Some Degree of Murder rcc-5

by Frank Zafiro

  “Something like 3124 or definitely 3124?”

  “I dunno, it’s on the refrigerator.” She pointed into the kitchen.

  Still holding Marion by the neck, I walked her into the kitchen and over to the refrigerator. On the avocado green unit were papers and magnets everywhere. Photographs were interspersed with the papers.

  “Where’s the address?” I asked with a shake of her throat.

  She pointed to a ragged piece of paper.

  “You were right, Marion. 3124. Good memory.”

  I saw a picture of Rowdy and another long-haired kid. “Who’s that?”

  “That’s Brian.”

  I stared at the picture for a moment and squeezed around Marion’s throat. Her hands grasped at my hand.

  “Do you want to live, Marion?”

  She nodded with tears streaming down her red face.

  “Do you have any rope?”

  After tying up Marion in the basement, I checked out the house and found Rowdy’s room in the back corner. Hung on the walls were pictures of heavy metal bands, a rebel flag and pictures of his BSC brothers. Dirty clothes were strewn about the room and the bed hadn’t been made.

  In the living room, I found the keys to Rowdy’s Harley, which were on a Playboy key ring.

  I placed a phone call to the Davenport and asked for my room. Gina answered on the second ring.

  “Don’t say anything,” I said quickly.

  She waited quietly.

  “Pick up your car at the first house you told me about. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The keys will be under the seat and the doors unlocked.”

  “Okay.”

  I hung up the phone and walked out to Rowdy’s bike. It took me a couple of kicks but I got it running. I drove it over to Gina’s car and left the keys in it.

  Wednesday, April 21 st 1319 hrs Special Services Unit

  TOWER

  “What can you do with it?” I asked Adam.

  He looked at the number I handed him, his brow furrowing. “Well, first off, it’s a cell phone. That’s the bad news. The good news is that maybe it’s in our records somewhere.”

  I frowned. “That’d be great, but…”

  “All it takes is for the owner to have ever given it just once to any cop in the county and it’ll be in here.”

  “Like I said, it’d be great, but…”

  “Huh. No record found.” Adam glanced up at me. “That’s all right. We’ll just have to get into some technical wizardry.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Adam typed furiously at his keyboard. I looked around the small room. Tucked away in the basement of the police station, the Special Services Unit had all the gadgetry necessary to run a modern day police department. Surveillance, video recovery, computer encryption, you name it. Adam was a police officer for four years, but when this civilian position came open, he resigned from RCPD and took the job. Rumor was that he made even more than top rate patrol pay. He was probably worth it, too, though I knew that most of the time his work consisted of trying to clean up video surveillance tapes from convenience store robberies or department store shoplifters. It was a waste of talent.

  “The key is going to be keeping him talking,” Adam told me, sliding across the room in his chair to a small bank of equipment that I didn’t recognize.

  “Huh?”

  “Whoever answers the phone. You have to keep them talking as long as possible.”

  I watched him flip a couple of switches and make adjustments to the equipment. It reminded me of the engine room in the old Star Trek series. “I see.”

  Adam looked over at me. “No, you don’t.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. How are you going to trace a cell phone?”

  Adam smiled and slid back over to the computer. “All cell phones operate off of cell towers. I can narrow down which tower in about ten seconds.”

  “That fast?”

  He nodded. “That’s the easy part. Each tower covers a certain geographical area. I establish that as my search region, then use the other cell towers to begin to triangulate the location of the cell signal.” He pointed to a separate screen. “Then I just overlay the signal result onto a satellite map of the area that’s in the same resolution and I can give you the address the call is coming from. As long as he’s not mobile, anyway.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “A minute. Maybe longer.”

  “I don’t know if I can keep him talking for a minute.”

  “You don’t know for sure it’s his number, though, right? I mean, it’s not listed to him or to anyone in our records. It’d take you weeks and a subpoena to figure out which cell company the number belongs to.”

