Absolute Truth

by Bill Larkin

  ABSOLUTE TRUTH

  Bill Larkin

  There is no such error as the pursuit of absolute truth.

  Samuel Butler (1835-1902)

  Dedicated to: Marjorie Larkin

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  After a fast turn in the open Pacific Ocean, I eased back the throttles and slowed the red 33’ twin-engine fireboat to the plodding 5 MPH speed limit and entered Newport Harbor.

  To my left, the blazing sun had dropped over the rocky seawall between the harbor mouth and The Wedge on the other side. Purple streaks painted themselves across the racing clouds in the darkening May sky.

  In the gentle breeze, I detected the faint scent of sunscreen from two young couples aboard the sailboat that we had followed at a slight distance. They were playing “I’m on a Boat” by The Lonely Island and laughed while downing some beers. As the harbor widened further inside, the sailboat tacked left to parallel the peninsula, while we headed along the south side of Balboa Island.

  I trained my binoculars on the sailboat.

  Wylie McCarty, my crusty and sullen training officer, said, “Schmitty, If I were going to be accurate with my trainee log, I would note that you spend more time looking at girls’ asses than working.”

  McCarty still had a little sense of humor. He’d been with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department since I was about 3. And a lot of that had been on Harbor Patrol. He broke out his cooler and began chowing down on a piece of chicken, smacking greasy lips and eating with his mouth open.

  “You oughta see this one girl,” I replied with admiration.

  I was zoomed in on her; she was still in her bikini and looking amazing. Even in the dimming light, the couples glanced our way to make sure the harbor cops weren’t following them to dampen the party. One of the guys must have noticed my binocular snooping, even from the growing distance. He dropped his board shorts and wiggled his ass at me. I put down the binoculars.

  “I need to wash my eyes with bleach.”

  McCarty smirked at me and changed the subject. “You have the polygraph tomorrow, huh?” He sucked the grease off one of his long fingers.

  “Yep. I’m really looking forward to it too.”

  “Have some beers tonight and don’t worry about those IA dickheads.”

  I gazed out over Balboa Island, where I saw it before I heard it. A sudden orange glow erupted from further inside the harbor. A few flames flickered high into the evening sky. Then the rumble of a small explosion and a plume of black smoke.

  McCarty jumped to his feet. “Shit.” It took McCarty a second. “Let’s haul ass, Schmitty. There’s your first fire.”

  My pulse quickened as I nosed the twin throttles almost all the way forward. The fireboat plowed down the center of the channel, with the twin engines revving. I hit the lights and siren. As I drove, McCarty stowed his food and dashed down to the lower wheelhouse and changed into the heavy yellow fire turnouts.

  All deputies practiced the drill and the fastest time was about a minute. First, McCarty released his Sam Browne duty belt and pulled off his shoes. He then stripped off his uniform and body armor. After stepping into the black rubber boots, he pulled the fire pants up. McCarty grabbed a yellow jacket and fastened the metal clips. He slipped a nomex hood over his head, then a yellow fire helmet.

  Dispatch relayed the exact location on the backside of Harbor Island—no doubt the most expensive island in the whole 9,000 boat Newport Harbor. As I rounded the corner and slowed the fireboat, I saw flames and smoke leaping from a docked cabin cruiser. Nobody was around the boat or the dock, but people had come out of the backs of their homes on Harbor Island to watch.

  McCarty put two black plastic boxes up on the fireboat deck. The boxes contained breathing apparatus units. These air tanks would be needed if we got close to the fire, or had to rescue anybody inside.

  We switched positions so I could put on the fire gear. McCarty positioned the fireboat with the stern facing the engulfed boat. He switched on two water pumps. I thought about using the large capacity water monitor on the front of the fireboat, but this cabin cruiser had exploded and the remaining fire was starting to diminish and be controllable. Using the water cannon would be overkill and might sink the burning cabin cruiser.

  “You want to kick it loose from the dock?” I yelled.

  “Hose it down first,” McCarty said as I surveyed at the scene. Pieces of wood and some other combustible items were burning. The boat was about 40 feet long and ripped up from an explosion below; likely the lower cabin and the engine compartment. There was no apparent danger of the fire igniting the dock.

  As I pushed the nozzle handle forward, the powerful stream of harbor water began saturating the boat. I leaned forward to keep my balance against the hose pressure as I carefully swept the nozzle to extinguish the flames.

  The black smoke started to dissipate. McCarty pulled up to the dock and I jumped onto it to secure the fireboat lines. An acrid odor filled the air and the exploded boat’s hull looked even blacker than the water at night.

  The Newport Beach Fire Department had arrived on scene. Several of the firefighters were walking to the dock from a neighbor’s yard. Although the Harbor Patrol had jurisdiction on the water, Newport Beach city firefighters handled the docks and waterfront homes.

  “Got a quick barbeque here,” the Newport Beach Fire Captain commented as we all approached the hull for a better look.

  “There,” McCarty said.

