by Alton Gansky
A voice rolled down the open office area and over the detectives’ desks, many of which were still unmanned. Captain Ulysses Darrel Simmons had no trouble being heard. “Rainmondi, Tock, my office—now.” A second later: “And bring your files.”
Bud and Carmen exchanged glances. The boss was spending his Saturday morning at the office instead of on the golf course.
Bud rose. “He’s in early. I hate it when he’s at his desk before me. Makes me feel like a slacker.”
“Well, if the shoe—”
“Don’t go there, girl. You might hurt my sensitive feelings.”
Carmen let it go even though she doubted anything could hurt the man’s feelings.
Captain Simmons’s office was not spacious or well appointed, but it had walls decorated with photos of him with the chief, the mayor, and a few other politicians. The wall also held a few frames of certificates of merit, including one for bravery. Simmons was a bit of a legend. A fast riser in the ranks, he excelled at everything he did and had little patience with those who didn’t do the same. He was loyal to his detectives, willing to take a bullet for one of them, even if the one shooting had the word “chief” in front of his name.
“Close the door.” Simmons was also a man of few words. He liked to get straight to the point.
“What’s up, Cap?” Carmen stood by one of the two guest chairs in front of the walnut desk, which had been made by Simmons’s father. It was a beautiful piece of work, and Simmons made no attempt to hide his pride in the desk or his woodworking father.
“Sit.” He waved at the chairs. Only then did Carmen feel it was appropriate to sit.
She settled in the chair, a file folder on her lap. “Sorry for the late call last night.”
He huffed. “Yeah, like I haven’t had late night calls before. Comes with the turf.” He leaned back in his high-back, ergonomic chair, a concession he made to an annoying back muscle he injured tackling a fleeing suspect. He was still fit for duty, but it flared up from time to time—something easy to determine by his “grouch index.”
Their superior eyed them for a moment. “How much sleep did you get last night?”
Neither Carmen nor Bud answered.
“Don’t make me ask again.”
“I logged four hours.” Bud’s color heightened a fraction at the admission. “I’m good to go.”
Simmons’s eyes switched to Carmen. She said, “A couple of hours. My mind was logging overtime.”
“Been there.” Simmons shifted in his chair. Carmen guessed he hadn’t slept much either but didn’t want to ask. “Okay, here’s the deal. I got a meeting with Assistant Chief Claymore in thirty minutes. That note you found just kicked this investigation up a mile or two. He wants a report even if it means he had to come in on the weekend.”
“He’s not going to pull me from the case is he?” The confrontation at the rabbi’s house flashed fresh on her mind. “I mean, it’s my job to protect the crime scene—”
“I won’t let him do that. I told him then the same thing I told you: you were right to follow procedure. He knows I’d have your head if you hadn’t kept him behind the barricade.”
“Thanks, Cap, but if not that then—”
“Two murders in two days, both bizarre in nature, and now a note that might indicate a serial killer—well, that’s the kind of thing that gets noticed upstairs. I’m going to bring him up to speed, which means I need you to bring me up to speed.”
“We can go with you if you want, Cap.” Bud sounded like a man who had gargled with gravel. Something he did when he operated on too few hours of sleep.
“No. I need you in the field. More to the point, I need to tell Claymore that you’re out doing your jobs. So let’s get down to it. I know about the van and note, thanks to Carmen’s call. I’ve also read the early ME reports, and I gotta tell you, they sicken me. I’ve seen some pretty awful things in my career, but I haven’t seen anything like the Cohen body—not unless you count the guy who stepped in front of an Amtrak train—and that was done with a man’s fists?”
“Best we can tell at this point, Cap. We found no indication of a blunt instrument, and the bruising is consistent with a beating by hand . . . except the legs. We think the perp kicked the man until the leg bones broke.” Bud opened the file he carried and removed a photo of the odd marks on the man’s legs. “We think the man wore steel-toed boots. We also found a boot print near the van we examined last night. We don’t have enough evidence to tie the two together, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re connected.”
Simmons crossed his arms and lowered his head—his thinking posture. “But the van was found in an alley, and we have to assume that workers and others have walked back there. The boot could be anyone’s.” Leave it to Simmons to think like a defense attorney. As a young officer, he often attended criminal trials to learn how defense attorneys worked. A self-education that paid off. As a homicide detective, he held the record for the highest percentage of convictions.
Carmen stirred. “True, Cap, but the location gives us reason to believe that it might be connected.”
“Where are you in the investigation?”
“Forensics is going over the clothing of both vics and going over the van again,” Carmen said. “I had them bring it back to the station.” She took a breath. “We may have a problem though.”
“The hydrogen peroxide and bleach?” Simmons had been doing his research. “I heard about that. That might mess up the DNA PCR.”
Bud looked at the file as if searching for answers. “I’m sure we’ll get some DNA, but it will take time to distinguish bad-guy biologicals from those who had been in the van before. We’ll have to collect samples from the van’s owners, but if they have had a lot of other people in the vehicle, then we’re likely to come up with a ton of useless information.”