  “Don’t offer an encouraging word or anything, Adam.”

  “Let me ask you something. For your case, does it matter how you locate the guy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, is how you found him ever going to get into court?”

  “I don’t think so. Not as a material issue, anyway. Why?”

  Adam took a deep breath and leaned forward. “If it isn’t an issue, I can hook us up with some help on this triangulation. But it can’t be known to anyone else.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just promise me that this issue will never come up,”

  “I promise. We found him with your equipment. Nothing more. Or would an anonymous tip be better?”

  “No. Just no mention of anything beyond my civilian-made police equipment.”

  Adam went to work, typing furiously again. After a few moments, he picked up a cell phone and dialed, then resumed typing.

  “Grant?” he said. “Adam. Go secure.”

  Adam stopped typing briefly, bringing his cell phone from his ear and pressing a button.

  He put the phone back to his year and resumed hitting keys. “Back? Okay, good. Listen, I’d like to run a triangulation test. Yeah, homeland security cooperation. Can you give me your towers?” He glanced over at me and nodded. “Good. Okay, I got ya. Seven minute window. Thanks, Grant.”

  Adam hung up. “Are you ready to violate the Patriot Act?”

  “Don’t say that.”

  He grinned and handed me his phone, then hit a few more keys on the keyboard. “Go ahead and dial the number but don’t hit send. We have to wait for the connection to go green — oh, there it is. Never mind, go ahead and dial.”

  I dialed the number and hit send. I could hear the digital ring in my ear.

  “Yeah?”

  It didn’t sound like Rowdy, but I didn’t take any chances. “Hi. I was calling about the Harley?”

  “Harley? Oh, Rowdy’s bike. Yeah. Well, I’m not sure where he’s at. You want me to take your number or sumpin’?”

  Adam made stretching motions to me with his hands and pointed to his watch.

  “Well, sure,” I said, “but maybe you can tell me something about the bike.”

  “Whattaya want to know?”

  “It looked like it was in good shape.”

  “I s’pose so.”

  “What’s he asking for it?”

  “I think all he said was best offer.”

  “Well,” I said, “that doesn’t help out much.”

  “Sorry.”

  Adam nodded and tapped his watch.

  “It’s just that if a guy’s going to sell a motorcycle, you think he’d have an idea what he wants for it. Maybe a starting place or something.”

  “Don’t know what to tell ya. Say ten grand for starters, how’s that?”

  “Steep,” I said.

  “No shit,” he said. “You know hogs?”

  “Not really.”

  “You just some yuppie wanting to look like the guy in the commercial, then?”

  “I just want to get out and ride. And I want to buy American.”

  “All right, man. You can’t go wrong with a Harley. Best motorcycle ever made.”


  “You own one?”

  “’Course. Mine’s a little older than Rowdy’s, but he’s got connections.”

  “Connections?”

  “Never mind. You want to test drive the hog?”

  “Yeah, I’d like to.”

  “Awright, well, I’m busy today, but I can meet you tomorrow. Say around two?”

  “Okay. Where?”

  “At his mom’s house, man. Where the hog is. Where the hell did you think?”

  Adam tapped his watch furiously and made fevered stretching motions with his hands.

  “Yeah, of course. I’m just excited. It’s my first motorcycle. Hey, what’s your name?”

  “Brian.”

  “Brian, I’m John. I have a question for you.”

  “What? Hurry up, though, my show’s coming on.”

  “Do I need a helmet?”

  “Yeah. Unless you like hundred dollar tickets from the cops.”

  “No, I know it’s the law and all. I just meant tomorrow. Do I need a helmet for a test ride?”

  Adam’s face broke into a huge smile and he flashed me a thumbs up sign. “Got him,” he mouthed.

  “I’ll bring mine over,” Brian said. “You can use it.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, gotta go. My show’s on.”

  He hung up.

  I handed the phone back to Adam, whose entire face was one giant grin. He handed me the address he’d written down. “We got him. Do you know how awesome that is?”

