Blood of Others

by Rick Mofina

  FORTY-ONE

  “I’m sorry, Officer Syd -- Syd-o-whiff --”

  “Sid-dow-ski. Inspector Walt Sydowski.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Dooley is still on another line. Would you like to leave a message, or continue holding?”

  Evan Dooley was the vice president of passenger services for Five Star Skyways, headquartered in Miami. Dooley had promised to get back to Sydowski when the two men had first talked and Sydowski had made his request. Now Dooley was avoiding him. Sydowski’s six subsequent calls to Miami had not been returned. He tightened his grip on his phone, refusing to hold a second longer.

  “He knows why I am calling. I’ve been holding for five full minutes. I want you to get a piece of paper and write down the words: urgent, homicide, police. Go to him and hold it in front of his face.”

  “But sir, he knows you are calling I --”

  “Please, right now. Please. Homicide.”

  “I’m just, he’s, oh, he’s clear. I’ll transfer you”

  The line clicked.

  “Evan Dooley.”

  “This is Sydowski, San Francisco Homicide.”

  “Inspector, yes, I’m sorry.”

  “Got the lists?” Sydowski had called and faxed his request for complete passenger manifests for all Five Star Skyways flights to San Francisco originating, or connecting to Baltimore, for one week prior to the date Iris Wood was murdered.

  “You wouldn’t reveal the nature of the request.”

  “Police business.”

  “So you said. Yes, Inspector, after I got your request in writing, I passed it to our legal department. This concerns our corporate information, so I wanted to be certain everything was in accordance --”

  “Mr. Dooley, are you going to give me the information? Or do we send a pissed off FBI agent over there with a subpoena?”

  “We can FedEx the lists to you, fax them, whatever you like, Inspector.”

  “Both.”

  “We’re talking about forty-two flights. That is going to be a lot of pages.”

  “My machine’s loaded and ready.”

  “It’ll take at least an hour to prepare.”

  “If I don’t have them in that time, I’ll call my legal department known as the district attorney’s office.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I assure you we are cooperating, Inspector. I’m sorry for the delay. And if I can help you further, just call. Here are my cell and home phone numbers.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Sydowski slammed down his phone. That was an unprofessional performance. But to hell with it. He was doing his job. Dooley had been an arrogant, officious prick until Five Star’s lawyers had told him to give up the lists.

  Sitting at his desk at the Hall of Justice, Sydowski admitted he was in turmoil over Louise. He had left several messages on her cell phone and on her machine in San Jose. She had not returned his calls. He did not blame her. It was his doing. He had hurt her when she was just trying to help him. And she was right. He was feeling guilty about seeing Reggie haunting the streets like a ghost. Wyatt was a different story and he did not apologize for that. He let everything get tangled up in this case. And he had taken it out on Louise. Maybe he was afraid he was betraying his dead wife with Louise?

  Just turn it off and get back to work. He studied the enlarged photographs of the shoe impressions and the tattered airport sticker: BWI. At least now he had a handle on the case. Something he could sink his teeth into. It was by no means conclusive. The shoe impressions went from the abduction point to the murder scene, which was usually the case in most homicides, tying a suspect to a crime scene. But that sort of thing usually comes after a suspect is identified. The added find of the BWI sticker and fibers was like finding a winning lottery ticket. The odds were astronomical. They had to capitalize on it, work it to their maximum advantage in their pursuit before they could cash it in. What they had was strong enough to stand up in court. It was hard physical evidence, but it was only a beginning.

  He popped a Tums into his mouth, grimacing as he crunched, his gut lurching, images of the case blurring in his mind, hanging his fury on a single thought for the killer.

  We’re gaining on you.

  Sydowski checked his watch. Turgeon was following up on the shoe and should be back. He glanced at the fax machine. Still no action. He tried Louise’s cell again.

  “You’ve reached Louise. Please leave me a message.”

  “Louise, it’s Walt. I was a jerk. Please call.”