  In the light of his LED flashlight, I could see the silhouette of a corpse in the boat. The charred figure was sprawled in the stairs leading up from the lower cabin. Whoever it was had been coming up the stairs when the boat exploded. All the hair and clothing had been burned off the body. Probably male, by the size.

  The skin on the corpse was an odd combination of colors. The intensity of the explosion had caused third degree burns on the right side of the body. White blotches of skin marked the severe burns, while other parts of the skin were brown or black.

  I looked away from the gruesome scene.

  Fires were a rare thing in Newport Harbor. So were dead bodies.

  Chapter 2

  On the back of the fireboat, I stripped off the fire turnouts. I splashed some fresh water from my plastic water bottle onto my face and used a towel to wipe off water and sweat.

  The Newport Beach PD was stringing up the yellow crime scene tape. McCarty stood at the side of the boat dock with the fire department. I put my uniform back on and gulped the last of the water from my bottle.

  The house was a California-ized Cape Cod. It was two stories of gray wood paneling with white trim and bay windows. Like the others on Harbor Island, it was about 10,000 square feet of extravagance, but a little older than some of the others. Maybe late 1990s vintage.

  I joined McCarty and the firefighters.

  “He just popped his fire cherry,” McCarty said, nodding to me.

  “Nice work,” one of the firefighters said.

  Another said, “Never seen a boat explosion kill somebody.”

  “Who is the owner?” I asked.

  The fire captain replied, “One Barry Tremayne, homeowner, boat owner, professor at UC Irvine, and likely victim.”

  “Arson investigator coming?”

  “And the Coroner’s investigator.”

 
I didn’t feel like standing around the dock looking at the boat and waiting for the coroner’s investigator. I gave the Newport Beach cop my name for the log and walked into the house.

  A Newport Beach Police Sergeant was on the phone in the kitchen, calling out a detective. In Newport Beach, the assigned detective would probably be the senior crimes-against-persons detective who handled robberies, rapes, and occasional death investigations.

  The death investigation would be handled by Newport Beach PD and an arson investigator, so I had no official reason to be in the house, but I decided to make a quick walk-through without touching anything. The kitchen and dining area faced the dock. I passed them.

  The downstairs bedroom had been converted to an office; a dark wood bookcase took up the wall behind the desk. I noted several books about medicine and medical research. A laptop computer sat on the desk. In a corner, several framed photographs were displayed on a table.

  I turned away to continue my snooping upstairs, when my eye caught one of the photos. It stopped me in my tracks. Recognition froze every muscle in my body.

  The photo was a couple smiling at the camera. The woman was tall, with long black hair, a dark complexion, and a confident smile that drew me in immediately. I felt a tinge of excitement, but then checked myself as I became more curious than jangly.

  The photo of April Gonzalez was a face that I never expected to see again. Never wanted to see again. I had long since deleted any pictures of her, and the one in front of me transcended time for a brief moment. A wave of memories hit me and I thought back to senior year of college at Cal State Long Beach, about five years and a lifetime ago.

  It was a small psychology class of twelve students, but the professor had matched up each student with a partner to complete a lengthy paper. April and I had hit it off from the start. We met frequently at class, at the library, and at her apartment, where we used her computer to write.

  My college life prioritized partying over writing, and I drew her into my world a bit. But that girl was still a mystery. She never talked about herself or her family. I’d ask occasionally, and she gave me nothing at first. But sensing something important, I kept prying. Gently, but persistently. One night, when her mood was unusual, and in hindsight, contemplative, she finally caved and told me she would talk about her childhood if I promised never to bring it up again, under any circumstances. I gave her the zipped lips gesture.

  She told me that her childhood memories were mostly of poverty, playing in the dirt, and living with incredibly strict parents. She had grown up near Merced, California, in a farming community, where her dad worked on a small almond farm. Her mother cleaned rooms at a motel. Her parents spoke little English, but were intensely proud. It was mandatory for April to study every night and go to church on Sundays. They even picked her friends.

  Turned out, poverty and overbearing parents were only the beginning. When she was ten, two next door boys, who were several years older, began taking April into their barn and touching her. It escalated into other acts. This went on for over a year until the boys moved away. She could never tell her parents, who wielded such overbearing powers over her, including the power to blame and judge her. She had been ashamed, afraid, and without confidence in a world that controlled everything she did.

  Age 16 came and went, and she was forbidden to date or drive a car. Not that they could afford a car for her. By 17, April felt ready to date, yet uncertain because of her experience. Slowly, her parents allowed it and she went out a few times. But April’s mother used to do a full-body inspection when she returned. Once she found a hickey and April was grounded for a month.

  After a year at a junior college, April was accepted at Cal State Long Beach. She had felt an odd combination of being afraid to leave home, yet desperate to create distance. Her will to change things began to finally surface. That meant an education and leaving Merced.

  Her first college relationship had been no better than her childhood. After she broke up with him on the fourth date, he had raped her on her bed in her dorm room. It was something that she never reported; but, in time, it strangely gave her life more direction.

