The Front Range Butcher

by R Weir

  I was feeling his pain but needed to press on. “And you never heard from them again?”

  “Not a peep. They were satisfied I’d leave it alone.”

  “Any names you can recall? Anything you can help me with?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because he is back, killing again. I plan on catching and putting him away for good.”

  “Good for you…” He paused, his voice breaking up. “I’m not…brave enough to go down that road. Not worth the danger…all the stress to my family.”

  “Even if I said they’d never know it came from you?”

  “I won’t go through that again.” He grabbed a handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose. “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded. “Here’s my card, if you change your mind.”

  He glanced at it, stuffing it in his pocket with the used handkerchief before starting to walk again.

  The kid on the skateboard came flying past, once more nearly crashing into me. I grabbed the cords of his headset, yanking them out of his ears.

  “Hey, what the fuck!” he yelled.

  “If you don’t watch where you’re going, I’m going to clothesline you next time,” I replied bluntly.

  He looked at me sideways, with a tough stare, but then realized he was out of his league.

  “Sorry man,” he said, before stuffing the earpieces back in and moving on.

  Feeling satisfied I’d gotten his attention, I started heading back to my bike. As I mounted the comfortable seat, I heard my phone ding. Pulling it out of my pocket, I saw a text from an unknown number. It read “Wager on SL as FRB”. Assuming it was from Waters, I looked around, but he was gone. After reading it a second time, I deleted it. I assumed he did the same thing.

  Chapter 7

  Back in Denver, near DU, on University Blvd, is a nice little joint called Mustard’s Last Stand. I’d been there several times, enjoying the food, though hating the loud traffic on one of the busier streets in the city. Many a college student lunched and dined there, with today being no exception since school was back in session. Thanks to Bill putting in a word for me, today I was meeting a Denver Police Captain who normally didn’t care for me.

  I had seen a Detective Jones listed among the names on the sheets provided by Jonas but had no idea it was the same Captain Blayne Jones who I’d had a few run-ins with. He had been assigned the case partway into the original investigation. I had called Jonas, and he remembered him barely, and had little contact with him. When he did, it was not positive, as he didn’t care to share information with a reporter. Jonas didn’t need him as he’d had other sources, so he had kept his distance. Bill arranged a meetup to see if Captain Jones would be more amenable now to talking about such an important case.

  It wasn’t easy, but I found a spot for my Harley, squeezing it into a small space not normally meant for parking. I walked up and saw him sitting outside, eating a brat, the wind blowing his thinning hair and tie around. He didn’t stand, but I knew he was shorter than me by a couple of inches, and older, today dressed in a midnight blue jacket and slacks. He had mustard, onions and relish on his bratwurst, doing his best not to get it on his clothes. I sat down, placing my helmet on the bench next to me, leaving my jacket on as the shade and the wind made it chilly. No warm embrace of happiness to see me on Blayne’s face. I didn’t say anything as I let him finish up his sandwich, a second one waiting patiently on the table. I wasn’t big into brats, but I loved their all beef hotdogs here which I planned on enjoying if I still had an appetite after talking with him.

  “Bill says you want to talk with me about The Front Range Butcher?” he said dismissively, straight and to the point.

  “Appreciate you taking the time to meet with me,” I replied.

  “I did it for Bill. I respect the hell out him for what he has been through. I could give a rat’s ass about you. But I’m here to listen, so don’t waste my time.” His dismissiveness went to another level.

  Being a smart ass, I probably should have wasted his time and asked why he had me arrested last year. But I resisted. I really needed the information that he had.

  “I understand you were one of the Lakewood detectives on the original case?” I asked.

  He nodded, grabbing the second bun.

  “I’d love to hear your expert thoughts on it,” I said, playing into his ego.

  “Guy was a sicko,” he said while chewing.

  “Something other than the obvious,” I said in an attempt at humor.

  He almost smiled but then turned serious again. “I wished we’d caught him. The case still haunts me, if you want the truth.”

  “You had a suspect. Simon Lions. Why couldn’t you get him?”

  “Slippery bastard. Never had enough to arrest him. He was a person of interest, which is a fancy way of saying we don’t have jack shit to hold him on. Covered his trail well, if it was him.”

  “You had doubts?”

  “There are always doubts on every case. His was no exception.”

  “How did The Butcher cover things? You would think with DNA testing, you had a chance finding something concrete.”

  He let out a big sigh after swallowing. I could sense that I was starting to annoy him with my questions, but I needed to know all the information.

  “Mann, you aren’t so smart sometimes. That was the early days of DNA testing, and it wasn’t highly used and expensive. Juries were hesitant to convict on that type of evidence anyway since it was so new, and people had a demanding time understanding and believing it.” He stopped to take another bite of his second brat. He seemed to be savoring every morsel. “Even so, the killer used bleach to sterilize everything, including the bags of carved up skin. Must have been using gloves, gowns and caps like a doctor would. For a sloppy way of killing someone—carving them up—he was extremely neat in cleaning up after himself.”