  “That’s so romantic. Every woman wishes for a call like that.” Turgeon had returned from Hunter’s Point with a file.

  “Anything more on the shoe stuff?”

  “So far Horace has narrowed it being manufactured in the Caribbean, he thinks by a subsidiary of a U.S.-German multinational. He’s still working on it with the FBI and gave me some numbers we could try.”

  The fax machine near Sydowski began humming, giving birth to a page with the Five Star Skyways logo.

  “Here we go,” Sydowski said.

  Lieutenant Gonzales had a line of sight on the fax machine and stepped from his office when he saw it churning out pages. He picked up a few pages. Sydowski did the same. The lists seemed endless.

  “We’re looking for a needle in a big haystack, Walt.”

  “Leo, until Horace did what he did, we didn’t even have a haystack.”

  “Let’s just hope he’s in there.”

  “Horace is doing more work on the shoe and fibers seeing if he can match it with rental car models. His first go on the car fibers is not consistent with the weight of carpet in police cars.”

  “All right, Walt. Get on this list. Records has got four bodies and some interns standing by for computer checks, any way you want. I got two fresh bodies from General Works ready to make calls. We’ll send everybody what you need when you’re set.”

  They had requested a week’s worth of flights on Horace’s recommendation, which he had based on the condition of the BWI sticker. Few people knew this line of the investigation, that it was an extremely calculated guess that the killer ever set foot in Baltimore’s airport. The sticker could have been transferred to his shoe from anywhere. But the shoe impressions were solid evidence, and BWI was a lead, the best lead they had.

  The complete lists totalled some 2,769 names.

  Sydowski was relieved that Five Star Skyways had provided first and last names and contact telephone numbers, which passengers provide so they can be notified for flight delays or other information.

  Over the next few days, Sydowski and Turgeon reduced the list to some 1,400 names that were male or neutral, like Chris or Dale. The records people began running them through the California records working with the driver’s license bureau and the DMVs of Maryland, the District of Columbia, Delaware, Virginia and Pennsylvania, cross-checking telephone area codes or numbers in case a person with a common name surfaced in all jurisdictions. In most cases, the drivers’ records checks gave dates of birth and photographs, which further reduced the list. Slim, the drug addict thief, insisted the suspect he saw was white, about six feet aged twenty to forty. Using those shaky tolerances, Sydowski had the records people reduce the list further. Sydowski had the two general assignment people run that list against the employee lists of American Federated Insurance and their policyholders lists, in case there was any link to Iris Wood. Despite everyone’s hard work and the reductions, it was going to take more time.

  Sydowski knew they needed another break to take that haystack down while Turgeon continued pressing him to submit the case to VICAP.

  “Walt, this could all be futile. Our guy might not ever have been on this airline, or he might have used a stolen card, or paid cash, or given a false name. You know that.”

  Sydowski knew that. He also knew to trust his instincts, stay the course. Keep the faith.

  FORTY-TWO

  Some twenty-eight hundred miles east in Toronto, Reesor and Winslow were rolling from a
coffee stop at a McDonald’s drive-through when Reesor’s pager went off.

  “It’s the mad Russian. Wants us to come to the lab now.”

  “Finally,” Winslow said. “That guy doesn’t hurry for anybody.”

  The Toronto Police Service crime lab was in the west end on Jane Street near the 401. They took Weston to Black Creek. Traffic was moving well. Reesor enjoyed his coffee.

  “The Boston Red Sox are in town next week. If we get a break, I’ll take my boy.”

  Winslow smiled as she passed slower cars.

  At the movie theater where Belinda Holcomb’s body had been found, the lead hand from the scenes-of-crime section was Fydor Petrov, a forensic identification specialist, who headed a team of investigators to collect and study the physical evidence. He was a wiry, soft-spoken marathoner who wore rimless glasses and short-cropped blond hair. He produced impeccable scene work and analyses that always withstood the most formidable challenges in court. He was hunched over his microscope when Reesor and Winslow arrived.