  “Thanks,” I told him.

  “Thanks? John, this was an awesome feat of technology.”

  “Awesome and illegal,” I reminded him, clapping him on the shoulder as I left the room.

  Wednesday, April 21 st 3124 West Fairmont, 1:30 PM

  VIRGIL

  Brian’s house was a squatty one-story with blue shingles. I drove up into the driveway past a beat-up yellow Chevy and parked near the open gate to the back yard. There were no windows on the side of the house so Brian wouldn’t be able to see that I had Rowdy’s bike. I turned off the bike and walked around to the front door.

  I knocked several times before it opened up. A long-haired kid stood in the doorway and looked at me with suspicion. He wore a faded Metallica shirt that bore the tagline Metal Up Your Ass.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” I looked over his shoulder into the house and didn’t see or hear anyone else. The kid stuck his hand up to my chest as I stepped by him into his house.

  “Hey, man, what are you doing?”

  “Are you Brian?”

  The kid’s voice was rising in pitch and fear. “What? I think you should go.”

  “Brian, shut the door,” I said and looked around the house.

  “Get the fuck outta my house or I’ll call the cops.” His voice shook so bad I thought he going to cry.

  “Is Rowdy here?” I asked as I looked around the room.

  “That’s it,” he said and reached for a cellular phone on top of the television. “I’m calling the cops.”

  I grabbed his arm and spun him around before my fist slammed into his chest. Brian backpedaled to the wall. When he hit, he pushed off and came at me screaming. He tried to tackle me, but I caught him under the arm, lifted him up and threw him onto the coffee table. He landed on his back and shattered the table. Thousands of splinters and shards of glass shot everywhere.

  I grabbed him by the hair and dragged him to his knees. “Where’s Rowdy?”

  “Fu-”

  My hand slapped across Brian’s face and I let go of his hair. Brian fell to the ground and then scrambled in to the kitchen. I chased him in and pushed him from behind. Brian crashed face first into the refrigerator. Blood poured from his nose which was now clearly broken.

  “Where’s Rowdy?”

  “Not here,” he said through little whimpers.

  From the kitchen I could see the bathroom. I snatched Brian by the hair and dragged him to the toilet.

  “Ready for a swim?”

  Brian shook his head wildly.

  With my hand still in his hair and the other around his neck, I shoved Brian’s head in to the toilet. His hands clawed at me. After a count of twenty, I pulled his head out of the toilet. Brian gasped for air like a fish out of water.

  “Where’s Rowdy?”

  “At the fun house.”

  I pushed Brian’s face back into the toilet. His hand reached up and flushed the toilet. As the water ran from the bowl, I lifted his head up.

  “What’s the fun house?”

  “It’s where he takes his girlfriends.”

  “That's where he takes them to kill them?”

  “He doesn’t kill anyone, man.”

  “Where’s the fun house?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  I slapped Brian hard and then grabbed his right arm by the wrist and elbow. With a sharp thrust, I brought my knee up against his forearm. He squealed but I didn’t feel it give. Brian clawed at my back as I hugged his arm to my chest. I dropped all of my weight across the rim of the toilet bowl and heard the sharp snap of a broken bone. Brian howled in pain.

  I stood and let Brian cradle his arm while he cried.

  “Tell me where Rowdy is or I’ll continue to break things until you do.”

  “It’s on the corner of Wales and Magnolia.” Spittle flew everywhere as he spoke.

  “Where the hell is that?”

  Brian shook his head in a frenzy. “Off Sprague and Napa. In that area.”

  I slapped his face to get him to focus. “What’s it look like?”

  “It’s an old office building. No one uses it anymore.”

  I pulled out Fawn’s picture from my jacket. “You ever see this girl?”

  He nodded frantically. “Once.”

  “Where did you see her at?”

  “Rowdy introduced me to her. Said it was his new girlfriend.”

  I grabbed his throat. “Did you fuck her?”

