Shadow of a Killer: the Dark Side of Paradise

by Frank A. Perdue

  The FBI man shifted his weight nervously from his left to his right leg. He knew he would have to tell her something. Then an idea struck him. “May I use your phone please?”

  “You could if we had one. These cabins are rather primitive. That’s one of the reasons my husband had to drive back down the mountain to San Diego, rather than just call the authorities.” Rachel was becoming slightly irritated with Rodrigues. “Why can’t you tell me what’s going on, and why it’s so important for me to leave here?” And then she added, “I’m not going anywhere with you until you do.”

  “Then I’m sorry Mrs. Dunn, I’ll have to arrest you as a material witness. Please pack whatever you’ll need for a few days.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I haven’t done anything.”

  “That’s true, but you might have information we need to find your husband.” Rodrigues knew he was supposed to transport the lady to San Diego without telling her everything.

  Angelo Rodrigues had only been with the FBI for two years. He was fresh out of the academy when he was sent to the field office in San Diego. He was happy to receive the assignment because he had grown up in the city near the Mexican border. He’d even attended San Diego State College before being recruited by the feds.

  The five foot five Portuguese native, with short dark hair and bushy eyebrows to go along with his brown eyes, had migrated to the fishing community with his family when he was only three. He spoke almost perfect English. There was a rather large contingent of Portuguese people in the Point Loma district of the booming community of San Diego. They were mostly fishermen. Angelo did not want to spend his life on the sea. Even the idea of a rocking boat on a swirling ocean made him feel sick to his stomach.

  Angelo had met Harry Shields at the FBI academy, where the older man had been an instructor for a short while. Harry recognized the young Portugee’s dedication, and thought of him almost as a son. He didn’t hesitate to call on Angelo for the favor of picking up Rachel Dunn, even though they worked in different offices.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to handcuff me too?” Rachel asked stiffly.

  “I’ll take the chance.” Angelo answered, “But don’t make me shoot you.” His grin told her he was not serious. At least he hoped it did.

  Neither of them spoke on the ride down the winding mountain road. When they arrived at the Sheriff’s substation in East San Diego, Angelo escorted Rachel inside. The khaki-uniformed officer at the desk took custody and, to her consternation, led her to a cell to wait for interrogation.

  When the officer returned, Angelo

  informed him of the circumstances of her arrest, and that she was not a criminal, just a witness.

  When he called Harry Shields to tell him that he had driven Rachel Dunn down the mountain, and where she was, the senior officer screamed at him over the phone, “You did what? I didn’t say to turn her in as a criminal. I’m coming down there to get her. You tell that idiot behind the Sheriff’s badge to get her out of that cell right now.”

  Angelo was contrite, “I’m sorry sir. I didn’t know how else to handle it. She wasn’t going to come with me otherwise.”

  Shields calmed down slightly, “Okay, but we can’t leave her in there. She’s an innocent citizen.”

  “Yes sir. Perhaps it would be better for you to take care of it.”

  “Send a boy--“Shields muttered under his breath, but let the sentence trail off. Rodrigues understood what he was saying. He said nothing. “It will take me a little over two hours to get there,” Shields informed the junior agent. “In the meantime, tell the Sheriff’s deputy that this has become a federal case, so we’ll take custody of Mrs. Dunn.” He didn’t hold out much hope that the ploy would work, but it was possible.

  As Harry Shields drove down highway 101, he worried not only about Rachel Dunn, but also about her husband, who was a fugitive, and blowing in the wind. He was conflicted. He could work it out so that Rachel Dunn was released, which was right because she had done nothing wrong. Or he could fulfill his obligation to her husband, by following up on the fugitive’s theory that it wasn’t about him, but rather the cop who had been killed. Perhaps Mrs. Dunn would be released into agent Rodriques custody, but Shields doubted it. A policeman had been killed, one of their own. They would be extremely reluctant to let a witness go who could very well, in their minds, hold the key to finding the killer, of whom they were convinced was her husband.

  He made his decision, and he would have to live with it. He headed out toward the small rural community of El Cajon, where the law enforcement officer had been shot, and where he hoped he would find some answers by interrogating his wife. It was not a task he looked forward to. His sympathies were split right down the middle. He was sure Ivan Dunn was innocent, but he was equally certain that he wouldn’t find the answer at the home of a grieving widow. He was fully aware of the old saw that it’s nearly always the spouse who done the deed, but he never fully bought into that theory. He found that kind of thinking could give the investigators tunnel-vision, and hinder the search for the real perpetrator or perpetrators. Using the same logic, it was counter-productive to just assume his friend was guilty, pretty much giving a free reign to the real killer, by not following every lead as it turned up.

  Chapter Six

  Ivan’s luck was holding out. He managed to get a ride to within a mile of his home in La Jolla. Hitchhiking was almost a lost art, unless one wore the uniform of his country. The man who picked him up was a farmer from the back country of San Diego County. He put no stock in anyone who did not use his hands to eke out a living. Therefore he did not subscribe to a newspaper. He didn’t have time to read the news. The truck did not have a radio. He was blissfully ignorant. Apparently he amused himself by listening to his own voice. The wanted fugitive learned a great deal about farming, with some conservative politics thrown in.

