(2008) Compulsion

by Jennifer Chase

Detective Rivas rolls up a chair next to John, sits down and anxiously waits.

  John spins around to his computer workstation and swiftly clicks the mouse twice. Two seconds pass, and his email inbox appears on the screen. He sees the three emails with the unknown sender identification of four strange symbols.

  “What the?”

  “Trust me, just open the files.” Detective Rivas opens his missing children manila files to show John the matching dates of birth.

  The computer screen illustrates detailed photographs taken in a crime scene evidence approach of close up, medium, and overall perspectives. John then clicks on the video and once again it reveals an entire chronological crime scene narrative.

  John is speechless and barely manages to say, “Wow.”

  “I need you to verify the authenticity of the images and video while I get the info on the perp and vehicle.”

  John begins scrolling through the photographs again.

  “John, can you prioritize this?”

  “Yeah, no problem. This is amazing; this is better equipment than we have here in the lab. Not to mention whoever took these is an expert.”

  “I need to get everything lined up before I go to a judge to get the search and arrest warrant. You good on this?”

  “No problem. Give me about two hours.”

  Detective Rivas smiles, “Not a minute more.” He gets to the door.

  “Do you have some kind of detective guardian angel watching over you?” John is still impressed looking over the evidence again.

  The detective disappears around the corner out of sight to gather all of his information before his detectives begin to arrive.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Three

  Thursday 1900 Hours

  The early evening shadows descend on the rural Arizona desert just northeast of Yuma, and the heat of the day is slowly dissipating to a more comfortable level, casting an orange yellow backlit sky. The air is filled with the remnants of well-seasoned soil and native desert plant life from the scorching day.

  Just a mile, east at the secondary crime scene of the final resting spot of seven-year-old Randy Jeremiah Johnston, Emily watches the circus-like investigation take shape through binoculars. She is careful not to draw any attention to her vantage spot with any reflection or lights that might catch someone’s curious eye. Her heart races and skips an occasional beat. This is the best part of her tedious work watching the events unfold with the reactions of those who are hired to protect and serve.

  Police patrol vehicles, crime scene van, four-wheel drive special units, and the coroner scatter around the area of interest. Several uniformed and plainclothes police officers disperse onto the scene in a well-rehearsed manner. Flashlights dance around the vast countryside and large spotlights are being set up by crime scene technicians to search for any possible clues as they secure the area. Several police department civilians carrying silver briefcases filled with portable measuring devices, digital cameras, and other containers for casting and retrieval of evidence get to work. A tall lanky man, obviously a police criminalist, helps to cordon off the specific area of interest and give instructions to less experienced identification technicians.

  Without warning, a set of headlights steadily approaches where Emily has carefully hidden herself. She quickly returns to her Explorer, releases the emergency brake and slowly pushes the sport utility vehicle farther into the overgrown brush. Emily tucks herself back against the side of the vehicle and waits for the car to pass.

  A police patrol car slowly passes Emily’s vantage point, obviously they got lost trying to access the entrance to the crime scene. It’s just off rural highway 8 on the dirt bike trails before entering the Anza Trail. Not an easy location to find in the dark. Perhaps they were called to the area to assist with the perimeter security, but more likely they just wanted to view the horrendous crime scene of a serial killer. Emily waits until the police radio is barely audible before she moves from her position.

  Emily breathes a sigh of relief and knows her job is done; there is no guesswork or speculation anymore. It is now up to the authorities to determine what happens to this serial killer and how they will proceed. Whether there will be a trial, plea bargain or death penalty, it’s out of her hands now. The families can only take slight comfort in knowing what happened to their children. It will never replace their precious child or fill the forever void that is now an inescapable part of their lives.

  But it’s only a hollow victory for Emily. She is exhausted and wants to get back home as soon as possible. She decides that a break from this entire trauma of events is greatly needed. No more pedophiles, serial killers, missing children, and dead mutilated bodies for a while. Not until the next child abduction. And maybe this time, she’ll get there before it’s too late. The mere hope is what drives her.

  Emily walks back to her Explorer, leans in and turns on the low buzz of activity on the police scanner that sits on the passenger seat. She exits the vehicle again watching the investigation. She puts on lightweight headphones, picks up a listening device and aims the digital sound cannon toward the crime scene and begins recording from her remote computer. After fine-tuning to a particular conversation of significance between two police detectives, Emily listens.

  * * * * *

  Detective Rivas stands on the edge of the crime scene and takes in everything from left to right and back again. He watches all personnel go about their duties, but he still insists on studying the crime scene personally for his own notes and observations.

  Detective William Grant who has only been in Yuma Homicide for six months meets Detective Rivas and waits for instructions. He’s a good cop with sound intuitions, but he hasn’t had the experience of a massive investigation such as the job they are currently facing.

  “I want you to write down everything I say as we walk the crime scene in a grid pattern. Then I want you to observe and speculate what you see after I’m done.”

  “Is it true that the killer contacted you directly?” The rookie asks.

