Touched By Blood

by Craig Buckhout

  “We’ll undoubtedly have more questions for you about this. Make sure you return our calls.”

  On the way out, Al said low, “We better get a search warrant for the surveillance tapes. The kid out front says that they reuse them after about a week.”

  “Okay, but first I want to check Malone, Forney, and Fontaine for priors.”

  No, first a couple of chili cheese dogs. I know a place right down the road.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nolan St. Claire sat hunchbacked in the dark, elbows squeezed tight to his ribs, hands balled-up between his thighs, and his feet bare flat on the floor, when room service tapped out its arrival. Half a second later, the phone rang a wake-up.

  In a phlegmy voice he said, “Just leave it by the door,” cleared his throat, and repeated it because he didn’t think he’d made himself heard the first time.

  He next leaned over and picked-up the phone, only to slam it right back down on its cradle. He should have known better, sleep was not to be had. This had been the worst thirty hours of his life.

  He remained where he was for a few moments longer, just to give himself a chance to gather his thoughts. His plan was simple; get the hell out of Dodge. First, he’d drive south for about half an hour before making a call with Molly’s cell phone, maybe to one of the airlines. He’d then leave her phone someplace a kid was likely to find it and maybe, hopefully, this kid would make some additional calls. Then he’d do an about face and drive north as far as the gas in his tank would take him before using his credit card to make yet another traceable record. He figured that ought to be good for a shitload full of reasonable doubt, if reasonable doubt was needed.

  After that, he’d just lay-up at his place in Vancouver while his face healed. Everything he needed to conduct business was there. People would assume he was just taking a working vacation. It was a little unusual, but he didn’t think they’d give it a second thought. He’d never kept a predictable schedule.

  He took-in a deep breath and let it out soundly. There was a lot to do in just a short time, but doing something, doing anything would feel good. He was taking control of things again, finally.

  St. Claire crossed the room, peeped the door, retrieved his meal, and poured a cup of much needed strong, black coffee which he carried into the bathroom. He then stripped off his underwear, showered, and dressed. Next, he closely examined his pillow and saw what could be blood spots, so removed the pillowcase, packed it with his clothes, and swapped the pillow itself for one in the closet. He then returned to the bathroom where he used the make-up he’d taken from Molly’s belongings to camouflage the scratches on his face while he half-heartedly ate some of his sandwich. After that, he emptied all the wastebaskets into one plastic liner and threw-in the cosmetics along with a washcloth he’d used to clean his wounds. Finally, after one last look around, he went out the door and took the stairs towards the garage where his rented car was parked.

  Negotiating the stairs was cause for concern. There was the potential that he’d encounter someone who might see him, and more importantly, see his injured face. But as he neared the garage, without hearing so much as a sound above or below him, his confidence of success grew. He told himself all he needed to do was make it to his car. The car was his means of escape. The car meant safety.

  When the heavy metal door into the garage slammed shut behind him, it echoed loud and made him jerk. A quick look around the area showed nobody in sight. He was safe. His car was only a short distance away.

  He smiled to himself as he set his garment bag down and used the button on the key fob to pop the trunk. The tension in his neck and shoulders was almost gone now. He felt good, energized even. But as he threw his luggage into the back, along with the garbage bag from the room, he heard a noise behind him. It was someone humming softly and the sound of a broom. A worker he thought, cleaning up before the place got busy.

  His first instinct was to turn around and look, but if he did, it would mean showing his face. He couldn’t afford to do that. That could seriously compromise him, so he kept his back to the sound, slammed the trunk lid and started toward the driver’s door.

  He wanted to run the last few steps, jump behind the wheel, and burn rubber out of there. With great effort, though, he fought the impulse, instead casually walking, trying not to draw any attention. The humming had stopped at this point, but the slip of a shoe, the brush of clothing told him the person was still close-by. In two more seconds it wouldn’t matter because he’d be inside the car and safe. Two more seconds and he’d be on his way.

  St. Claire opened the door and had stepped his right foot in when he felt something, an arm, encircle his face and jerk him back hard. His stomach flip-flopped. His sphincter tightened. At almost the same instant there was a punch to his back, down low, above the belt on the right side. Pain was just starting to register in his brain when there was another blow, this one to the top of his shoulder on the right side of his neck. Then nothing.

  CHAPTER NINE

  He left the knife right where it was, buried to the handle in the neck of Nolan St. Claire. He didn’t take the time to check him or, for that matter, to even look at him; he knew the job was done. The broom he’d used as a prop was leaning against the back of the car parked next to St. Claire’s. He tossed it beside the body. He then stripped off the rubber gloves that were over other rubber gloves, dropped them, and calmly walked to his car, a silver Honda Accord.

  Exiting Hotel Lexington’s parking garage, he turned left, drove two blocks, turned right, and after another two blocks made a left and a right, before stopping next to the Southern Pacific tracks.

  He was safe there. It wasn’t even six in the morning. The only people who lived in the area were the homeless, and they would be in their bedrolls until the sun came up.

