ALPHABET MURDERS - ANGIE BARTONI CASE FILES #1 (Detective Angie Bartoni Case Files)

by Marshall Huffman

  It was all I could do to keep from laughing as I stood behind him and heard him order. It was exactly as I had thought, right down to the soda. You could always count on Marcus to be consistent, come hell or high water.

  He gulped down his sandwich like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and was finished before I was half done.

  “Would you like the other half of mine?” I offered. I was pretty sure he would take me up on it.

  “You’re not going to eat it?”

  “Gotta’ watch my weight. I’m fighting gravity you know.”

  “Ain’t we all? Sure, If it will help keep you slim and trim, I’ll take that half,” he said and took the top off the sandwich.

  “What? No mustard?”

  “I put a little on it,” I protested.

  “Good God woman. You simply are not doing justice to this magnificent sandwich,” he said and put an obscene amount of mustard on top of the corned beef.

  He still managed to finish before I did. Sharks had nothing on this eating machine.

  ***

  “Good afternoon, is there someone we can talk to about your products?” I asked the totally inappropriately dressed young lady sitting at the receptionist desk.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Yes we do,” I replied and showed her my badge.

  “Detectives Bartoni and Lane, and we need to see someone who has a great deal of knowledge about your product line. Could you arrange that for us?”

  “Uh, well sure. The VP of operations is here today. Would he do?”

  “I should think that would be just fine. Would you mind getting him for us?” I said, putting my badge back in my pocket.

  The receptionist was in her late forty’s or so. Nicely dressed and had obviously spent a lot of money on her nails. She picked up the phone and dialed a number. I looked around the office. It wasn’t very big but it was decorated nicely. Marble floors, pale colored walls with several modernistic paintings all went together nicely. The decor in the reception area had been carefully picked out and didn’t look like it had been just thrown together like so many places we see.

  Thirty seconds later a tall, gray haired man in a white shirt and striped silk tie came out to greet us. He walked with a slight limp and I noticed one foot was slightly shorter than the other. The thick sole on his left foot gave it away.

  “Hello, I’m Dan Harris, vice president of operations. I understand you have some questions about our line?”

  “Nice to meet you Mr. Harris. This is Detective Marcus Lane and I’m Detective Angelina Bartoni. Do you mind if we talk some place more private?” I asked.

  “Of course. Certainly. Would you like something to drink? Coke, Coffee?”

  “Diet Coke if you have it.”

  “Sure, Terri can get that for you. Detective Lane?”

  “Sure. Diet is fine with me."

  “Terri, make it two Diet Cokes and bring them to the conference room. I’ll have coffee,” he said and led us down the hall to a room larger than I had expected.

  It was very plush with a gleaming granite conference table dominating the center of the room. My surprise must have shown.

  “Yes, it’s a bit over the top for my taste too. Our founder’s taste is somewhat ostentatious,” Harris said offering us a seat.

  It certainly wasn’t anything like my work space back at the station.

  “Now, how can I help you?” he asked.

  I was just about to speak when Miss Skirt Too Short came in and placed a coaster in front of me and sat the Diet Coke down. I waited until she left before I started in.

  “We need to know about ball bearings. More specifically, loose ones. I guess what I’m asking is…”

  “She is trying to say, are these your ball bearings?” Marcus said and rolled one across the table to Harris.

  He grabbed it and rolled it around in his fingers, looking it over carefully. He pulled out a jeweler's loupe and looked closely at the bearing.

  “Hard to say, but I don’t think so. I can have our people run a few tests and determine if it is one of ours but just by looking at it, I very much doubt it.”

  “But you do have some that size?”

  “Sure, we make every size conceivable. Whatever the customer specs, we make. We really don’t care what size they need, we can make it.”

  “Do you sell them loose like this?”

  “Not generally. We do sell them to places that repair or replace bearings on machinery from time to time. We sell the bearings and races individually if the customer wants,” he explained.

  “To whom do you sell them?” I asked.

  “Oh my. Probably fifteen hundred or so private companies and of course the Government. I think we have something like over a hundred different contracts with them right now,” Harris said.

  “This fifteen-hundred companies. Do they buy them already assembled?” I asked.

  “Some do and some don’t. Like I said. We sell whatever the customer wants. We sell probably thirty or forty different sizes to a local auto parts distribution company and then they send them to their stores. That’s not part of the fifteen hundred I’m talking about. The distributor is one customer, not the individual stores,” he explained.

  “Can someone take an assembled bearing apart?” I asked.

  He looked at me like I was putting him on at first and then said, “Of course. It isn’t very difficult. A hammer and a piece of pipe or block of wood would easily separate the inner race from the outer race and the bearings would fall out.”

  “I see,” I said.

  I didn’t really. I wasn’t sure what a race was but I went along with his explanation.

  “Look, if you have a few minutes I can show you how it all works,” Harris said

  “Sure,” Marcus chimed in immediately.

  He could spend days walking around drooling over tools in a hardware store. What is it with men and hardware? Now shoes and handbags I understand, but ugly old tools? Men are definitely strange creatures. He was practically panting by the time we had put on our hard hats, which, by the way, are not flattering in any manner.

