“Yes; we got some good fingerprints. It turns out he was arrested a few years ago, so were able find him pretty quick. Would you like to see your victim up close and personal?”
“Ah yes, but not too personal,” Santy replies, quickly applying Vicks to both nostrils.
“Here he is,” Stevenson says, as she pulls the sheet back covering his head.
“His name is Steve Rogers, aged 27. He didn’t have any identification on his body or in his clothing. Here’s a picture from the DMV records and it looks like our boy.”
“Yes, that’s him,” Santy answers. “Looks like he took some pretty bad blows to his head. What do you think caused those?”
“Not sure, but it looks like it could be a blunt object like a hammer, maybe. We’re still doing some lab work, but that’s my best guess for now. Looks like he took about eight blows to the left side of his head here.”
Stevenson pulls his head over to get a better look as Santy pulls back, his stomach starting to tighten.
“Yes, I see,” he says.
“Something else you might be interested in,” Stevenson says, pulling down the sheet a few more feet to reveal some more wounds. “It appears that our boy was also shot a few times; at close range, too. I think we still might have a bullet in there that we can recover. When we autopsy him, we’ll see what we can find.”
“Anything else, Doctor? Any other surprises?”
“No. So far that’s what we’ve got. As soon as we get all our tests done, I’ll give you a call and we can go over everything. Give me a day or so. You can see we’re a bit backed up tonight.”
Santy looks over at the other stainless steel tables and sees that each is full.
“Wow, must be a full moon out there,” Santy says. “Ok, thanks Doctor. Yes, give me a call when you get all the results. Can I have this DMV record?”
“Yes. It’s yours.”
“I need to go see if I can find the next of kin. I can start at this address. Thanks again,” Santy says heading for the door.
“Oh Detective, you left a message here. I think this is yours. Sorry to snoop but I see it’s from Doctor Teeter. Good friend of mine. Don’t keep him waiting, or he’ll refer you to me.”
“Oh, you doctors and your jokes! Ha ha.”
Santy takes the message and heads out of the room into the fresh air of the night. He walks back to the police department inhaling the fresh, chemical-free air. Over the police department building he sees a moon rising early tonight.
It is a full moon, he thinks.
Chapter 9
Santy feels a deep sense of dread as he drives to the address listed in Steve Roger’s DMV records. The house is listed as belonging to a Harrison and Yvonne Rogers who have owned the house for 30 years. They are probably Steve Rogers’ parents, Santy supposes. This is the most difficult part of his job and he just hates it. He never knows who will answer the door and how they will react to his horrible news. He leaves his office in Santa Ana’s downtown Civic Center and drives down Fourth Street towards Tustin. As he is driving, he sees some “low-riders” cruising down the street with their radio blaring. He watches them slow down as a girl walks down the street in a short skirt. They pull over to the sidewalk and ask her into their car. She flips them off and keeps walking. As they drive away, they start smacking their lips and calling out “Pussy”. If those guys keep harassing her, I’m going to pull them over and read them the riot act, he tells himself.
He drives past a dive bar called “Club 616” with its neon sign advertising “Cocktails” in big letters. He sees what looks like a transvestite standing out front smoking a cigarette. Next, he drives past the “Santa Ana Boxing Club” building with its mural of two boxers sparring. When he comes to the intersection at Grand and Fourth Street, he sees a neon sign which advertises “Lavenderia: Coin Operated.” He thinks, Jeez…The glory days of downtown Santa Ana have passed us by. At one time, before South Coast Plaza was built, Santa Ana was “the” place to shop. It’s such a shame to see. This place has some beautiful old buildings. Somebody should make something of this.