  “What led you to Simon?” I asked, ignoring his dig.

  “A phone tip, saying he was seen in the area, car idling a couple of days around where one of the women had disappeared. That was about eleven months into the killings. At that point, we had little to nothing to go on. It was thin, but we still brought him in.”

  “Did you interrogate him?”

  “No, not me personally. But I was there watching him behind the glass. He was smug and cocky. Lawyered up and was connected.”

  Other than the onions and relish, his sandwich looked tempting and the smell of food was making me hungry. I wondered if they gave out free samples to taste.

  “No chance to break him.”

  “No one was going to break him. He was so confident in himself. Would answer questions with a question in many cases. He seemed to revel in the drama of the moment.”

  “Did you surveil him?”

  “Tried. But his lawyers screamed harassment. He also had some local politicians put pressure on the Lakewood police to stop. I was a junior detective at the time, so I had little say in fighting any of it. Certainly, jaded me on the whole political drama of being a cop.”

  “How long after did the murders stop?” He had mustard on his chin, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Several months. I think there were a few more and then nothing. We kept waiting for another body, but it never happened. Kind of like Jack the Ripper. He just fell off the face of the Earth.”

  I was getting warm sitting there in my leather motorcycle jacket, the sun now hitting me. I pulled it off and sat it under my helmet. I was getting hungry too but wanted to finish this up first before I lost his interest.

  “Any thoughts on why they stopped?”

  “Nope. Maybe he shot his wad off enough and didn’t need it anymore. Could have been run over by a truck. All I know is that I was happy there were no more crime scenes to look at. I was having bad enough dreams that my wife had started sleeping in the second bedroom. Now that it was over my life became a little more normal.”

  “Did the investigation continue?”

 
“Sure, it did. But the more time that passed, the less important the case became. I finally left Lakewood, and moved onto Denver, glad I didn’t have to deal with it anymore.”

  “I’m sure you know the murders have started again.”

  “Yes. We’ve been briefed.” More annoyance on his part. It seemed it didn’t take much for me to anger him.

  “Any ideas why he is back?”

  “Rose from the dead. Reborn again. Maybe he is taking Viagra and can get it up again. I really could care less.”

  I gave him a look he didn’t care for.

  “I don’t need some smart-ass PI to give me grief. I put many months of my life in that case. It nearly caused me to get divorced, and only therapy got me through all I’d seen. I’m a successful police Captain, who can choose his own work to do. Hell yes, I want this guy caught and hung up by his balls. But I’m not going to be the one to track him down.”

  He took the last bite of his brat and washed it down with what looked like orange soda.

  “Jonas Diaz hired me to look into this case,” I said. “Are you going to have any issues with me poking around?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Past history.”

  He stared at me thoughtfully for a moment before answering. “Look, if you want to get into this psycho’s head, so be it. That is punishment enough. You’ll get no grief from me. Just make sure your medical insurance is paid up—you will need it.”

  He stood up and walked away without another word, dumping his trash in the container. I contemplated what my next move was. After several minutes, I knew the answer and went to order a quarter pound jumbo char dog with mustard and cheddar. I might go insane, but at least I’d be well nourished.

  Chapter 8

  When I arrived home, a familiar person was standing by the railing to my home office, listening to music on his headset. Though not taller than a building, he was built like one. A man tough, resourceful and good to have on your side in a fight. His long blonde hair was tied back, his skin tanned, muscles bulging at his cotton shirt and denim pants. Rocky dropped the earphones to his shoulder as I came towards him and he said “Jarvis.” We had been through a few battles together on two different cases and without his help I probably wouldn’t be standing here today. We weren’t friends, and I knew very little about him, but there was a respect between us. I hadn’t summoned him, so I wasn’t sure why he was here.

  Going down the stairs, I walked in, my kitchen inside the entryway and offered him a cold beer from my fridge, which he accepted.

  “Need to upgrade your tastes,” he said when seeing the label on the bottle.

  “What is better than Rocky Mountain Spring Water?” I replied.

  “Almost anything else. But I’ll suffer,” he said while twisting off the bottle cap and taking a drink. He grimaced, “I can taste the pure goodness and minerals flowing through my veins.”

  Although he was not known for his humor, I still had to laugh.

  “What brings you to my neck of the woods?” I asked carefully. I had no idea where he normally lived. He seemed to be part nomad.

  “Looking for someone,” he said. “I require your assistance in finding him.”

  “One of my specialties,” I replied.

  Pulling out his phone, Rocky showed me a picture, a face I didn’t recognize. He looked Hispanic, with dark slicked back hair, deep brown, lifeless eyes and a stubbly beard finished off the look. If I had to guess an age, I’d say late thirties or so.

  “I don’t know the face,” I said. “Do you have a name?”

  “Vicente Duarte.”

  “I may need that spelled out.” I requested as I grabbed a pen and pad to start jotting down notes.

  “I’ll send it to you along with the picture.” He replied. I placed the pen down and sat down offering him a seat.

  “Looks like a mugshot.”