  The walk up a rather steep hill to the sanctuary Ivan called home was uneventful. There was no one out on the streets in the neighborhood, which wasn’t unusual since it was a week day. At ten A.M. everyone who worked had already evacuated the area, and those who were at leisure either hadn’t risen for the day, or were busy doing their own thing, which didn’t include looking out the window, or being a busybody. At least that’s what Ivan thought.

  There was the expected police car in front of his house, and Ivan wondered about their thought process. Did they really think he would come back, and walk right up to the front door?

  When he’d bought the house he was told the fable of the previous owner. It seems the man was a smuggler who was responsible for transporting hundreds of Mexicans across the imaginary line that separated the peons from the promised land of the Estados Unidos. Farmers from the north actually subsidized the procurer of such cheap labor, according to the stories.

  Juan Valdez achieved cult status, after he was finally caught, some six months before Ivan arrived on the scene. The authorities had no idea the diminutive Mexican with horn-rimmed glasses was responsible for the influx of his countrymen. Everyone thought he was just a mild banker, for that is what he told them when they asked what it was that he did for a living.

  Valdez brought the men, with an occasional woman among them, five or six at a time, from a tunnel south of Dulzura that allowed them to enter the country, to his home in La Jolla. He had built a tunnel of his own into the rear of his place. They left the same way, after replenishing their bodies with food and water. They were transported north by someone else employed by the farmers of the San Joaquin Valley, or so the story goes.

  Valdez was paid handsomely for his efforts, and the steady stream of aliens continued for nearly two years, until he was finally caught.

  It was just dumb luck that tripped him up. In one group he’d gone to the border to pick up was a woman, who had brought her newborn child, a baby boy with a very piercing cry. Border agents were nearby when the little one let out a loud sob. Imagine their surprise when they found Juan, trying to quiet the baby
with a rattle and a “shh”.

  The Mexican community of San Diego thought of Juan Valdez as a hero, and because of the sentiment, and the fact the Judge in the case was Latin himself, the smuggler of humans received a very short term in prison. Of course he couldn’t afford to keep the elaborate home, and Ivan Dunn was the benefactor.

  After Ivan bought the home, out of curiosity, he had surveyed the property, and was surprised to find the tunnel to the rear of the house that led into his basement. It was this route he utilized to enter his home undetected. He immediately went to the bedroom without turning on a light, and collapsed. He was asleep in minutes. It had been a long day.

  When he awoke six hours later, it was dark. He cautiously looked out toward the street. The police car was still there. It was time to plan his next move, before someone else did it for him. A lot would depend on what Harry Shields found out. If there was someone who would benefit from the death of that police officer, that would be something to pursue. Otherwise he must assume that it was a creep who held a grudge against him. But who? In his mind he was such a lovable guy, that it would be inconceivable someone would want to frame him. Okay, enough fantasy. Both scumbags who might have reason to harm him were safely behind bars, one in Chicago and the other in Virginia. It wasn’t likely they would have enough connections to reach out from their incarceration to set this up.

  It had to be the cop. Ivan didn’t even remember his name, the poor slob. Wait a minute! That didn’t work either, Ivan thought. The gun was his. The note was written and found on his typewriter. He was sent to that cabin so that the murderer could pin everything on him. Maybe there was a clue on the letter. Where did he put that?

  He found what he was looking for in his desk. The fact that the envelope was devoid of a postmark jumped right out at him this time. The killer had to put it in his mailbox. Maybe someone saw him. There was no way he could follow up on that without exposing himself. He would have to rely on Harry Shields to check it out.

  Where was Rachel? She should be here by now. Maybe her son Thomas would know. The young man’s number was in his wallet. After retrieving the slip of paper he’d written it on, he casually dropped his wallet on the coffee table. He then picked up the phone and dialed the boy’s number.

  “Hello.”

  “Thomas, this is Ivan. I was wondering if you’ve heard from your Mother?”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve calling here! Where the hell are you?”

  “I can’t tell you that just now, but I’m worried that Rachel might be stuck in that cabin in the woods, or worse, that someone might be after her. I called the FBI to go pick her up, but I haven’t heard anything.” “Where is that place.”

  “It’s up toward Mount Laguna, about a mile and a half below the summit. Look kid, I’m not guilty of anything you might have heard.”

  “Then why not give yourself up?”

  “I can’t. Not yet. Not the way the cards are stacked against me.”

  Naturally the younger man was skeptical. He didn’t really know his mother’s husband that well. He was, however, ready to go to the cabin to protect his mother. Ivan mentioned Harry Shields, and the FBI agent’s involvement, and that relieved the younger man somewhat. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I wish I knew,” Ivan answered.

  In the next half hour he explained everything to Thomas as best he could. He told the younger man he would turn himself in if there was some chance the outcome would be in his favor, but for now that wasn’t the case.

  “Look Ivan, from what I’ve been reading, every law enforcement official in the state is looking for you. And most if not all would just as soon see you lying in the street with a dirty sheet over you.” He paused for emphasis, “You’ve got to turn yourself in, before my mom becomes a widow.”