  We had to put on safety glasses, white coveralls and rubber boots. I couldn’t believe I was actually going to be seen in such a horrid outfit. Harris handed us what looked like oversized stereo headphones and turned a dial on the side of them.

  “Can you hear me?” he said through a little microphone coming out the side of his headset.

  I shook my head yes and so did Marcus. He led us over to a strange looking contraption.

  “This is where we make some of our smaller ball bearings but you will get the idea from watching this. That,” he said pointing to a gray colored machine, “Is a ball machine. This is how we make cold formed ball bearings. We actually do hot forming in another part of the building. The wire is shoved into the heading machine surface. It slams shut and forms a rough ball. Then it is sent down to that area where the ‘flash’ or excess material is removed. From there it goes to that round area where hardened plates called ‘rill plates’ are located.”

  “All that to make a ball?” I said, trying to shout above the noise.

  He shook his head.

  “If that’s all there was to it, anyone could do it. No, it’s the next steps that really make the difference. If you look carefully you can see that one rill plate is stationary and the other one spins. The plates have grooves machined into them that guide the balls around in a circular path. You can see that one of the plates has the center section cut out. This is where the balls enter and exit the grooves. When the machine is running, the grooves are completely filled with balls. Once a ball has traveled through a groove, it falls into the open section in the plate and tumbles around for a little while before entering a different groove.

  By making sure the balls travel through many different grooves, all the balls will come out of the machine the same size. It makes a lot of racket but it works,” he said.

  “After this stage, we hea
t treat them and then send them to an extruding machine to make sure every ball is exactly the same size.”

  “How close in size do they have to be?” Marcus shouted.

  “To be accepted by our quality control department the diameter must be within thirty thousands of an inch of the customer’s specs,” Harris replied.

  “Thirty thousand?” I said.

  Harris shook his head yes. He took us further into the plant and we finally saw how the ball bearings were pressed into the two races and checked and inspected. It was far more complicated than I had expected.

  Harris grabbed one of the finished bearings off the assembly line and we followed him over to a small work bench. I watched as he placed the bearing in a vice and placed a steel pipe against the inner race and hit it with a heavy hammer. It took three hits before the race went skittering across the bench and the ball bearings went bouncing across the top.

  “Not easy, but not all that hard. You could do the same thing with a bearing press,” he said pointing to a strange machine in the corner.

  I picked up one of the bearings off the bench; it didn’t have a mark on it. Finding out where the ball bearing came from wasn’t going to be as easy as I had hoped.

  We thanked Mr. Harris and got back in the car. Somehow the day didn’t seem as warm and cheerful as earlier. It had been educational but we were no closer than before.

  “You want to check out the other place?” Marcus asked.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Cause it’s a waste of time?” he said.

  “Oh, shut up and drive,” I snapped.

  It wasn’t a very nice thing to say but right now I was just angry. Angry that we hadn’t made any progress. Angry at people that did these kind of sick things and angry at myself for being angry.

  Marcus was right of course. It was a total waste of time. Mr. Dittmer, the head of Precision Specialty Bearings Incorporated was a little like Marcus, blunt and to the point. He took one look at the bearing and handed it back like it was diseased.

  “Definitely not one of ours,” he said, rubbing his fingers together like we had soiled them somehow.

  “And you know this how?” I asked.

  “Why, it’s just a common ball bearing. We don’t do that sort of thing here,” he said like that explained everything.

  Well excccuuse me, I thought.

  “Mr. Dittmer, it’s been a long day and I’m tired. I would really, really like it if you would just tell me how you know that it isn’t one of your ball bearings. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Alright. We do not make steel or stainless steel ball bearings. We are a specialty company that makes only precision bearings. Specifically, we make ceramic ball bearings, carbon fiber bearings and other exotic material bearings. That’s why we have the word specialty in our company name. You wouldn’t want to send the space shuttle up with steel bearings would you?”

  “I have no clue but I gather that would not be the best thing to do,” I said rubbing the bridge of my nose.

  “I should think not,” he informed us.

  ***

  I had kept my eyes closed while Marcus cursed at the traffic all the way back to the station. I didn’t even bother to go up to my desk when we got back. Instead, I went home, filled the tub with water as hot as I could stand, poured myself a glass of merlot, sank down and let everything melt away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I got up at 6:30 a.m. and stumbled into the bathroom slipping on the towel I had left on the floor from the night before. Looking in the mirror was a cruel reminder that I wasn’t as young as I used to be. Ugh.

  I pulled a brush through my somewhat brown hair. I say somewhat because I could see where streaks of grey were trying to take hold. I ran cold water over a washcloth and placed it under the circles that were starting to become a permanent feature of my face.

  I said I was no dog but age is starting to catch up with me and I didn’t like it much. It was taking longer to make myself look presentable.

  It was 7:20 a.m. by the time I grabbed my vest, gun, and other paraphernalia that are part of a cop’s life.

  I hit the station just as they were starting the morning roll call.