  Detective Rivas stops and looks directly at his rookie detective, “We don’t know who sent the information, but for now, let’s walk the crime scene.”

  Detective Grant flips open his notebook, “Ready.”

  Detective Rivas describes to his rookie partner that the tire tracks lead directly to the gravesite. The vehicle was probably a truck or SUV based on the size and dimension of the tire treads left at the scene. The footprints were completely contaminated; the same set was trampled several times with multiple walks back and forth to the vehicle. This led Detective Rivas to believe, unfortunately, that there would be more than one gravesite and more than one body. He continues his observations and makes brief sketches, while an identification technician takes the proper photographs documenting the entire scene.

  John O’Brien instructs one of his best technicians to take a full cup of soil samples from the gravesite and surrounding areas to use as an exemplar to compare to anything found on or with the suspect.

  The exhausting task begins for John, he must prepare the crime scene gravesite for excavation of possible evidence. During his entire career, he has had the experience of body excavation in thirty-seven homicides. He expertly sets the datum and grid of the grave areas. The location of any artifacts or evidence from the surface is documented in a notebook and with various photographs.

  The tedious task continues as the removal of all surface debris begins in order to locate any possible evidence. John and his assistant begin to sift two inches through twigs, foliage, and soil to get to the first layer of the grave. As he reaches the second layer of the grave, clothing and a small skull appear. This evidence is again documented. It never gets any easier; in fact, it gets more difficult for John. The remains of a small boy are unearthed. For a moment there is strong silence among the crew as they stare into the shallow grave at the tiny broken body.

  “John, find anything to identify the perp?” Detective Rivas breaks the
awkward silence.

  “One last possible hiding place”, John carefully removes the small body and lays it on a white plastic tarp.

  From underneath the body is a perfect footprint impression.

  “I’d say a cheap running shoe, size ten.”

  An identification technician begins to prepare the impression in order to take a complete casting.

  A middle-aged petite woman meets up with Detective Rivas, “Detective”.

  “Dr. Randall, can we get a preliminary educated guess on the manner and cause of death?” Detective Rivas motions to the tiny body.

  Dr. Randall is one of the most respected medical examiners from the Yuma County Coroner’s office. She has been the expert witness on many cold cases around the globe. Detective Rivas trusts her judgment and respects her opinion.

  “There is some inbending where blunt force trauma impacted the frontal part of the skull with some type of tool like a small hammer. There are signs of sexual assault and strangulation, but cause of death was blunt force trauma. Looks like death was between twelve and eighteen hours ago.” She looks up at the Detective. “This child was tortured over a period of time and death was not instantaneous.”

  “There are two more small graves”, Detective Rivas replies.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Four

  Friday 0700 Hours

  Two Yuma police cars followed closely by an unmarked Ford Taurus speed by Emily’s parked Explorer. None of the police officers notice Emily’s hiding place nor expect that their phantom super sleuth is watching their pursuit of the child serial killer. Instead, they are fixated on serving an arrest warrant for Thomas Farrell, a man who has never held down a job for more than six months in his life, did not possess an arrest record, and who hasn’t even received a parking ticket. This man was one of the most wanted killers in Yuma at the moment and nothing was going to compromise this arrest. Two more patrol cars and the forensic van rush to catch up with their colleagues.

  Detective Rivas pursues his killer perp with absolute determination. He rushes the driveway, gun drawn, followed closely by three eager patrol officers and his rookie detective partner. The air is stifling and dusty causing a slight constriction in the pursing officers’ throats. Perspiration has already begun to pour down the sides of the detective’s face. His hands begin to feel the increasing moisture, but he squeezes the grip on his Glock even tighter.

  He manages to command police identification at the front door, “Yuma Police Department”!

  An instant later the detectives and officers burst through the entrance of the small rundown house. Loud voices are heard from inside with strict instructions to lie down on the ground. After a few moments everything stops. It is quiet and completely still as the stagnant air outside.

  Detective Rivas is the first to exit the home with the child serial killer in handcuffs. Thomas Farrell, his head hung in front of him, seems like a weak pathetic man woken from a wonderful dream only to discover that his dream has turned into a nightmare. He never utters a word as he is quickly ushered into the back of a police car. The serial killing spree has finally ended.

  The patrol car drives away and Detective Rivas watches for a moment with so many questions racing in his mind.

  John interrupts the detective’s thoughts, “Is the house secure for my techs to begin the evidence search?”

  “Absolutely. I want every inch of the Suburban gone over too. I mean everything. I don’t want anything thrown out in court.”

  “You go it.” John gears up for the long tedious task of collecting evidence.

  Emily still continues to watch at a safe distance as the crime scene investigation unfolds; she is impressed by the lead detective’s proficiency and integrity of the crime scene. She has witnessed many homicide investigations and the unpredictable investigative skill levels are inevitable with any type of police work.

  Two patrol officers roll out yellow crime scene tape to block the neighborhood off to the curious and the news media. After the families have been contacted, the news media will report the newest serial killer to the public and it will become the topic of conversation for many weeks.