  “You say that, but even you can’t be sure I’m not guilty, and you’ve met me. What chance would I have in front of a jury?”

  “It’s better than the alternative. At least you’d have a chance to stay alive.” It sounded reasonable to Thomas Embree.

  Before hanging up, Ivan promised to consider it. That seemed to appease the younger man. It most likely would have been an easier sell had not Tom Embree just graduated from the Police Academy, and reported for his first assignment at the police station in Chula Vista, a suburb of San Diego. He was actually part of the group vested with the responsibility for bringing in his father-in-law.

  He wasn’t completely idealistic, however. There was a little thing called Korea, the war that went a long way toward changing a lot of people’s minds about the need and benefit of armed conflict. You might say Thomas Embree’s boyhood naivete was a casualty of that war.

  Chapter Seven

  Thomas Embree had only been back from Army duty in Korea for a few months. Considering what he’d been through, he had adjusted fairly well to what was perceived as an uneventful life in the States. He’d returned to Richmond, Virginia, which had been his home all his young life, until he was drafted into the Army. He’d only been twenty when he was displaced to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and then a few weeks later shipped to Korea. There had been no time to develop the skills needed for a lifetime profession.

  As a buck private he was taught only what he would need to kill or be killed. They toughened him up in boot camp, making him run almost constantly, and pushing him onto obstacle courses. He found out what a bayonet was and how to use it. He honed his marksmanship skills on the firing range. When he came back from the war, he was a hero. The city even held a parade for him and the other returning servicemen. His status did nothing for him in his search for work. Unfortunately there was little call for a man who had carried a rifle for the past two years. The job market was flooded with returning veterans, most of whom had more skills than Thomas. He was finally able to find work at a market. He began by bagging groceries and cleaning up the store grounds. It would take time and patience to better his standing.

  The friends he’d known in high school had drifted far and wide after the war, and there really was nothing to hold him in Richmond. He made the decision to move to the west coast. His mother had gone there while he was still in the Army. There was just enough money in his kitty for the long bus ride. He could have driven west, but his old clunker of a nineteen forty Packard probably would have given up the ghost before he made the outskirts of Texas. He’d been putting off buying a new radiator until he got a raise at work. He was lucky to sell it for a hundred dollars. He would arrive in San Diego with the sum total of three-hundred and twenty-two bucks. Luckily, he was unencumbered romantically.

  There had been a woman in Japan. He’d even moved in with her. He had been detached from his regiment, after being promoted to sergeant, to Tokyo for Military Police duty. Soldiers were sent there for rest and recuperation after a period of time on the front lines of the war.

  He was patrolling the bars downtown one night when he encountered a fight. One of the combatants he recognized as a Filipino from his outfit. The little man was not only outclassed weight-wise, he had taken on two marines. He was putting up a valiant fight, but taking a lot of punishment. Sergeant Embree placed himself between the men. Tom wasn’t especially large, but he was armed with a nightstick, and he had the authority to take them all in. The marines backed off, but the little man didn’t. He was out of control, obviously drunk, and spitting obscenities at Thomas.

  The situation threatened to land the Filipino in the brig, so to end it Thomas thrust the only weapon he had into the little man’s stomach. He doubled over, letting out a whoosh. All the fight was suddenly gone from him.

  At that point two of the soldier’s buddies came to his aid, hauling the now wounded man to a cab outside, and most likely back to their base.

  The situation neutralized, Thomas moved to the swinging doors of the saloon. He was stopped by a woman who had put her hand on his arm.

  He turned to see an Asian woman who was not much more than a girl really. She was dressed in tra
ditional night fare. She removed her hand, and said, “It was my fault Sergeant. The little man thought he defending my honor.” She spoke in slightly broken English, but he knew what she was saying.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The two marines were becoming little rough with me, and the soldier witnessed it. He told them leave me alone, and fight started.”

  Thomas thought he understood. She was a bar girl. It was her job to entertain the troops, who would buy her watered-down drinks. She was pretty. He was sure she brought in much money for the establishment. It was surprising that the bouncer or the bartender hadn’t intervened in the fight between the soldiers.

  She saw the disgusted look on Thomas’s face, and knew what he was thinking. She turned away and walked slowly from the saloon.

  During the next few days, he’d had occasion to return to the same bar, but he never saw the girl perceived to be Japanese. He didn’t really think anything of it, until one day he was approached on base by the soldier he’d hit with his nightstick.

  “Sarge, I need to talk to you.”

  Thomas was apprehensive. He was sure the little man was about to take issue with him for his actions that night in the bar. “Yes, what is it?” his words had taken on a slightly confrontational tone.

  “I want to apologize for my behavior the other night. I was way out of line. And thanks for getting me out of there before I got killed.”

  Thomas looked down at the little Filipino from his six-foot frame, give or take a half inch. “That’s all right. It was my job. How’s your stomach?”

  The little guy, whose name was Julio, instinctively touched his belly with his left hand. “It’s a little tender, but not as sore as my head was the next day, with the alcohol and the pounding I took.”