Opening off the room was a small bathroom, containing only a commode and a sink. The tub had been removed, and boxes of supplies were stacked underneath the shower nozzle. Rachel stepped inside and turned the faucet on in the sink. Once she had washed her hands and splashed cold water on her face, she looked for a towel. Not finding one on the towel racks, she opened the cabinet underneath the sink.
Inside were cardboard shoe boxes stuffed to the brim with cash. Rachel had never seen so much money before in her life. Squatting down on the floor, she grabbed a handful of bills and crushed them to her chest. She could solve all her problems. She could pay off Joe’s medical bills, then set the rest of the money aside for Tracy’s and Joe’s college tuition.
How much was here?
Rachel quickly counted the boxes and came up with nine. Most of the bills were tens and twenties, and some of them were bundled and secured with rubber bands. Flipping through one of the bundles, she decided each bundle had to contain at least five thousand dollars. The total must come somewhere close to fifty thousand. With fifty thousand dollars, she could own the world, establish a new life. If she acted fast, no one would ever know. All she had to do was carry the cardboard boxes out to her car and lock them in the trunk. Before the watch ended, she could stop where her Pathfinder was parked on the street and transfer the money.
Rachel stared at the bundles of cash. The man had almost killed her. Her fellow officers didn’t care what happened to her. It wasn’t as if she were stealing from an individual. The money would be confiscated and end up in the city’s coffers.
Sirens rang out in the distance. Now they were coming! Now! Now!
She didn’t need them now. She didn’t want them now. She had money…green money, beautiful money. She brought the bills to her face and inhaled the ink. It smelled like salvation, freedom. Finding it had to be an omen, a gift from God, payback for all the misery she had endured.
If she took the money, she would never have to risk her life again, never face a madman again.
The sirens were getting closer. Rachel couldn’t risk taking the shoe boxes out to the car now. She would have to bury them somewhere, maybe in the backyard. Her pulse was pounding. Her palms were sweaty.
She didn’t have time to bury them.
The sirens were getting closer, only a few blocks away now. Rachel decided she would have to hide the money, then come back later and retrieve it. She stacked several of the boxes in her arms, then bent down to get more. Catching a glimpse of her image in the mirror, she saw her eyes flashing with greed, her face ugly and contorted. The boxes fell from her arms, the bundles of cash spilling out onto the bathroom floor.
c h a p t e r
SEVENTEEN
The front yard of the residence on Maple Avenue was roped off with yellow evidence tape. Jimmy Townsend and Carol Hitchcock were stationed outside the house for crowd control. Once the ambulance had picked up the injured man, police officers and criminologists from the county crime lab began streaming in and out the front door of the residence. Members of the media had been allowed to set up their equipment on the front lawn, even though they were not allowed access to the residence.
A reporter from the local television station stood with a microphone in her hands, staring into the lens of a minicam. Mary Standish was a thirty-year-old blonde with classic features and a trim physique. She wore an expensive jacket with a gold pin on the lapel, jeans and tennis shoes. When the cameraman gave her a cue, she began speaking into the microphone. “We’re here on Maple Avenue, where the partially decapitated body of a young woman was discovered approximately an hour ago.”
“You’ve got a hair sticking up on the left side of your head,” the cameraman told her.
Seeing a long-haired man in a leather motorcycle jacket lifting the yellow tape and approaching the front of the house, Mary Standish stopped fiddling with her hair and rushed over, shoving the microphone in Tony Mancini’s face. She recognized the detective from the recent robberies. “Can you tell us what happened? Has the victim been identified yet? Someone mentioned a struggle. Is the killer still at large?”
“No comment,” Mancini said, walking over to Jimmy Townsend.
The detective was puffing on a slender black cigar, and his teeth were stained from tobacco. “Get these people out of here,” he said. “If they’re not here in an official capacity, they don’t pass beyond the tape. This is a crime scene, asshole.”