  Evidence technicians are beginning to exit the basement carrying more than a dozen white five gallon buckets filled with evidence. The Suburban is scrutinized for fingerprints, blood, fibers, and any other organic and inorganic matters that can be identified. Detective Rivas is directing a technician to the types of photographs he wants taken.

  Emily puts down her binoculars and takes a sip of stale coffee. She knows that this crime scene work will take the officers and technicians most of the day to complete. She is satisfied with the results and the rest is up to the criminal justice system. With the public’s zero tolerance for child molesters and murderers, justice should be swift and hopefully extremely painful for Thomas Farrell.

  Now completely exhausted and fatigued, Emily backs the Explorer out of her vantage spot and slowly drives away from the crime scene feeling a sense of accomplishment and some deep sadness for the loss of innocent life.

  A couple yards away from the crime scene tape, Detective Rivas notices the Explorer driving away. It’s an unusually high-end vehicle for this particular poor neighborhood and he didn’t notice it earlier. He’s unable to get a complete license plate except for “N7” and the tinted windows block the identity of the driver. He files this incident in the back of his mind for now before returning to the crime scene.

  * * * * *

  Emily eases the Explorer onto the freeway heading west on Interstate 80 to California. Traffic moves smoothly, most cars are heading east into Yuma rather than west to California. In about nine hours she will be pulling into her own driveway. Taking a few deep breaths and pressing her aching back against her comfortable leather seat lumbar, Emily’s mind focuses on being home instead of tracing the steps of a serial killer. She can’t wait to take some much needed time off. She wondered if her parents would approve of her chosen life path. She remembers how wonderful summers were at age six going to the lake with her parents, swimming, and gathering as many river rocks as she could carry.

  There were many wonderful years with her parents until that fateful night during the summer just before her twelfth birthday. If only her parents had driven or taken a taxi instead of walking home from the party, they would be alive today. The nice police detective had tried to explain to her that it was a random killing of a robbery gone bad and her parents didn’t suffer. She remembered the tension in the police detective’s voice when he explained what happened and how he held her hand in support. The murderer was never caught. After twenty years the thought of a murderer roaming the streets free to enjoy whatever life had to offer, made Emily outraged. The only consolation was that she had Uncle Jim in California who opened his home and life to her.

  Emily settles back for the long drive ahead. Her Blackberry vibrates and she glances at the screen. She programmed child abduction information in California to alert her. It was just updated information regarding an old case.

  A mile behind Emily’s Explorer, a new Chrysler Crossfire sports coupe increases speed to one hundred twenty miles per hour. The dark steel blue automobile punches the limit as the engine sings and glides over the road like glass. The vast unpopulated landscape of scrubby brush is a mere blur across the horizon. The feeling of pure power consumes the driver with absolute addiction.

  Emily keeps glancing at her Blackberry to see what other news and information is available. She takes her eyes off the road for no more than two seconds as the Crossfire appears out of nowhere and clips the Explorer’s rear quarter panel. The hit and run vehicle is gone in only a couple of seconds, never slowing down as if it was a ghost from her past.

  Emily grasps her steering wheel tightly and slightly overcompensates for the sideswipe intrusion. She loses control of her Explorer and begins to skid. The high-profile vehicle doesn’t stand a chance to regain control of the road; it tumbles over and over several times befor
e resting on it’s smashed roof on the side of the freeway. The entire vehicle is crushed beyond recognition and Emily’s high-tech equipment from inside the cab scattered in plastic fragments more than a hundred yards along the freeway. Heavy dust and debris filter thirty feet in the air above the still spinning wheels. Emily remains strapped in her seat, unconscious and bleeding. Her breathing becomes slow and shallow.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Five

  Friday 0830 Hours

  It’s a typical California morning at Seascape beach with a heavy fog shelf hanging over the bay that will usually burn away by noon. The beach generally brings about fun in the surf and positive memories for most people, but for Detective Rick Lopez of the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Office it brings dread.

  The watch commander called Detective Lopez shortly before 0700 hours to report that an early morning jogger discovered the body of a young woman. It’s officially the seventh homicide of the year, and it unfortunately won’t be the last.

  Detective Lopez has worked homicide for the past six years and for most of that time he has been the lead investigator. In his mind, very few police officers currently on duty at the Sheriff’s Office would be qualified to run an efficient and competent murder investigation especially without an independent forensic unit. At least, not an investigation that would generate any promising leads and suspects outside the obvious cast of players. He’s not looking forward to cleaning up the mess of this investigation because it has now already begun without him. Several patrol cars and an unmarked detective car are parked parallel along the street.

  Detective Lopez parks in a quiet, coastal, suburban neighborhood of Aptos with a mere population of ten thousand. The beach is nowhere in sight, but the cool sea air hits his senses as he exits his vehicle. He grabs a notebook, clips his cell phone on his belt next to his Glock 19, and carries an extra police radio.