Killian rode the elevator to the basement and drove his year old car towards the office at seven-thirty, precisely as he did every morning. At ten minutes of eight Killian was at his desk reviewing his notes for the day’s work ahead. Killian worked out of the Criminal Investigation Bureau assigned to Property Crimes, i.e. burglary. He had been a detective five years now, a cop for nine. He noticed with relief that he was not scheduled for court. The messages left for him by snitches were worthless as a snitch never left information of value and never a phone number. He tossed them with scarcely a glance.
Pulling the files from his left hand drawer he methodically leafed through each one, his eyes stopping on Tony Espinoza‘s file. It is time, Killian thought, to get that thieving son of a bitch off the streets for a good shot. The last time he had popped Espinoza the judge had given him probation but Killian had not been as disappointed as many detectives in his place would. He had had good luck popping probationers in the past and he knew that Espinoza would return to his old ways in no time.
He glanced through the new assignments at his "in" box and decided all of them would wait a few hours. It was now eight-twenty and Killian called the probation department for the name and number of Espinoza's probation officer. The P.O. wasn't in so Killian left a call back message. He looked Espinoza's file over once again then checked out of the office until three.
At nine-thirty he hit the streets in an unmarked police car and cruised slowly getting a feel of the city with no specific objective in mind. This was the time he liked best, the time when he believed that what he did accomplished something of lasting value.
Now for Espinoza.
~
Tracy stood upon the street corner, more confident now although she hurt terribly. Sales were going very well and nearly all her flowers were gone. She did not remember much of the previous night's events but she had awakened in darkness, nude, beside the snoring Bud already beginning to ache between her thighs. Now the pain was much worse.
That son of a bitch, she thought bitterly. Earlier, as she made ready for work she had avoided his triumphant eyes and sat well back in the van. None of the other girls had said anything to her. She had been angry, as angry as she could ever remember being. She still did not know what to do about it but was determined to do something.
~
Jared poured water into the radiator, trance-like. The young station attendant remarked to the manager that the chubby customer was "weird".
"What you mean by ‘weird’?" the manager said glancing up from the engine.
"Look at his eyes, man. They're all glazed over like. And he's not seeing nothing. He walks like a zombie. What's really weird is he's so damn happy. I tell you he outta be locked up, the way he's actin'."
The manager laughed and the two of them returned to the tune up they had been working on when Jared's car pulled in. Jared, humming tunelessly, climbed behind the wheel and slipped slowly into the traffic, no longer driving at random, now searching.
~
Tracy had but a few bundles left to sell. She smiled brightly at the passing cars.
Jared saw her then, the second time. She was the same girl from yesterday, before going to see Worthington. She's the one, he thought, then drove on.
~
Bud was late and Tracy had almost given up on him when a car stopped near her. She smiled as the young man approached her. Maybe this one will buy the last batch, she thought.
Jared fought desperately to control himself. He did not want to frighten her, not now at least. Not until it was safe. "Got some flowers," he heard himself ask.
"Just this last bundle, mister. Three dollars," Tracy answered. Jesus, he looks funny, she thought.
Jared stood beside the young girl and produced a folded Buck hunting knife which he snapped open in a well-practiced motion, placing the blade to Tracy's throat, oblivious to the late afternoon traffic. "Get in! Get in!" he demanded. "Move or I'll cut your throat!"
Tracy stood motionless but only momentarily as the sharp steel pressed against her flesh. Her mouth opened, soundlessly as he shoved her into the car. Jared pushed her to the floorboards, her head buried against the passenger door. Jared drove off smartly intent on his purpose, unmindful of anyone around him.
He leaned over and pressed the sharp knife tip into the girl's shorts, feeling the flesh yield a short distance. A circle of red appeared about the blade.
Tracy felt the pain but could move no further away. She was afraid he would kill her if she struggled. Oh please, no. No, please, she said inside her head, over and over. She never thought to grab the door handle and leap from the moving car. But it would have made no difference. Jared had removed the handle earlier.
He drove south and then west, altogether about twelve miles. The final destination had been carefully selected and was surrounded by Palo Verde trees and thick desert brush, isolated a mile or more from anyone. No one would disturb them.
Jared jerked the passenger door open, seized Tracy by her long hair and dragged her screaming from the car through the brush a short distance away to a shady spot.
"Shut up cunt! Shut up or you’re dead!"
Tracy went silent except for her sobbing as tears welled up uncontrollably from within her. Jared quickly gagged his victim and then pushed her back on the sand.
Oh please, please, don't hurt me, Tracy thought. Please don't.
From a paper sack, Jared pulled nylon cord, a mallet and four large steel tent stakes. He knelt beside her and pounded them into the ground in a frenzy. Jared lashed each extremity then tied the girl spread eagle to the four stakes. Towering above her, sweating from his efforts thus far, he leaned down and cut the clothing from her trembling body.