Townsend shrugged. He enjoyed seeing himself on TV and had hoped the reporter might ask him a few questions. Mancini glared at him, then disappeared inside the house.
Rachel was seated on a tattered, filthy sofa in the living room. She was silent and sullen, refusing to speak to anyone until the captain arrived.
Sergeant Miller met Mancini at the door, and led him to the bedroom where the woman’s body was located. Once he had examined the corpse, Mancini walked through the house, checking out the drug lab and giving instructions to the various crime scene technicians. “The chick’s been dead over eight hours,” he told Miller once he returned to the living room. “From the sores on her arms, I’d say our little sweethearts were serious speed freaks. If the guy hadn’t slit her throat, the woman would have died in a few months anyway. When you get to this level of toxicity, there’s not a whole hell of a lot they can do for you.”
“Do you think they were in this alone,” Miller asked, “or do you think they had partners?”
Puffing out a stream of cigar smoke, Mancini said, “We have no way to know, of course, but my guess is that they were in it alone, at least as far as the drug lab. They were probably heavy users, humping to raise enough cash to support their habits. Suddenly they got smart and decided to cook the shit themselves. So they ditch L.A. and rent themselves an unassuming house in Oak Grove. Quiet neighborhood. Mostly families. Because they’re a couple, they don’t raise suspicions. They keep a low profile, never deal product locally.” He glanced around him at all the debris and clutter. “You ask me, these people probably never left this house. There’s receipts where they had groceries delivered. We also found a stack of Federal Express envelopes in the other room. They probably shipped the speed back to L.A., and had a contact there who peddled it for them on the street.”
“What makes you think they moved here from Los Angeles?”
“The fellow Simmons stabbed studied chemistry at UCLA,” Mancini said. “Found a textbook with his name in it on a table in the lab.” He shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Don’t see no suitcases full of cash, though. Even if their distribution network was located in L.A., where’s the loot? People like this don’t use banks.”
Rachel’s mouth fell open. “Th-the money was in the bathroom,” she said. “In the cabinet under the sink.”
Miller jerked his head around. “We already searched under the sink. Nothing’s in there but a bunch of empty shoe boxes.”
Rachel ran down the hall to the bathroom, pushing several crime scene technicians out of her way. She stared at the bathroom floor. The boxes were scattered on the tiles, completely empty. She dropped down on her hands and knees and searched behind the commode, thinking at least a few of the bills might have become lodged there when she dropped the boxes on the floor. Had she been hallucinating?
Nick Miller was standing in the doorway. Mancini stepped up behind him. “What did you see in here?” the detective asked, his voice nasal and gruff.
“These boxes were full of money,” Rachel said, gazing at them on the floor. “I didn’t have time to count it, but I’m certain there was close to fifty thousand dollars.” She picked up an empty box, then dropped it. “Where did it go?”
With his broad shoulders. Miller nudged Mancini out of his way. “When did you find the money?”
“Right after my last radio transmission.”
“The guy you stabbed never regained consciousness?”
“No,” Rachel told him.
“No one else was inside the house with you?”
“No.”
“What did you do after you found the money?”
“I heard the sirens pull up in front of the house,” she said. “I wasn’t certain if it was the ambulance or one of the officers arriving. I wanted to direct the paramedics to the injured man, make certain they didn’t disturb the crime scene.”
Miller and Mancini exchanged tense looks. The detective removed the cigar from his mouth, letting a stack of ashes tumble onto his jacket. “Did you come back in here after the ambulance arrived?”
“No,” Rachel told him. “Sergeant Miller arrived right behind the ambulance, then Townsend and Hitchcock.
Ratso was here for a few minutes, but the sergeant ordered him to clear.”
“Who’s Ratso?” Mancini asked, shoving the cigar back in his mouth.
“Fred Ramone,” Miller told him. “I told him to clear because we needed him back on the street. I’m almost positive he didn’t go into the rear of the house. We spoke briefly in the living room, then Ratso left out the front door.”