  “I believe he has been arrested before.”

  “What do you want him for?” I asked, digging for more information.

  “Personal.”

  It was an interesting response.

  “Do you know what he does for a living?”

  “Many things. Most of them illegal. Sells guns, small arms up to the big semi-automatics. Drugs in all flavors. He also has connections to a mobile chop shop. Outsources on other things like strong arming and threatening people who owe money. Occasionally he will set up a hit if needed. Other odds and ends. Whatever will make him money to feed his habits.”

  “Which are?”

  “Women and fast cars. A different one for every day of the week.”

  “Sounds like a man of the year candidate. So, he runs his business here in Denver?”

  “From Loveland to Castle Rock.”

  “You haven’t been able to locate him?”

  He took another swig, taking a seat and resting his massive right arm on my kitchen table. He made my biceps look like twigs, and I wasn’t in bad shape.

  “I’ve been out of town working for some time now. First chance I’ve had to get back here to look. Figured with your police connections you could find him faster than I could. The cops won’t talk with me.”

  “They aren’t always welcoming me with open arms either. But I can ask. What do I do when I get a location?”

  “Send it to me and I’ll handle it from there.”

  “Does handle it mean, ‘eliminate’?” I asked suspiciously, knowing Rocky’s reputation.

  Rocky finished off his beer and tossed it into the recycle container. I was saving the planet one beer at a time.

  “We are going to have a conversation. He lives if he tells me what I need.”

  It was hard to be thrilled knowing that I would be leading him to someone who may not live through a conversation. Though Vicente didn’t sound like a saint. Still, I felt like I needed a little more information before leading a man to his possible demise.

  “Will you give me something other than ‘personal’ so I know what I’m getting into?”

  Rocky sighed. I knew I owed him and he could pull that ace out, but I didn’t think he’d do that.

  “Indulge me,” I added. “I don’t need much more.”

  He pointed to the scar under his eye.

  “He was responsible for your scar?”

  “Whether or not he is responsible, he has information on who was involved.”

  “Seems like a lot for a simple scar on someone as tough as you.”

  “Scars can be physical. But there are also emotional ones you don’t see. Like with what happened to your brother.” He made eye contact with me and finally I nodded.

  He seemed to be implying this went deeper and possibly involved family. His family in some way. Hell, I didn’t even know he had a family. It was not like we had sat down thumbing through each other’s picture albums.

  I nodded my understanding. “Good enough. I’m working another case now, but I’ll dig around and see what I can find. How can I get a hold of you?”

  He pulled out his phone and sent me Vicente’s picture and his full name. With it was his cell number.

  “Call anytime,” said Rocky. “But that number remains private.”

  “Understood. Any timetable?”

  “No. I’ve waited this long. Whatever you find, I’ll be ready. I’m a patient man.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, tossing it on the table. Opening it I found cash inside. A fair amount.

  “What is this for?”

  “Payment for your time.”

  “I figured I owed you. So, no charge.”

  “I insist. All the work we did…I was paid well for.”

  “This is a lot of money for giving you a location.” I started counting it. Lots of hundred-dollar bills.

  “Up front money, for there is more after this. Possibly a lot more. And I might need some backup.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “It could be. Those I encounter are generally not boy scouts. Vicente could be
the tip of the iceberg.”

  “I’ll make some calls. Give me a few days.”

  Rocky nodded, getting up and heading for the door.

  “Jarvis,” he said, his back to me. “I’d keep this as quiet as possible. If word gets out you’re helping me, you could be in danger of retribution. Watch your back.”

  “Gee Rocky, I didn’t know you cared,” I said with a grin.

  Rocky turned around, a serious look on his face. A stare of grief and sorrow, I never seen before from him, which was startling, and disconcerting.

  “All I care about is catching the bastards who hurt the ones I loved, no matter how long, no matter what it takes.”

  With those bone chilling words, he left, leaving me to wonder what happened in his life to cause that much pain. A pain that had remained hidden all this time.

  Chapter 9

  Since it was a lot of money I stopped by the bank to deposit it. My balance was looking great thanks to the cash and Jonas’ check. Once done I headed over to Denver police headquarters. Going through security didn’t take long, and I was inside with my visitor badge, where I found Bill’s desk. He was on the phone which was normal for a desk cop like himself. He held up a finger and did his best to get off the call. It appeared it was from someone he had talked with before.

  “Look Sandy,” he said with a sigh. “Your husband has stayed out late before. It’s not up to us to track him down every time he decides to go on a bender. If he is not home in another thirty-six hours, we can put out a missing person’s report. But until then, you need to just wait him out. He likely needs to sober up and will come crawling back home like he’s done a hundred times before.”

  I could hear some yelling on the other end and then silence. Apparently, she’d hung up on Bill, not liking what he said.

  “She calls the front desk, always asking for me,” said Bill, rocking back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “Then gets mad at me, for her husband staying out all night drinking and chasing pussy. Wants us to find him and drag his sorry butt home. She needs to dump the asshole and find herself someone better.”