  A temporary relapse to the helplessness of childhood conferred her with incredible strength the second time around. April found power and purpose in earning her degree and making plans for life. Her personality became amplified. Her demons were being exorcised by sheer will to persevere and succeed. She would never clean motel rooms, and would never let another person control her, or touch her if she didn’t want it. She yearned for control, and worked hard for it. She found a few friends and built happiness around herself, from scratch.

  She started running and learning kickboxing. She spent more money on haircuts and clothes. She learned to laugh. The opposite sex started to take interest, but she did not reciprocate. She worked harder at college than anyone.

  It wasn’t just April’s survival story that earned my admiration. It was how she had turned out. By the time I met her during senior year, she had had confident control of her life, and had charisma that immediately caught anyone’s attention. When she looked at me, it was like she could see it all—past, present, and future. Her enthusiasm became contagious. Her sly, witty sense of humor developed from her unique perspective on life, and she was very smart. She had built a new life and willed her way to overcome incredible adversity, but I didn’t know that quite yet.

  As for me, I’d met plenty of girls in high school and college. Neither depth nor meaning required. Easy come, easy go. But April had me.

  The night I learned her history was only a few weeks after we had both graduated. Her diploma displayed honors, of course. I was shocked to speechlessness. But after the shock, my respect grew.

  The next day, she didn’t return my phone calls. I went to her apartment and it was cleaned out. The neighbor told me April Gonzalez had moved out that morning. She’d left no forwarding address. The one who was once so controlled by life was on her own.

  No texts, e-mails, or phone calls. Nothing. What bothered me wasn’t just her leaving, but the why part. I knew that she could not always escape her past, but why run now? Was it another guy? A job? Something or somebody returned from her past? I was angry at her at first. Then I became worried, since she’d told me everything the night before she disappeared.

  I called a couple of her friends, but they claimed she’d disappeared on them too. I forced it aside, especially since I was a new graduate who was supposed to be focused on making a career. I just accepted the strangeness, and put it behind me. Just like she’d done with her past.

  It had been my lesson of being careful who you hand your heart to. It may come back in pieces. And a lesson on what’s beneath the surface.

  My grades weren’t top notch and I didn’t know what to do with my life. I had a gig as a bartender that I needed to leave or it would become a career itself. My dad was an LAPD lieutenant and wanted me to join. I didn’t want to live in the old man’s shadow, so in a hasty act of rebellion, I applied to the Orange County Sheriff’s Department.

  During my last months of bartending, I would replay conversations with April in my mind at odd times. Had she been lying? Playing some kind of game? Was the relationship as real as I’d thought at the time? I reconciled it to myself by hooking up with as many girls as I could meet.

  Three months later, OCSD offered me a job. Almost one hundred people apply for each law enforcement job, and they were telling me that I was chosen. Who was I to say no?

  The Orange County Sheriff’s Academy demanded all my attention; physical, mental, emotional, and otherwise. As I focused on becoming a cop, my life with April Gonzalez drifted decisively to the past.

  Fast forward almost five years. I lifted my eyes form the photo of April Tremayne, formerly Gonzalez, living on the most exclusive island in the harbor. Rich and as beautiful as ever, if the image matched reality. Yet, her world was about to collapse with the death of her husband.

  As I stared back at the
picture in front of me, old images of her flashed. Old feelings crept up. I pulled out my money clip and stared at it. She had given it to me. Nothing valuable. The small engraving on the back said: “To Schmitty with Love. The Girlfriend.”

  I put it away and thought about the house and the boat fire. Where was April?

  Chapter 3

  At 9 a.m. the next morning, I sat on one of the chairs in the hallway at the Orange County Sheriff-Coroner’s Department headquarters in downtown Santa Ana. The ancient, flattened padding on the chair made it impossible to get comfortable. The air conditioning was blowing cold air, but my palms were sweating. I wore a long sleeved shirt and slacks, no coat.

  A half hour had passed since my scheduled appointment. I got tired of watching people walk past me. I stared at my shoes. They needed polishing. I could play another game on my phone, but wasn’t into it.

  I stood up to go get a Diet Coke and leveled my sight on Derek Willis walking toward me with a smile. A tall black guy dressed in a trim fitting long sleeved uniform, Willis was one of my academy classmates. He was polished and professional looking. People loved to bust his balls about having the same name as the Todd Bridges’ character from Different Strokes. But that show was so old, not many people remembered it these days.

  I hadn’t seen him in a couple years, but I had heard he was working downtown. Meaning: at some desk job that connected him to the brass so he could brown nose aggressively and promote quickly.

  “In the world of predators, even the tiger fears the cobra,” he said, smiling at me.

  “Word travels around here. Who’s the cobra?” I asked.

  He had always struck me as smart, but manipulative and hardhearted. The veneer of politeness was only a necessary cover for the will-do-anything mindset underneath. Rat out somebody, knife somebody, blame somebody. Whatever it takes to get ahead.

  “An IA guy named Selman. Actually, I think the polygraph is.”

  I shrugged. “Whatever. You riding a desk in Santa Ana these days?”