“Was the back door unlocked?”
“There isn’t a back door,” Rachel told them. “There should be a side door near the garage. I never checked it. It’s on the opposite side of the house, if this house follows the same floor plan as all the other Windermere properties.”
They left the bathroom, passing into the kitchen. The side door leading out of the house opened onto an enclosed utility porch. Mancini pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. The door didn’t have a deadbolt. It locked with a small lever above the door handle. The only way the detective could be certain the door was unlocked was to try to open it from the outside. He walked out and closed the door, then opened it and stepped back inside the kitchen. “Well, we answered that question,” he said. “Your man could have left through the front. Miller, then circled around and reentered through the kitchen. While you were busy with the stiff in the front room, he snuck into the bathroom and bagged the loot.”
“That doesn’t sound like Ratso,” Rachel said. “He’s a smart man, but more book smart than streetwise. Whoever did this had to size up the situation immediately, figure out they were running a drug lab. If not, why would they assume there was money in the house?” She turned to Miller. “Did you tell Ratso about the lab?”
“I don’t remember.” Miller said. “This is your fault, Simmons,”
Rachel placed a hand over her chest. “Why is it my fault? I didn’t take the money.”
“If you hadn’t got a bug up your ass and refused to tell me what was going on here,” Miller yelled, “I would have secured the money the second I arrived, before someone had a chance to get their grubby hands on it.”
Mancini asked, “Did Townsend and Hitchcock have access to the bathroom?”
“No,” Miller said. “I had them remain outside for crowd control. As far as I know, neither of them came inside the house.”
“How many paramedics responded?” Mancini asked.
“Two,” Rachel said.
“Did one of them leave your presence for any length of time?”
Rachel rubbed her forehead. “One of them went outside to get something. I think they had trouble getting an IV in the man’s vein. I heard them say they needed a smaller needle.”
Several of the crime scene technicians had overheard part of the conversation and had stopped working to listen. Miller pulled Mancini outside onto the porch area. Rachel followed, closing the door leading into the kitchen. Miller said, “How do we know one of the crime techs didn’t swipe it?”
“Maybe you swiped it. Miller,” Mancini said, his beady eyes shining like marbles. “You were one of the first officers on the scene.”
“Maybe it was never there, asshole,” Miller shouted.
“Simmons has a problem. She has a tendency to tell stories.”
“The money was here,” Rachel insisted. “I didn’t make it up. Someone stole it.”
Miller flew into a rage. “Can’t you keep your damn mouth shut, woman?” he barked. “Are you trying to rip this department apart? This case is fucked anyway because of you.”
“Where’s the captain?” Rachel said. She had done nothing wrong. She refused to let Miller bully her. “Why isn’t he here by now? It’s been over an hour since I asked the dispatcher to call him.”
“Forget the captain,” Miller said.
Rachel was furious. He had overruled her request. “I’m going to call the captain myself,” she said. “I made a valid request. You had no right to cancel it.”
“Listen,” Miller said, his voice dropping to a more reasonable level, “you handled this situation like a damn rookie. Why would you crawl through a window, huh? You entered this man’s house illegally. When this case gets to court, the judge could exclude every piece of evidence we’ve collected and this maniac will go free.”
“That isn’t true,” Rachel said, her voice quavering. “I saw the woman in the chair through the window. I thought it was a medical emergency, that she’d overdosed on drugs or had a heart attack.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Miller said. “You couldn’t see her throat through the window. The woman’s chair was facing away from you. For all you knew, it was just a woman asleep in a chair in the privacy of her own home. We have no right to enter under those circumstances. You entered this house without the benefit of a search warrant. Didn’t you learn anything in the academy?”
“But the neighbors called in,” Rachel argued. “I was dispatched to this house.”
“They called in about loud music,” Miller told her. “They didn’t call in a medical emergency or a homicide. They didn’t even give you a specific house number.”