He turns right on Tustin Ave. and then left onto First Street as he nears the house belonging to the Rogers. On the left side of First Street, he sees the old, familiar, gigantic dinosaur in front of “The Goony Golf Course” and remembers all of the times he and his brothers went there. He knew that his parents barely had enough money to pay bills and buy groceries, but they always gave Santy and his brothers money to play miniature golf. Whenever his cousins from Ohio came to town, his parents always managed to scrape up enough money so that their sons could go to Disneyland with them. He remembers all of the times his Mom took her housekeeping money out of her owl cookie jar to pay for her sons’ trips to the “Magic Kingdom”. He hopes that he had told his father how much he appreciated all of his sacrifices he made for the sake of his children.
In front of the golf course is a greasy spoon called “The Rite Spot.” He thinks, I wonder who came up with that name. It certainly was “the right spot” to come and meet girls when he was growing up. That place and Shakey’s Pizza Parlor. He decides to pay another visit to the Rite Spot, just for old time’s sake. He needs a coke before his visits Steve Rogers’ parents because he’s so nervous that his mouth is dry. As he enters the café, he hears the jukebox playing the Eagles, “Peaceful Easy Feeling”. If only…, he tells himself.
He walks back to his car thinking, Stop stalling. It’s time to face the music. The parents’ house is across the street from a large tractor showroom. Wow! Are they still selling tractors in this day and age around here? Then he remembers that once upon a time, the area was known as an agricultural community. It was famous for its many orange groves. Heck, Santy thinks, I even lost my virginity in an orange grove. It’s nice to know that there’s some part of old Tustin left. It reminds him of the store called “The Saddlery” on Redhill Ave. by Tustin High. People must still be buying saddles for riding their horses. This is where he bought a buckskin jacket that was just like the one Neal Young wore at Woodstock. The statue of a full-size horse still sits atop the store.
As he gets out of his car, he notices that the building next door to the parents’ is an abandoned pesticide company. It has a driveway where trucks would have driven up to fill their tanks with gasoline and pesticides. He can see the old Mobil gas pumps. I feel sorry for whoever has to live next door to this toxic dump, he thinks.
Chapter 10
Detective Santy walks up to the house and rings the doorbell. A little girl answers. She is about two years old, is rosy cheeked, and has on a little cloth hat with white ruffles all around the edge. What a cute little girl, he thinks.
“Hi, sweetie,” he says to the little girl. “Where’s your Mommy?”
“I don’t have a Mommy,” she answers.
“Who takes care of you?”
“My Nana and Grandpa.”
“Are they home?”
“Yes.”
“Could you please go get them?”
“’Kay,” she says.
A few seconds later, he hears a door close. A woman is telling the child, “What’d I tell you about answering the door by yourself. You are supposed to get us first.”
“Sorry, Nana,” she replies.
A plump lady in her mid-40’s walks into the room. She is very surprised to see a policeman.
“Clarissa,” she tells the girl. “Go up to your room and play.”
“I want to stay here. I like this man.”
“Clarissa, I mean it. Go upstairs now.”
“’Kay.”
“Can I help you?” the woman asks.
Santy shows her his badge and says he’d like to ask a few questions if he could.
“Is there a problem, Officer?”
“I’m looking for the family of Steve Rogers.”
“I’m his mother. Is he in trouble again?”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news. May I come in?”
She puts her han
d to her mouth and says, “Oh, Lord. Wait. Let me go get my husband. He’s out back.”
As he waits, he looks around the house. This is a cozy little home. There are lots of afghans and doilies. A line of family pictures is on the mantelpiece. A grandfather clock chimes 8:00 pm. He thinks, I am about to tear their peaceful little world apart.
He hears the back door shut again. A man who looks like the TV “Mr. Rogers” enters the room and introduces himself. His wife stands at his side, wringing her hands.
“What’s this all about, Officer?”
Where do I begin? Santy thinks. “I’m so very sorry to tell you that your son was found dead yesterday. I believe he was murdered.”
Both parents start crying and reach over to hug each other. Several minutes pass. Santy gives them as much time as they need before he continues.
“Where was he found?” Mr. Rogers asks, horrified.
“It’s a place where the public can pick up compost. It’s in Irvine. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I understand how difficult this is for you.”
