis didn’t appear to recognize each other. His agenda seemed solely to charm Terry. He looked unhappy when he failed, but that hardly seemed motivation for murder.
My approach to the case at this point, I’d conceded, would be a process of searching for the intersection of data points. I was looking for a man who possessed the skills to navigate in the snowy wilderness at night, and who drove a Ford Ranger. I was looking for a man who harbored some bizarre grudge against Nick Galanis. Bizarre, because why would he target Galanis’s women instead of Galanis himself? And, I was looking for a man who may have been at Pistol Pete’s on New Year’s Eve, and whose picture might be in the stack of papers I held.
When I got home, I began searching online for snowmobile clubs and extreme skiing groups. I found a few things, but not much. Most of the hits under snowmobile were for rentals, but there was one local club I put on my list to contact. My other searches came up empty. If I wanted to identify hardcore backcountry skiers, I’d have to do it the old fashioned way: hit the streets and talk to people.
That’s where this case was, I mused. Without a clear idea on motive, or an eyewitness, identifying suspects could require sifting through hundreds or maybe thousands of names. Cops hate this kind of work. It’s not only laborious, but time intensive and potentially impractical from a resource point of view. The murders of Valerie Horvachek and Terry Molina, while a priority, were not the only cases the local police had on their plates.
As a dedicated private resource, I had no doubt I could be of value to the Lake Tahoe police agencies. Marcus Grier was a nine-to-five cop, and Bill Worley’s prowess as an investigator was an unknown. On the Nevada side, Greg McMann had just tumbled off the wagon, and Nick Galanis, who by all accounts was a good if not excellent detective, had apparently removed himself from the investigation.
I spent an hour reviewing my notes and writing an update for the General. After a while, Candi peeked into my office and suggested we head out to for Chinese food.
“Sounds good,” I said. Before I stood from my desk, I studied the pictures of the ten men. I stared into their faces, hoping for some subconscious revelation, some flash of light in the darkness. When none came, I stacked the pages neatly. The pictures might be valuable to the police, especially if they’d made progress on the list of Ford Rangers. I’d look into it first thing tomorrow.
11
Monday morning, and it took until eleven o’clock to get Marcus Grier on the phone. When he finally took my call he sounded distracted and irritable.
“How about I buy you and Bill lunch over at Zeke’s?” I said.
“What do you want to talk about?” A phone was ringing in the background.
“I’ve got some pictures of potential suspects.”
“From where?”
“I want to see if we can link one to a Ford Ranger.”
“We?”
“Consider me a resource, Marcus.”
He snorted a laugh. “Bill’s doing just fine without you, if you can imagine that.”
“I’m sure he is. You want to see the pictures?”
His voice became muffled, his hand over the mouthpiece. Then he said, “Bring them in.”
“You got to eat, right? Tell Bill Zeke’s has real Texas brisket.”
His voice was muffled again, then, “All right, we’ll be there at noon. This better not be a waste of time.”
• • •
From my table near the saloon’s front window, I watched Grier and Bill Worley climb from their squad car. Walking together, they looked like two different species. Grier was still puffy despite his recent diet, his body thick and round beneath his chocolate-colored face. Worley’s weathered mug looked cracked as a dry riverbed, and he ambled along in a bowlegged gait, all elbows and knees.
I waved at them as they came in. They nodded their hellos and sat across from me. Liz brought menus, and I told Grier the prawn salad was probably the lowest calorie option.
Worley raised his eyes from the menu, reading glasses on his nose. “Chicken good?”
“Yeah. Try the baked beans, too.”
“Awright, I’ll do that.”
“Let’s get to it, Dan,” Marcus said, clearly not interested in idle chitchat. “What about the pictures?”
“I’m thinking whoever murdered Terry Molina was at Pistol Pete’s, watching Galanis hit on her.” I opened the folder on the table in front of me. “These men were all at the casino on New Year’s, near where Galanis met Terry.” I slid the folder forward, and Grier and Worley began looking through the photos. A group of teenagers come in, followed by two harried adults. Liz steered them into the dining room.
“See anyone familiar?” I said.
Worley scratched his eyelid and flipped through the pages. He shook his head, and said, “Nope. How about you, Sheriff?”
“This is Ben Pinkus,” Grier said, holding a picture of a man wearing a lime green T-shirt. He’s a hair stylist over at the salon next to the Rite-Aid. Lives with his boyfriend. I wouldn’t consider him a suspect.”
“Because he’s gay?”
“That, and he’s a longtime resident, never had a scrape with the law that I know of.”
“Any idea what kind of car he drives?”
“I’ll look into it,” Worley said.
“This guy,” I said, grabbing one of the pages. “He’s a member of the Blood Bastards.”
“So?” Grier said. “You still think the gang is involved with Galanis and the murders?”
“I think it’s a lead. I think you should find this guy and question him. I’d do it myself, but without a badge I doubt it would go anywhere.”
“We’ll take that under advisement.” Worley took the page from me, but Grier shook his head and looked skeptical. I didn’t blame him.
“Bill, I like your idea the killer is motivated by some sort of sexual deviance,” I said. “I don’t think the killer necessarily knew Valerie and Terry. But I definitely think he knew Galanis.”
“I tend to agree.” Worley’s blue eyes met mine.
“Have you compiled a list of men Galanis has arrested since he’s been a cop here?”
“It’s one of the things we’re looking at,” Grier said.
“Maybe focus on those charged with a sex crime?”
“That too,” Worley said.
“And if one of them drives a Ford Ranger, and also happens to be a backwoods adventure type, maybe you’ve found your man.”
“Not bad, Dan.” Worley showed a hint of a smile, his teeth a bit crooked but very white against his baked skin.
“Lots of information to sift through, I imagine.”
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“We’re making pretty good progress.” Worley shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. His silver hair was neatly trimmed except for the some errant strands that fell onto his forehead.
“You need some help, I’m offering my time.” Neither responded to that, and after the silence grew awkward, I shifted the discussion to a previous case in which I’d supported Grier, hoping to remind him I was a friend of the police. But the conversation fizzled, and we didn’t say much until Liz came from the kitchen with our orders. After she left, Grier said, “Actually, Dan, Bill’s already got most of the work done.”
“Really? Any suspects?”
Worley cut a piece of chicken and dipped it into a cup of barbeque sauce on his plate. “We have a number of persons of interest.”
“No one from the pictures though, huh?”
“No. But we appreciate you letting us keep them.” Grier took the pages scattered on the table and arranged them in the folder. He reached behind him and propped the file on the window ledge.
“Glad I could be of help, Sheriff,” I said.
• • •
After Grier and Worley left Zeke’s, I drove down the street to the Rite Aid on 50. The parking lot also served an adjoining strip mall. The neon signs in the window of the Starlight Salon advertised manicures, facials, and hair styling. I spent a minute driving down the rows of parking spots, looking without success for a Ford Ranger. Then I parked and went into the place.
An Asian woman was bent over a middle-aged lady’s toes, filing away. The only other person there was a man with a shaved head and earrings and a goatee on his chin. He sashayed toward me with a devilish pout on his face.
“Oh, lucky me, but aren’t you a project. Well, you’ve come to the right place. I imagine you’d like a total makeover?”
“No, I—”
“Oh, look at those nails!” He grasped my hand. “How long since your last mani?”
“My last what?”
“Manicure, silly. Years?”
I took my hand from him. “Are you Ben Pinkus?”
“Why, yes.”
“My name’s Reno, private investigations. I’m looking into the murder of a woman named Terry Molina. Does the name mean anything to you?”