  “No,” he gagged, “that was Rowdy’s girl.”

  My fingers wrapped around his throat. “I think you’re lying, kid.”

  “I swear.”

  “You wanna live?”

  “Please,” he begged softly and let the tears flow.

  “Don’t tell anyone I was here. Not the cops, not a doctor, not your priest. Got it?”

  Brian nodded frantically.

  “You got a basement in here?”

  He nodded and I released his throat. I stepped out of Brian’s way and let him walk into the kitchen. He opened a door on the far side of the room and reached out to flick on the light. With both hands, I shoved him down the stairway. He flew down the stairs and stopped suddenly with a loud crunch.

  Wednesday, April 21 st 1338 hrs En route to 3124 West Fairmont

  TOWER

  “Brian who?” I asked Janice, yelling into the cell phone mic on my visor. I was headed north on Northwest Blvd and traffic was thick.

  “The address reverse directory says Osmond,” she answered. “You want this guy’s history?”

  “Yep.”

  “Some minor thefts and traffic is all I see.”

  “Any gang affiliation at all? BSC associate or prospect?”

  “No.”

  “Sex crimes?”

  “No, nothing. His license is suspended, though.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Janice.”

  The traffic light changed as she disconnected. I sped up and started passing vehicles. Brian Osmond was not a biker or even an affiliate, but he knew Rowdy.

  3124 West Fairmont was a blue-shingled house that had the look of having belonged to Brian’s parents or grandparents. That is, it had been well kept up for years, but not so much lately. The grass was long and the garden hose unfurled. A yellow Chevy Caprice was parked in the driveway. The gate to the back yard stood open and I noticed motorcycle tire marks in the grass near the gate.

  I knocked on the screen door. There was no answer. I pulled open the screen door and
knocked on the front door. It swung open on my first knock.

  Cautiously, I pushed it the rest of the way open with my left hand, drawing my Glock from my shoulder holster with my right. The living room was a mess. Wood and glass from the coffee table had been shattered and covered the floor. A broken lamp hung off the front of an end table from its own cord. Looking past the living room, I saw a similar scene in the kitchen.

  I crept into the living room. I thought about calling for backup, then dismissed the idea. Not enough time.

  I swept through the living room and the kitchen and saw no one. On the refrigerator, I spotted a long smear of bright red blood.

  The two bedrooms were clear and untouched. I pushed open the bathroom door carefully, expecting to find a dead body in the tub. The room was empty. I saw some blood droplets on the wall and water spilled around the toilet.

  Wandering back through the kitchen, I spotted another door. I eased it open and saw a staircase behind it. A basement. The light was off and I couldn’t see anything beyond three or four steps down. I kept my gun trained on the darkness and felt around on the wall with my left hand until I located a light switch. I turned on the light.

  A man’s body lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs.

  My heart raced. I forced myself to go slowly down the stairs, keeping my gun at the low ready and watching the body and the rest of the basement at the same time. The basement stairs creaked loudly with every step.

  A moan came from the body at the bottom of the stairs, making me jump. As I reached the final stair, I could see the entirety of the small basement. A washer and dryer were pushed into the corner. A few boxes were visible underneath the stairs themselves. That was it.

  I kept my gun aimed at the guy, probably Brian, until I’d checked his hands and his waistband. Then I slid the pistol back into my holster.

  Brian moaned again. I squatted, reached underneath him and helped pull him into a sitting position. He was holding his right forearm and yelped, his eyes shooting open.

  “No more, man! Fuck! No more!”

  “It’s okay, Brian. He’s gone.”

  “Who the fuck are you, man?” he asked, almost crying.

  “Detective Tower, River City Police.”

  He slumped, visibly relieved. I examined his face. Both sides of it were swollen, though the left side considerably more than the right. That eye was probably going to swell shut. The skin was still red and angry. Wet blood flowed slowly from his nose in a steady stream from both nostrils down to his chin. Numerous abrasions covered his face and he held onto his right forearm gingerly.