  “You made good time.” Fydor slid from his stool “This way please.”

  He led them to a large board with several enlarged prints of shoe impressions neatly posted on it. “These are unknown footwear impressions collected at the movie theater from the floor area of the seat immediately behind the victim. Given their condition, and trace of bloodstain, I conclude they were made by the killer.” He said the hard smooth floor with its polished surface was excellent for receiving shoe impressions. “The surface, sticky from spilled drinks, worked well to take an impression, especially when the killer stood behind the victim pressing his weight into the floor.”

  “I don’t see a brand or logo,” Reesor said.

  “No. No lettering, digits, motifs, or words to indicate any sort of manufacture or compound code. Not to worry.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “The impressions are good. The cuts and wear characteristics make the shoe fairly unique. The edges have channeling, with an array of lugs and polygons, indicating hiking, outdoors, or possibly cross-training footwear. By my measurements and calculations, I am guessing a U.S.-North American size eleven. Men’s.”

  Fydor had consulted reference books, computer data banks, and had estimated there were some one hundred footwear manufacturers, outsole producers, importers, and exporters who might know this impression.

  “I’ve reproduced a black-ink sketch of the impression and will contact each company with it to see if they recognize it.”

  Reesor made notes. Winslow stepped closer to the photographs, studying the impressions.

  “I will show you something critical, something remarkable.” Fydor led the detectives to a computer monitor. “This took me quite a lot of time.” The computer’s screen displayed a dirty white item; a nearly black, frayed, torn, rag-like fragment resembling paper.

  “What is it? I can’t make anything out.” Winslow squinted. “Just looks like a scrap of rag, or tissue.”

  Fydor adjusted the equipment, the backlighting and hue changing until a faded block letter emerged showing a B.

  “This is a tattered strip of sticker tag from an airport, representing the airport code. I’ve seen this style of item before in a drug-smuggling case where we came upon a luggage tag from LAX. I believe that what we’ve retrieved is a fragment of a miniature ribbon repeater portion torn from a sticker code tag. Likely balled up in the footwear pattern and loosened when the tread was spread as the killer shifted his weight standing to strike, allowing the sticky floor to dislodge it.”

  Fydor continued adjusting until next to the B, to the right of it, another character letter, or piece of one, emerged. It appeared to be the stick or beginning of another character. The letter I. But the torn and worn condition of the paper made it lean back, touching the top of the B.

  “It could be an I or the beginning of the letter W or U, even a V.

  Reesor focussed on the characters, sketching them in his notebook. “You’ll give us a printout of this?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Airport codes. It’s good work, Fydor. Excellent. But there must be endless possibilities as to which one the tag is from.”

  “There are nine.”

  “Nine?”

  “Most are in the U.S. I checked with several international databases, including the U.S. Federal Aviation Administration.”

  “Nine? You know which ones?”

  Fydor reached for a slim yellow file folder and produced a single sheet of paper for Reesor. Winslow read along with him.

  BUF BUFFALO, NY

  BUR BURBANK, CA

  BWI BALTIMORE, MD

  ABI ABILENE, TX

  BIL BILLINGS, MT

  PBI WEST PALM BEACH, FL

  BIM BIMINI, BAHAMAS

  BUE BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA

  BUH BUCHAREST, ROMANIA

  Fydor’s pen tapped the list. “I draw your attention to where the B meets the next letter. Those are your possibilities.”

  In the car, on the way to headquarters, Reesor inventoried everything they had on Belinda Holcomb’s murder. Fydor’s work took it all in a new direction, suggesting the killer may be from out of town. Then, there were all the newspapers in her apartment. All had large personal sections. Was she meeting a blind date? Someone on-line? Did he set her up, see her at the café? Follow her to the movie? Or was he just there? A psycho in the dark?

  Reesor pulled out his notebook, reviewing the folded list of airport codes and corresponding cities.