Mr. Rogers asks, “Can’t this wait until later? Can’t you see that my wife’s in a state of shock?”
“I have just a few questions for now. Has your son ever talked about going to Green Gardens out in Irvine?”
“I don’t think so. Don’t they sell garden things, soil and tools?”
“Yes that’s correct.”
“No. Never. He doesn’t have any need for compost. What was he doing there?”
“We don’t know yet. That’s what we’re trying to find out. Did your son live here with you?”
“Yes, he did,” Mr. Rogers replies. “He was injured at his job and was staying here until he was well enough to go back to work.”
“Where did he work?”
“He worked at The Register. He injured his knee when a huge roll of newspaper crushed it.”
“Is that little girl his daughter?”
“Yes, she is,” Mrs. Rogers replies.
“Where’s her Mother?”
“We don’t know,” Mrs. Rogers continues. “She abandoned the child after birth. She made it clear that she never wanted to be contacted again. She is some kind of career woman who thinks getting an education and climbing the corporate latter is the most important thing in life. More important than raising a child!”
“Do you know who she is?”
“No. Steve never told us.”
Santy asks, “Do you know of any person who would want to kill your son? Did he have any enemies?”
Mr. Rogers replies, “No. Everybody loved Steve. He was a mentor to many men in A.A. and did a lot of work helping the homeless. He worked in soup kitchens all over Orange County.”
Did he ever get into any trouble with the law?”
“Well,” Mr. Rogers continues, “he was arrested for possession of marijuana in his younger, rowdier days. He was smoking a marijuana cigarette in his car with his friend. They were at the carwash at 2:00 a.m. An officer got suspicious and arrested them both for being under the influence of an illegal drug.”
“Who was the friend?”
“He was someone who Steve worked with at the Register. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
“Who was he?”
“Have you ever heard of Ivan Romanov?”
“You mean the guy who’s just escaped from jail?”
“Yes. That’s him.”
“How long ago was this?” Detective Santy asks.
“Oh. This was about five years ago. I can’t believe my son hung out with him. But that was a long, long time ago. Ivan’s been in and out of jail since he got fired from the Register years ago.”
Do you think that Mr. Romanov had anything to do with your son’s death?”
“I don’t know why he would have. They were good friends.”
“Okay,” Detective Santy says.
“I’m planning to go to the Register and talk with Steve’s supervisor. You mentioned that he was in an A.A. group. Do you have any of the names of the friends he knew from there?”
“He was close to a married couple, Sarah and Al James in Long Beach. His A.A. Group meets at the Tustin Senior Center every Monday night at 7:30. You could talk to all of them there.”
“Okay. I’ll check that out. Anyone else you can think of who may be able to help?”
“It’s hard to even think straight right now.”
“Alright. I understand. Here’s my card. Call me if you can think of anything else. Again, I’m so sorry about your loss, folks.”
“Detective Santy then takes Mr. Rogers aside and says, “May I speak to you alone for a minute, please?”
“You want me to identify the body, right?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry.”
“Let’s go.”
Chapter 11
Santy and Mr. Rogers get into the car while the police radio blares out unintelligible dispatch traffic. “Sorry for that,” Santy says as he reaches to turn down volume.
“That’s OK; it reminds me of the Navy. I used to spend days listening to chatter like that aboard ship,” Mr. Rogers says.
“You were in the Navy, huh. During the war? World War II?”
“Yes, I spent quite a few years in the Pacific aboard an escort carrier. I was a signalman.”
“Boy, I bet you saw some things,” Santy asks as he turns on First Street heading toward the downtown civic center.
“Some awful things.”
“Do you mind if I smoke, Mr. Rogers?”
“No, go ahead.”
Santy lights a cigarette and takes a deep draw.
“Were you there ‘til the end? I mean the end of the war?”
“I was. Even spent a year in Japan. Awful job to do after all that happened. I couldn’t wait to get home. I’d had enough of everything by then.”