“What if the woman had been alive?” Rachel said. “She could have bled to death. I had to go inside to find out what was wrong with her.”
Mancini began plotting how they should proceed. None of the problems they had encountered were out of the ordinary. Drug money frequently vanished from crime scenes. When he’d worked for the LAPD, hundreds of thousands of dollars disappeared every year into the hands of corrupt cops, opportunist ambulance attendants, crime scene technicians, and other related law enforcement personnel. In many ways, stealing drug money was a guilt-free crime. Some cops viewed it along the lines of a bonus.
“Here’s how it goes down,” Mancini said, his eyes trained on Rachel. “You came here to investigate a report of loud music. When no one answered the door, you went to the side of the house and looked in through the window. You saw a woman sitting in a chair with her throat slashed, her clothing covered in blood. Thinking she was still alive, you entered to render emergency medical treatment.”
“That isn’t true,” she said, shaking her head. “Miller just told you I couldn’t see the woman’s face. All I could see was the back of her head.”
“Do you have learning disabilities?” Mancini yelled. “Do you want this murderer to go free? You heard what the sergeant just said. If they suppress all the evidence because of an illegal search, what are we going to use to convict this bastard? We’re talking the murder weapon, the drug lab. Without that bloody knife, we don’t have shit. The perp will claim someone else broke in here during the night and slit his lady’s throat.”
“He tried to kill me,” Rachel said, her eyes expanding. “He took my gun away from me. Didn’t you see the bullet holes in the walls and furniture? He was shooting everywhere, firing randomly. He’s a deranged psychotic. Anyone in their right mind would know he’s the man who killed that woman.”
Mancini smirked. “Ever heard of protecting your property? The man you stabbed paid the rent on this pad. You were the intruder, Simmons. How did he know you were a cop? He could say he thought you were the killer.”
“I’m wearing my uniform,” she said. “How could he not know I was a cop?”
Mancini played the devil’s advocate. “It was dark. He was spooked. All he saw was an intruder dressed in dark clothing. His girlfriend had just been brutally murdered. The guy th
ought his life was in jeopardy, so he fought you, disarmed you. The way I see it, you’ll be lucky if the guy doesn’t sue you for stabbing him.”
Rachel’s mind was spinning. How could something so obvious be turned into something so convoluted? “I announced myself as a police officer the second I entered the house. No,” she said, correcting herself, “I announced even before I entered the house.”
Mancini spat a piece of cigar scum out of his mouth. “Your word against his, babe.”
“What about the missing money?”
“What money?” Mancini said, a blank expression on his face. “I didn’t hear anything about missing money. What about you. Miller? Anyone mention money to you?”
“Not a word,” the sergeant said.
Rachel took a few steps backward. “We aren’t going to do anything? You can’t be serious. There was fifty thousand dollars in those boxes. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Mancini said, glowering at her. “Come on, Simmons, I want to hear how you think we should handle this situation. Should we haul in every cop that set foot inside this house? Should we search their cars, their lockers, their homes? You’ll be the first person in the hot seat. Shit, you had plenty of time to stash the loot before the others showed up. How about calling a press conference? Then we could tell the whole community what kind of crooked bastards police their streets, how they can no longer feel safe in their homes.” He dusted the ashes off his leather jacket. “It’s Christmas, okay? Someone just got an early visit from Santa.”
For a few moments, Rachel just stood there, too stunned to move. She felt a violent wave of nausea, as if she had been forced to eat contaminated food. She saw herself holding the bills in her hand, crushing them to her chest. She had to get away. She had almost caught their disease. If she stayed, they would extract every ounce of decency from her, drawing it out a drop at a time until there was nothing left.
“May I clear, sir?” Rachel asked Sergeant Miller.
The sergeant ignored her, stepping a few feet away and whispering something to Mancini.
Abuse of Power Page 19