  He stepped from the Honda and shrugged out of the blue coveralls, sticky red from the life that had spilled itself upon him. Next came the shoes, which like the coveralls, were two sizes too large and purchased for ten dollars cash from the clearance basket. Finally, he rolled them together with the rubber gloves and stashed them in a rusty, three wheeled grocery basket full of other raggedly odds and ends, lying on its side in the weeds.

  That’s it, he told himself. Now, just get out of here and dump the car.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The downtown was just starting to yawn and scratch and stretch as Sergeant Richard Emerson began his slow roll into the office. As he turned onto Basset Street, pigeons lifted off from the roof of Burk’s Tire Warehouse and circled in twos and threes before landing in the field on the far side of the tracks. Driving on, he heard a diesel engine somewhere nearby rev in short starts and stops, followed by the crash of dumpsters being emptied out. Up ahead, he could see a dog, its black and white fur so matted that it looked like it had dreadlocks, trotting along a chain link fence festooned with scraps of paper and dried weeds. It abruptly stopped, spun, put its nose to the ground, sniffed, and then peed on the spot before moving on. It crossed the street toward a parked, silver Honda Accord, only to tuck-tail and scurry away when he realized someone was inside it.

  When Emerson saw the Honda pull away, he almost passed it up. His guys were tired and deserved the break. If he made the stop, one or more of them would come back in-service just to make sure he didn’t get in any trouble. So instead, he compromised. He decided to make the stop without telling the dispatcher. If it was a problem, he’d say something and they’d come running.

  He pulled in behind the Honda just after it took off and honked his horn a couple of times to get it to stop. The brake lights came on and went off again as the driver killed the engine. Emerson got out of his car, squared himself away, and walked to the driver’s window.

  “Did I do something wrong, officer?”

  “Just wondering what you’re doing here. It’s kind of an unusual hour to see a car parked in this particular location. We’ve had some break-ins.” The last part wasn’t really true. He just didn’t wa
nt to get into an argument with the guy over being detained.

  “Oh, well I kind of had to, you know, take a leak. I just couldn’t hold it anymore. I didn’t see any place open. You know how it is. Sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  “No big deal,” Emerson said smiling. “You have a driver’s license and registration?”

  “Sure. I guess I just drank too much coffee. It was either that or fall asleep driving.”

  The man smiled, reached up with his left hand to the visor, and pulled out a piece of paper.

  “This should be the registration,” he said.

  Just as Emerson accepted the piece of paper and his eyes focused on it, the man’s right hand came up from next to his right thigh and pointed a .22 automatic.

  Emerson saw the gun, and the threat registered. There was even enough time for his stomach to twitch before the bullet entered his skull in an upward angle, from just below his right eye socket. His knees gave and he dropped straight down, landing on his butt and then onto his back. But he wasn’t aware of the last part of it. Emerson wasn’t aware of anything.

  The man stepped from the Honda, keeping his back to the police car in case there was a camera mounted on the dash, pulled the portable radio from Emerson’s belt and tossed it onto the Accord’s passenger seat. He then picked up the piece of paper he’d handed the Sergeant, returned to the car and drove off, passing over one of Emerson’s legs as he did.

  After a short drive and a couple of turns, he hopped on Highway 87 South. As he did so, he clamped the radio between his legs. It was pretty easy to figure out which one was the on and off switch and which one changed the channels. After switching to and from several channels, there was nothing he heard to suggest any gunshots had been reported. Nobody was thought to be missing or unaccounted for. No suspicious vehicles had been seen. Nobody was looking for him. So far his car was still safe to drive.

  At Almaden Expressway he exited the highway and continued south to a shopping center at the intersection with Blossom Hill Road where he parked. After wiping away his fingerprints, he left the Honda there but took the pistol, radio, and registration with him, concealed in a paper bag. It crossed his mind to hold onto the radio because it might be useful in the future, but he dismissed that thought because it was a direct link to both murders. He walked to his car two blocks away, wiped down the radio, too, and dumped it in a nearby dumpster. He hung-on to the pistol, empty bag, and registration. He then drove to Gus’ on Lincoln Avenue to have breakfast. Just outside the restaurant was a city trash can where he tore-up and disposed of the registration and the paper bag. That should do it he figured. That should do nicely.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Nick had just started up the outside staircase when he heard the first siren wail. This was followed by the sound of a Crown Vic bottoming out as it transitioned from the parking lot into the street at too fast a speed. It’s siren cranked-up as well, as did others, all over the police complex, a chorus of sadness and fear and anger.

  When he reached the first landing he turned to look, swallowed a mouthful of his morning Starbucks, and watched two more blue and whites transition from the parking lot to the street with lights and siren. He was wondering what the hell was going on when the big glass door on the third floor landing crashed open, followed by a stampede of footsteps that shook the platform on which he stood.

  He backed-up against the wall so he wouldn’t get trampled and felt the first few drops of adrenalin overpower the caffeine.

  The big man never ran, so when Nick saw Al’s white socks and black shoes quick-stepping their way down the stairs, he knew the stink was in the air.

  “Somebody shot Emerson,” Al said, coming to a brief halt and causing two other detectives to bump into him.

  Nick cut in front of him and started back down, pitching his coffee over the side. “Is he alive?”