  “This one’s just giving me a weird vibe, Jackie. I can’t explain it. With this list, our guy could be from anywhere. I think we should throw everything out there now. Locally, we can still work it hard. I just don’t think our guy lives around here at all. What do you think?”

  “She was a woman acting like she was supposed to meet someone in a public place. A few hours later she goes to see a romantic movie. Fydor says the guy behind her is mobile. I agree, we should get this all out there.”

  Reesor picked up a slip of paper that had fallen from his pocket.

  “When we get back, we’ll talk to the boss. I want to complete the book, get BAS to go over it, get it to Orillia and the RCMP in Ottawa. Maybe they can work the list with the FBI in Quantico.”

  Reesor unfolded the little strip of paper, then chuckled. It was the prediction from his fortune cookie.

  You will find the truth if you keep seeking it.

  FORTY-THREE

  “Las Vegas?” Ann repeated, staring at Reed. “You have to go to Las Vegas tonight?”

  They had just finished eating Ann’s homemade tacos.

  “No. Sacramento tonight. After I’m done there, I’ll fly to Las Vegas.”

  Reed began clearing their dinner dishes. He had gotten home early enough for his family to eat together, which didn’t happen often.

  “Dad’s going to prison,” Zach said just as their doorbell chimed. “I’ll get it!”

  “Prison?” Ann said.

  “Folsom.”

  “Folsom?” She kept an eye on Zach at the door down the hallway while loading dishes into the dishwasher. “Why are you going there?”

  “To interview Donnie Ray Ball. Remember him? The detective who was convicted of robbing banks in the Bay Area. I wrote about him. Then I’ll go directly to Las Vegas for another part of the story.”

  “This is all for the bride murder story?”

  “Yes.” He passed her a plate.

  “Dad!” Zach called from the door. “Somebody’s here for you!”

  It was a woman from the rental company, delivering Reed’s car. A blue mid-size Chrysler. Reed signed the agreement on her clipboard, accepted the keys. She got into a waiting company van. Zach loved Reed’s shiny rental.

  “Awesome, Dad. Can we go for a little ride?”

  “Sorry, son. We don’t have time right now.”

  Ann was tidying the kitchen, shutting cupboard doors a bit harder than necessary.

  “Dad, remember last tim
e you went to a prison, I think it was San Quentin, you went to their store where they sell stuff and got me the wooden stage coach a bad guy made?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you see if they have anything like that at Folsom?”

  “Zach, no!” Ann interjected. “That was a long time ago. Before ‘you-know-what’ happened. Dad won’t have time for gifts. Go brush your teeth.”

  When they were alone Reed said, “Ann, Brader is sending me. It’s not like I have a choice.”

  “You could always quit. Write your books.”

  “Ann.”

  “Tom, please don’t get him anything from Folsom. Or whoever you’re going to see in Las Vegas. Nothing. Not after everything he’s been through.”

  “Sure, I understand.”

  The cutlery jingled when she shut the dishwasher door. She stared into his eyes. “Tom. I’m sorry. It just worries me whenever you throw yourself into stories like this.”

  “I know. But it’s my job, Ann. It’s what I do.”

  “Will you be back in time for my banquet?”

  “Banquet?”

  She tapped the laminated calendar affixed to the refrigerator with flowered magnets. He saw the notation in her handwriting for the annual Bay Area women’s business event. It was in a few days.

  “I should be back in time.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Ann.”

  “Are you packed?”

  It could have been worse with Ann, Reed figured as the Chrysler glided across the Bay Bridge and beyond the Bay Area, eating up the asphalt of Interstate 80 to the capital, Pink Floyd pumping from the sound system.

  It helped that he had eventually obtained a very detailed list of materials the contractors had used in renovating their house. That had pleased Ann, ending his banishment to the sofa bed in his office. But the doctors still couldn’t unravel the mystery of Zach’s illness. They needed more time for more tests.