“Once you catch the guy, you compare his DNA to anything found in the van.”
“Yes, sir,” Bud said. “We plan to check any DNA we find with the DNA database. If the guy’s been in the system, we might get a match.”
Carmen fidgeted. “I’m concerned with the guy’s psychology. He made no attempt to contaminate the blood in the back of the van. It seems he wants us to connect the van to Cohen. Why? Most murderers try to cover all evidence, not just some of it.”
“What’s your gut tell you, Carmen?”
“He’s playing with us. Let me just say what you’re thinking: This guy is a serial killer who is smart, plans his attacks, and wants us to chase him. That or he has some kind of message.”
Simmons frowned. “Like what?”
“I have no idea, but the note tells us a lot. He mocks us, and I’m afraid he’ll keep doing it until he grows bored with it all or we catch him.”
The corners of Simmons’s mouth dipped as if trying to touch his shoulders. “I assume you have the techs going over the note.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I want you to keep me up to speed. Call me when you have info. Day or night. This has the potential of being a public relations nightmare. ‘San Diego Terrorized by Serial Killer” is not a headline anyone wants to read, especially the brass. I will report all this to Assistant Chief Claymore, but I can tell that the nature of these cases will require him to brief the chief. I’m sure I’ll be in that meeting. We’ll have to alert the mayor, too.” He paused. “Now the bad news.”
“I thought that was the bad news,” Bud said.
“We have a couple more detectives out with illness and one for a family emergency. To make matters worse, there were three other murders that came over the threshold.”
“Three?” Carmen was stunned. “What happened to our lower-than-ever murder rate?”
Simmons pursed his lips. “I’m afraid it’s out the window this year. We’ve had a couple of good years, unde
r thirty murders, but this is shaping up as a record-breaking year, and not in a good way.”
“What kind of murders?” Bud pressed.
“A domestic violence case in Allied Gardens, a gang-related shooting downtown—one dead, two teetering on the grave’s edge—and a suspicious death in Ocean Beach. You’ll want to check on the last one, but I doubt it’s related to your cases. Too mundane, if murder can be mundane.” He inched toward the desk. “I’m in a tough spot here. If I pull detectives from other cases and the press gets wind of it, then we’ll be accused of focusing on only high profile cases.”
Carmen knew what that meant. “So we’re on our own?”
“No, not entirely. I want you two to stay on course. I’ve already told the forensic units to give you priority. Also, let’s keep the talk of serial killer in-house for now. When I get back from my meeting, I’ll call other law enforcement agencies and let them know that there might be something brewing and to keep us informed of anything they might think is related. I’ll handle any press calls. You focus on running this guy down before we start making the national news. Clear?”
Carmen and Bud spoke in unison: “Yes.”
“I might be able to get some help from the uniforms if you want. If so, got anyone in mind?”
Carmen nodded. “Officer Heywood found the van last night. He did a good job with everything. Sharp guy.”
“You good with that, Bud?”
“I am.”
“Okay. I’ll twist an arm or two, but they’re having the same problem with the flu. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you, sir,” Carmen said.
“What’s your next step?”
Bud nodded at Carmen. “We’re working phone records and bank statements. I want to bring the rabbi in for questioning. I don’t think he’s involved, but I want to be sure. Also he was pretty shook so I’m hoping he will be more forthcoming. I also want to explore any connection between the victims. Maybe they knew each other.”
“Keep me in the loop.” Simmons stood. “Now get out of my office. I need a few minutes to get my strategy together.”
“Yes, sir.” Carmen and Bud stood.
“One more thing, detectives. This is the kind of case that makes a career. It’s also the kind of case that can end one, if you catch my drift.”
“Yeah, we got it, Cap. We got it.”
15
Joe Heywood strode into the homicide office and glanced around. Carmen saw the tall man the moment he entered. He was hard to miss. Even so, it took a moment for her eyes to convince her brain that this was the same man she worked with the night before. In the glow of florescent light he looked . . . different. That and he was out of uniform, wearing tan slacks and a blue pullover polo shirt. The short sleeves exposed the pythons most people called arms that his uniform shirt kept hidden. Last night he looked broad in the chest. Most patrol cops did, thanks to their protective vest making them look larger than they were. A nice psychological advantage. But Heywood?
The man had a chest big enough to play table tennis on.
“Officer Heywood. Over here.” Carmen waved the man to her desk.
He gave a short, sharp nod. “Detective. My captain said you wanted to see me.”
“That didn’t take long.” Bud turned his chair away from his computer screen.
“He called me at home.” Heywood gave no sign of being perturbed by the summons. The man had the Bruce Banner calm. Did he have an inner Hulk to go with it?
“Captain Simmons called your captain. We need your help.” Carmen pointed to the empty desk chair in one of the other cubicles. Heywood retrieved it and sat.
“How can I help?”
“We have a shortage in the department, and there have been several unrelated murders that have tied up other detectives. Our team is thinner than usual. You managed things well last night, and we think you have the chops for this kind of work. Of course, we don’t know that for sure . . .” Carmen wanted to bite her tongue. Why was it so hard for her to praise other people?