  “The beat cop cancelled paramedics.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  Al didn’t bother with the siren, there were enough of them already, one more wouldn’t make a difference, and busted the light at First Street along with two other unmarked cars.

  “Where is it?” Nick asked.

  “Basset by the tracks.”

  There were so many police vehicles at the scene that Nick and Al had to park a block away and walk in.

  As they approached, Nick saw Fran and a female uniformed officer standing near the front of an idling patrol car with its driver’s door open. They were in a face-off with a patrol sergeant named Malcolm who was crying and trying to get past them. The women kept stepping in his way and at one point Fran even stiff armed him. Nick left Al at that point and walked over to the sergeant. As he neared, he saw Emerson lying on his back, shirt opened to his belt, and blood all over his face. He put his arm around Malcolm’s shoulders and said, “They’ll need you on the perimeter. There’s nothing you can do here but screw things up.”

  Malcolm pushed Nick away and walked off, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve, swearing, and vowing vengeance.

  Nick looked one more time at Emerson before turning his attention to Fran who said, “Thanks,” as she pulled a roll of orange crime scene tape from her pocket. He watched her tie one end of it to a wood fence post and roll it out. Nick could feel the tension all around him; tight jaws, wet eyes, looks that were angrier than any words that could be said.

  His eyes shifted to Al who was talking into his cell phone. When they made eye contact, Al signaled him to come here.

  When he neared, Al held up his index finger as an indication for Nick to hold on, and said into his phone, “Okay, one of us will be there in a few minutes.”

  Dropping the phone into his coat pocket, Al said, “We got another one at the Lexington, in the parking garage.”

  “Another cop?”

  “No, but another homicide.”

  “Got to be connected,” Nick said.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. How do you want to handle it?”

  “You go there. I’ll stay here. Call me when you have details.”

  Al nodded. “I’ll take the car.”

  Nick started back over to Fran. By this point, she had the immediate area around Emerson’s body partitioned off. The uniformed officer, who had been with her earlier, was widening the crime scene even more by roping off an entire section of the street, thirty yards in both directions.

  Emerson lay with his upper torso on the asphalt and his lower body on the dirt shoulder of the road. His legs were twisted at an odd angle and his dark blue pants showed dirt. Fifteen or twenty feet away from him, parallel to the edge of the street, was a marked patrol car idling with its driver’s door open and a single, solid red light showing on its roof’s light-bar. “Supervisor” was stenciled on its front fender. By its position and appearance, Nick assumed it was Emerson’s vehicle, and he had made a car stop just prior to his death.

  Thirty feet from the back end of Emerson’s car, in the middle of the street, was another marked patrol car. This one, too, was idling. Nick assumed this car belonged to the first officer on the scene.

  “So far we have tire tracks belonging to the shooter’s vehicle and maybe even a shoeprint,” Fran said.

  “The tire tracks weren’t there before Emerson was shot?”

  She looked away and spoke to the tracks. “No. The asshole drove over his legs.”

  Nick had never heard Fran swear before. She was always precise, serious, and by-the-book.

  “You’re going to need help,” Nick said.

  “It’s coming. I came out ahead of everyone else to make sure the scene was protected. The others are coming with the van. While I’m waiting, I’ll see if I can find anything else.”

  “Was it called in?” Nick asked.

  “No. A rookie found him. She notified dispatch, checked to see if he was still alive, and then cancelled fire and paramedics. She kept everyone away, too. She was the one who was helping me keep Malcolm from walking all over my evidence. He knows better than that
.”

  “Ah, you gotta cut him some slack, Fran. They were pretty good friends.”

  “Yeah, but still …,” Fran said turning her hands palms-up.

  “Who’s running the show for patrol and where’s the rookie now?”

  “Captain Daley. He’s over there,” Fran said pointing. “And the rookie is sitting in the car over there, getting started on her report.” She indicated a different direction. “You should also know Emerson’s portable radio is missing. I let dispatch know.”

  Nick called dispatch and told them to get him a list of any stolen vehicles reported in the twenty-four hours proceeding Emerson’s murder and of any that were reported in the next forty-eight hours.

  He then started towards Daley who was standing outside the perimeter and giving direction to a lieutenant. On his way, he passed by an officer who was saying to another, “They should at least cover him up.”

  Daley saw Nick coming and said, “We’ve got nothing. That’s what you want to know, right? Whatever Emerson was doing, he was doing it off the air. I got people writing down all the plates in the area, going through all the garbage cans, knocking on all the doors, checking all the homeless encampments, and even talking to people in the free food lines, and nobody’s got shit. And now I got another homicide at the Lexington.”

  Daley spoke into his shoulder mic and advised the dispatcher that he wanted all the midnight officers who were still in-service to stay that way until he released them to go home.

  Nick’s cell phone rang. It was Al. “Better get a grip on your jockstrap, pal. I think the victim here is the one who killed Molly Banks. His face is all scratched to hell, and he tried to cover it up with something.”

  “You gotta be kidding me. You have a name on him yet?”

  “Nolan St. Claire. One of the hotel staff ID’ed him. Says when he checked in a couple of days ago, he didn’t have the marks on his face. He’s some rich guy from the Midwest here for a convention.”