“I spent a few years in Japan. I was in the Marines. I found it to be quite a different place than here. I got to like the people. They were, overall, pretty nice to us, considering what had just happened to them barely ten years earlier.”
They passed by a few patrol cars that were stopped and lit up, having pulled someone over.
“Looks like they’ve got a drunk driver who’s not very happy.”
Mr. Rogers says nothing, clearly lost in his own world and thoughts.
They pull into the Coroner’s office parking lot and Santy says, “Are you sure you’re ready to do this, sir?”
“Yes,” Mr. Rogers answers firmly. “Let’s get this over with.”
Santy takes a final drag on his smoke and stamps it out on the Coroner’s office parking lot.
To Mr. Rogers, the Coroner’s office is oddly surreal. Amidst the gravity of the office, the staff is friendly and congenial with each other and him. It seems so out of place to him. People that have died are here and everybody acts so, so normal.
“Mr. Rogers? Can you please follow me?” Santy asks.
They turn down a hallway that ends with a door marked “Morgue”. The door and handle remind him of the walk-in freezer his brother used to have.
“It’s going to be a bit chilly in here, sir,” Santy says.
They walk into the cold room that has two walls lined, floor to ceiling, with small doors. Santy puts more Vicks in his nostrils.
“I’m Detective Santy,” Santy says to a woman with a white lab coat on. “Can we see Mr. Rogers? I’ve got the next-of-kin here.”
“Yes, of course. He’s right over here.”
They walk to the far side of the room and a small door is opened to reveal a body covered with a white sheet. The woman pulls out the rack until it is fully extended. She silently steps aside. Santy and Mr. Rogers approach the body as Santy pulls the sheet back revealing a head and upper torso.
“Mr. Rogers, is this your son?”
Mr. Rogers steps forward to get a better look, although he knows right away, this is Steve. He feels his heart pound and his head deaden. It seems like minutes before he can say, “Yes, that’s Steve
, my dear son, Steve.”
Mr. Rogers listens to himself say those words. He hadn’t called him his “dear son” since he was a small boy. They always had a tough, hard relationship. Steve was their only child, born just after he returned from Japan and the war. Those children always had it the worse. The father’s expectations were usually out of whack after returning from such a world-shattering experience. A child, especially a boy, had a hard time living up to the expectations of the new dad who returned. Mr. Rogers always felt his son wasn’t trying hard enough or working hard enough at life. Now he looked down at that peaceful face and felt everything all over again. Regret poured over him in waves and he could feel the tears welling up in eyes that rarely cried. How did he let this happen? Mr. Rogers thought. Why did this happen?
“What happened to his face?” Mr. Rogers asked.
“We’re not sure, sir. It looks like he was hit with a blunt object of some sort, maybe a hammer.”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Rogers says.
“It appears that he was also shot several times in the chest.”
“Who would want to do this? I don’t understand this. Why did this happen?”
Mr. Rogers flashes back to his Navy days and the times he saw his shipmates gravely wounded. He often thought about who would tell the next-of-kin and how those exchanges would go. Now this was happening to him.
“We’re not sure yet, sir. I’m confident though, we’ll get to the bottom of this. I’m sure we will,” Santy says as he motions to the woman that they’re done. The woman returns and starts to cover Steve’s face again.
Mr. Rogers says, “No, not yet. Can I have a few more minutes with him?”
The woman looks over at Santy for help with this request.
“Yes, sure, no problem. Take as much time as you want; we’ll be right outside.”
Santy motions for the woman to join him outside as Mr. Rogers looks back down at his son.
Mr. Rogers runs his hand across his son’s forehead and cheek. He thinks about all those years spent together, so long ago. Everything comes rushing back. Returning from the war to a young smiling boy on a tricycle eager to see his new father. Summer days spent in the backyard pushing little Stevie on the swing. All the times they spent together camping. It fills his mind with sadness and regret. He wonders how it all came to this—a brutal death at the hands of some stranger.
The Tustin Chronicles: A Detective Santy Mystery Page 4