“I understand. I appreciate the compliment. What do you want me to do?”
Carmen brought the officer up to speed about the case. “This is the part of detective work they play down on television. Your greatest danger is dying of boredom.”
“I’m willing to risk it. Put me to work.”
“Good. You already know there were no security cameras in the alley, but the driver had to pass in front of some camera somewhere on his way to the location. I want you to find cameras in the area and review the footage. It’s grunt work, but it might lead to something.”
“It’s a shame we don’t have surveillance cameras,” Heywood said. “Even the red-light cameras might prove useful.”
Bud agreed. “Except our guy seems to be more than a little wily. I doubt he’d run a light. He seems to be camera aware.”
Heywood rose. “I’ll start with Traffic and CalTrans to see if they have cameras in the area, but I doubt I’ll find much there. CalTrans has cameras on the freeways.” He paused. “I can check the off ramps nearest the area where the van was found. Maybe the perp took the freeway to get to the area. Do you have a time frame?”
Bud answered: “ME says Cohen died about four hours before he was found. That puts time of death around two a.m. You found the van about nine p.m. so that’s nineteen hours. Interviews with employees in the strip mall said the vehicle had been there all day.”
Heywood considered that. “Doesn’t quite add up. I don’t think the perp drove straight there from the primary crime scene. Which means he held onto the van for a good number of hours. Or am I wrong?”
“Sounds right to me.” He was as smart as she thought. She’d been right to bring him onboard. “But we need more than assumptions.”
“Understood. I’ll work up a plan.”
“It may lead nowhere, but we need to say we chased that rabbit. In the meantime, I plan to interview the rabbi again.”
Heywood’s eyebrows rose. “Today?”
“Yep. I have more questions. Thinking of asking him to come down.”
“May I ask if he’s a suspect?”
Odd question. Carmen tried not to sound puzzled. “We’re taught to wonder about everyone, especially those who discover the body. Sometimes they’re the one we’re looking for.” She let that hang in the air before continuing. “But he’s not high on the list. Too small to have pounded the life out of a man. Of course, he could have hired someone. Is there a problem?”
“No, not a problem, it’s just that this is Passover week and it’s also the Sabbath. If he’s not a suspect, you might get a little further by waiting until after sundown. Of course, it’s your call. I’m jus’ sayin’.”
Bud’s brows arched. “You’re Jewish?”
“No, sir. I just read a lot.”
“Thanks for the heads up,” Carmen said. “What about seminary professors?”
“You’re good to go on that, Detective. Unless it’s a Jewish seminary.” Heywood grinned, revealing Hollywood-grade teeth. He gave a nod and started to turn. Bud stopped him.
“I assume you had other plans for the weekend. What’d we pull you from?”
“I was getting ready to head to the racquetball court. No problem though. I always lose.”
Carmen tipped her head. Heywood didn’t look like the kind of guy that lost any sport. “You’re opponent that good, or are you that bad?”
The comment made him smile. “He’s pretty good. Especially for a ten-year-old.”
“Wait,” Bud said. “You let a ten-year-old beat you at racquetball?”
Heywood shrugged and his chest expanded a few inches. “He’s my son.”
Carmen’s eyes hurt. Yesterday, she had obtained a search warrant to look at bank records for her two victims. If the
banks felt they were somehow a victim in a crime, they could voluntarily provide the information, but Carmen couldn’t make that case. The banks were neutral and therefore required a legal instrument to pry open the databanks. The search warrant came with a nondisclosure directive.
Usually, a bank was under obligation to inform its account holder that it has received a warrant for records. Bank records could be instrumental in outlining the last days of a person’s life, especially when there were large withdrawals or atypical deposits. Debit cards left a trail. If a man used a debit card to buy a gun, it might indicate he planned to break the law or was fearful and wanted to defend himself or his family. If someone made fifty thousand a year but deposited twice that in a short period of time, it might indicate a crime. Consistent ATM withdrawals of, say, a thousand dollars might mean a person was being blackmailed. If a victim kept a checking account secret from his or her spouse, then it might lead to motive for murder.
Carmen came up empty on all counts.
She sighed.
“I heard that.” Bud had spent the morning reviewing phone records.
“Expect more. I got zilch here.”
Bud pushed from his desk and moved his chair across the narrow space that separated their workspace. “Show me.”
“You just want to take a break from scouring phone records.”
“You got that right. Talk to me. I need the break.”
Carmen understood. “Like I said, I got nuthin’.” She pointed at the screen. This is Doug Lindsey’s bank account. He has only one.”
“What do you mean only one? I only have one checking account. How many do you have?”
“Are we counting offshore banks?” Carmen tried to keep a straight face.
“Cute. Carry on, moneybags.”
Carmen returned her attention to the screen. “It’s what you’d expect from a grad student. Very little money, and what little he had he spent on gas, pizza, books, and the occasional movie. He deposited $600 a month for the last two years. When we interviewed his parents, they said he had no job and that they gave him a monthly stipend. I’m guessing the $600 comes from them. We need to confirm that.”