  “Ah, glad you could join us Detective Bartoni, the sergeant said without looking up as I slid in the room. Radar O’Rielly had nothing on him.

  “Boys and girls, as you are aware if you read the paper this morning or heard the news, the media, bless their hearts, having decided to call these the Alphabet Murders, is making a stink again. Very catchy I suppose. A task force is now being formed to take the lead on these cases,” he said, looking over the top of his reading glasses.

  A collective moan went through the group. This was especially bad news for me since I do not play well with others. I prefer to do my own thing in my own way without wasting a lot of time in meetings and just standing around. Now it was all going to move at an even slower pace.

  Most real detectives that are worth a crap would rather work alone or with a partner. Trying to get anything done by committee ended up in a pissing contest half the time.

  “Detective Aaron is the point man on this. Bartoni, Gates, Marcus, Kellerman, and Dixon are in the field. Jameson will be here to clear and coordinate information and keep Detective Aaron apprised of developments as they happen. The Captain wants updates twice a day. Everyone else, report anything you find to Jameson. Alright, hit the streets and watch your butts out there. The task force will meet in five minutes in the conference room,” the sergeant said by way of dismissal.

  Everyone started out of the room, talking about where they should go for lunch. It was just 8:00 a.m. and they were worried about their next meal.

  I walked over to the pop machine and pushed the Diet Coke button. It whirred and groaned before finally dropping a can of the Diet Coke that kept me going. I loved the smell of fresh brewed coffee but drinking it was another matter altogether. I always ended up with a severe case of heartburn. I decided it was better to just stick with the Diet Cokes.

  ***

  Captain McGregor looked tired. It was obvious to everyone in the room that he hadn’t gotten much sleep. He rubbed his face before looking at us.

  “I have talked to everyone from Senator Hall on down. You are the only ones lower on the food chain so I’m going to make sure we all are on the same page on this one. I intend to say this once. I will not tolerate any bickering. I mean it. I hear about any of that crap and you will be directing traffic at a shopping mall. This case is too big for egos. So you all know, I am selecting Detective Bartoni as second in command. I am the one who picked her with input from Detective Aaron. You can’t handle that, let me know right now and I will pick a replacement for you,” he said, looking intently at each of the detectives in turn. No one said a thing as he waited.

  “Good. Now, Jameson it is imperative that you not only pass along information to each of the members but that you have a report on my desk at noon and 4:30 p.m. sharp. We will have a press conference every evening at 5:00 p.m. so the media can make the 6 o’clock news and not accuse us of stonewalling them. I don’t know if we will have anything new to tell them each evening but at least they can’t gripe about not being in the loop. Dr. Sorenson will be back from vacation tomorrow and he knows that anything you find is to be given top priority and he is to be the one who does the autopsy. I have already made it clear that Peterson is out on this case.”

  “What about lab work?” Gates asked.

  “Top of the pile. Whatever they get that is connected to this case gets shoved to the priority tray,” McGregor replied.

  “Captain?”

  “Yes Detective Bartoni?”

  “Erin Curtis. Have the parents returned from Hawaii yet?” I asked.

  “They are being escorted back by the US Marshall’s office. Damn. Leaving a ten year old alone for a week so they can have a second honeymoon. I can tell you where they are going to spend the rest of their honeymoon if I have anything to say about it,”
the Captain said through clenched teeth.

  Who the hell would leave a ten year old girl alone for a week? What the hell kind of parents are those anyway? Christ, they could have left her with a relative. Anything would have been better than leaving her alone to fend for herself.

  Apparently this isn’t the first time according to neighbors who tried to keep an eye on her. Now she was dead. I hope they got a good tan; it is going to be their last one for a while.

  ***

  Marsha Curtis was escorted to one interview room and her husband, Allen, was seated in another. She was a good forty pounds overweight and had on enough make up to sink a battle ship. She had a haughty look that I knew was going to give us trouble. We let them sit and stew for almost an hour before deciding to talk to them. Marcus and I were going to interview the mother and Gates and Dixon the father. As soon as we walked in she cut loose.

  “Do you know how long I have been sitting here in this awful room?”

  “About fifty-three minutes,” Marcus replied and leaned against the wall.

  I took a seat across from her and just looked at her for several seconds.

  “What?” she said, running her hands through her hair.

  “I’m just trying to figure out what kind of parent leaves a ten year old girl at home while you and hubby head off to Hawaii.”

  “She is almost eleven.”

  “No, she never will be.”

  “Still…”

  “Do you know exactly what happened to Erin?” I asked.

  She shrugged, “They said she was murdered.”

  “Jesus lady, are you that much of a cold hearted bitch?” Marcus said, clinching his fist.

  “You can’t talk to me that way,” she shot back, thrusting her chin out.

  “Do you know what else happened to her before she was murdered?” I ask.

  “Not really. I mean, she is dead. That’s pretty much it isn’t it?”

  “Do you know what child endangerment means?” Marcus said.

  “Child endangerment? What the hell does that mean? We didn’t endanger her. She was murdered by someone else. I don’t want to talk to you anymore without an attorney present,” she said.