Tracy was petrified, wide-eyed as the blade descended then overcome with relief as it cut through the fabric of her clothes. Do it then, get it over with. Just go away, leave me.
Jared lay beside his prey, grabbing the body, clutching at her, once biting a breast so forcefully he left teeth marks and drew blood. Standing erect he pulled himself from his denims and masturbated, shooting himself over the girl's body. Finished, he sat on the ground watching the frightened girl.
His lust momentarily sated, his true desire stirred within him.
Now, he thought, now.
CHAPTER FOUR
Officer Hector Martinez had reported for swing shift, four in the afternoon to midnight, one hour early as usual. Roll call and briefing was traditionally held on the police officer's own time, one half hour before the shift began and attendance was mandatory.
Officer Martinez had wielded his Yamaha Four Hundred into the substation at precisely three, gunning the engine loudly before cutting the ignition. He changed at his locker, dumping boots, denims, T-shirt and helmet into the locker then dressing in the navy and sky blue uniform of the Phoenix Police Department.
Martinez liked police work. After his discharge from the Corps two years before he had drifted a time but the previous year had elected to become a police officer. He had also been on the firefighters list but the police board had called first.
That was just as well for Martinez. He liked motorcycles and he had never seen a fire fighter yet who rode a motorcycle on the job. Last year after finishing the police academy, he had been disappointed to learn that he must make Patrolman, Grade Two, before applying for motorcycle duty. That would take four years. Undaunted, he had thrown himself into police work, happy to patrol evenings, ride his Yamaha days. The time would pass quickly and Martinez enjoyed learning to be a good cop. There was a certain macho attached to anyone who carried a gun in the Mexican-American community and Martinez enjoyed the image as well as enjoying what he did.
Roll call began promptly at three-thirty. The police union had unsuccessfully attempted for several years to force the city to pay police officers for this half hour, but short of strike, there was no way to obtain pay for this "donated" time. Announcements droned on, notice slips and memos were distributed, new arrivals i
ntroduced and on and on. At five minutes to four Officer Hector Martinez rolled.
The Phoenix Police Department covered the sixth largest city in the United States with just over twenty-five hundred officers, the lowest ratio of police to citizenry of any major city. It did the job with helicopters, rapid communication, computer crime projections and one man squad cars.
Unlike many officers, Martinez enjoyed working alone. It appealed to the romantic in him. The evening shift past routinely until dusk which came late this time of year. Martinez issued two traffic warnings and completed one field interrogation card concerning a tire slashing. All routine.
Martinez also enjoyed eating alone, usually with a book. He normally elected to park in an isolated area and take his break. His patrol area southwest of Phoenix proper, contained large patches of desert land often annexed years ahead of meaningful development.
That dusk Police Officer Hector Martinez pulled his squad car down a stretch of dirt road near a clump of Palo Verde and mesquite trees. Calling in Code Seven, out for dinner, Martinez broke out his mother's carefully prepared dinner and a Zane Grey Western, his sole secret vice.
In thirty minutes it was time to resume patrol. Martinez exited the squad car and wandered to the nearby brush to relieve himself when the smell first reached him. Suspecting a dead dog but curious
he pushed through the vegetation and saw it.
At the instant of realization, Martinez heaved his dinner so suddenly he scarcely bent to keep the vomit from his uniform. After regaining his composure he reported his find.
~
Detective Lawrence Graff had once been a good cop but that had been eight years, two wives and forty pounds before. Now, Grade Two, with no prospect of promotion to Grade Three or Sergeant or anything, he was eighteen months to retirement. And then what? Graff didn't know, he only knew that he wanted out. He was sick of the gutter and its slime. Sick of whores, pimps and assholes. Sick of dealing day in and day out with the scum of society. Work in the sewer long enough and you start to stink yourself, he was fond of saying.
Transfer to Homicide was informal and usually reserved for the best detectives but because it was done informally the burnt out sometimes slipped in on the dubious merits of seniority. Detective Lawrence Graff had no business still being a cop and even less working Homicide.
His sergeant knew it and generally kept Graff with good partners or assigned to low profile, self-evident cases. That night by fluke Graff was assigned to the desert slaying. He arrived at eight-thirty six, hating swing shift and the heat. Officer Martinez had secured the area and except for heaving at the scene had left no mark and destroyed no evidence. Graff arrived even ahead of the lab technicians.
"Where?" he demanded arrogantly. Graff disliked Mexicans, especially Mexican cops.
"There, behind the bushes," Martinez replied, his passive face revealing none of the disgust Graff’ manner generated within him.
Graff barged through the bushes carelessly, uncaring of any evidence he might destroy. He had already made up his mind. Desert slayings were almost never solved unless the perpetrator turned himself in or was named by an accomplice. In either case tracks or physical evidence meant nothing.
"Hey, that areas secured, shouldn't you...?” Martinez began.
Graff ignored Martinez. Screw him, he thought. Screw them all.
The scene was devastating in its sick brutality. Detective Graff had never before witnessed such a sadistic crime and he fought to hold his dinner. "Jesus," he spoke aloud, unaware that he said anything at all. The smell was noticeable but not as oppressive as it would have been by the following morning. Later all Graff could recall were the insects, thick upon the slashed, exposed flesh and clotted blood.
Graff walked back through the brush, spotting Martinez's dinner as he did. "That mess yours?" he accused facing Officer Martinez.
"Yeah, guess I got a little queasy."
Graff snorted, "Some man." He turned on his heel, circumventing the crime scene, then approached the corpse from the opposite direction, working from habit, vainly seeking physical clues in the gathering darkness.
The technicians were visibly upset when they arrived. Officer Martinez had inadvertently parked his vehicle precisely where they believed the killer had parked his. Almost all the tire tracks had been obliterated and all of the useful ones were. Then Detective Graff had so trampled the crime scene that no discernable footprints other than his were discovered.
International news took the next morning’s headlines. The girl's murder appeared about half way down the front page in bold print, "Girl's Body Found in Desert." The item was abbreviated and distinguished solely for its lack of information. An unidentified female, age fourteen to twenty, had been discovered dead in the desert southwest of Phoenix, her body partially mutilated. The investigation was ongoing.
The reporter had cooperated in providing no details concerning the extensive mutilation of the victim's body. It was essential that this information be withheld to establish the perpetrator’s authenticity if captured. Only the police and the murderer would be privy to the facts.
~
Jared Pratt arrived home at about seven-thirty shortly before Officer Martinez stopped for dinner. Relaxed, at peace, he had not been annoyed at his mother's routine conversation.
At forty-three Viola Pratt retained her lean, aristocratic figure. Only daughter of a third generation Arizona family she had always lived comfortably on a three hundred thousand dollar trust fund established in her father's will upon his sudden death her thirteenth year. European finishing schools and idle friends had conferred upon her a frivolous facade and a personality lacking in depth. Always a sun worshiper, her skin had been wrinkled excessively in her twenties, damage even a face lift at thirty-eight had done little to repair.
Still, she remained a gracious, lean, fit woman, mother of one, capable of setting an attractive table, arranging a flower bowl, supervising underpaid help, dealing with arrogant trust officers, playing a respectable tennis game and utterly incapable of balancing a checking book, judging friends or understanding her emotions and needs.
"Well hello, Timmy," she chirped as he slipped in the back door, ravenous.
"Hi Mom, what's to eat?"
Viola was unaccustomed to this smiling, friendly Jared and quickly entered the kitchen, pulling a wide assortment of covered dishes from the refrigerator, setting them on the table before her son.
Jared ate and talked for over one hour, the longest conversation Viola could ever recall having with him. It was, she thought, her happiest night as a mother, heretofore an unrewarding experience.
By nine Jared retired to his room. There, alone, he produced the sliced panties he had retained earlier from his hip pocket. He sniffed and inhaling through the fabric, masturbated.
~
At four-thirteen the following morning, technicians and detective finished, the girl's body was delivered to the Office of the Medical Examiner for autopsy.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bud Everhart went about his rounds that morning, disturbed. Tracy had not been at the corner when he had returned for her rather late the afternoon before. He had found one remaining flower bundle standing wilted in its container of hot water.
At first Bud had only been upset at the loss of such a sweet young body. None of the five girls living with him excited him as Tracy had. He had looked forward to several months of her. Now they were gone.
But the radio that morning put a new slant on his situation. A dead girl had been discovered in the desert. Normally he would have dismissed the news without thought but Tracy had nowhere to go and
he had not expected her to disappear, at least not in the way she had. It might be Tracy they had found; then again, it might not, he reasoned.
Unable to find a single self-serving reason for going to the police, he dismissed the matter. Contrary to his expectations he decided, Tracy had run off. If the girl in the desert was her, the radio would report it in ti
me. It was nothing to him.
~
Robert Killian had scanned the newspaper as usual that morning, pausing only momentarily over the item reporting the body's discovery in the desert. Bodies in various degrees of decomposition were found routinely in the surrounding desert and other than the girl's age, there was nothing to distinguish this tragedy from any of the others.
Killian decided to remain focused on Espinoza. Police work was as much a hit and miss profession as anything. His snitches had reported nothing of apparent significance that morning concerning Tony but it would have been a long shot if they had. Killian had cruised by Espinoza's house three or four times that day and each trip had shown a dilapidated low rider in the driveway. Killian hadn't recognized it but Espinoza traded cars frequently
That afternoon at two-thirty two he dialed Chad Worthington, Tony's probation officer. “Adult Probation, Chad Worthington speaking." The P.O. sounded older than his twenties, thank God. Killian found the youthful, social worker types almost impossible to stomach.
The Flower Girl Page 3
