by Frank Zafiro
“He get the plate?”
She shook her head. “Just the color and that there was a dent in the rear bumper. So the witness goes into the house and sees the TV missing and some things tossed around. He waits for his friend, the victim, to get home. When the victim gets home an hour later, they both hop in the victim’s car and start driving around looking for this dark blue Camaro.”
“So?” I asked.
She smiled. “So, they found it.”
“No way.”
She nodded firmly. “Yes, they did. They started driving around to all the pawn shops and right there on Monroe Street, the witness spots the Camaro pulling out of the parking lot of one.”
“How’s he know it’s the same car?”
“Same color,” she said. “Same guy in the passenger seat. And when they start chasing the car, same dented bumper.”
I considered that. “Pretty solid ID in my book.”
She agreed. “They chase the guy, calling 9-1-1 and racing all over the north side until they lose him. But this time, they got the license plate.”
“Good plate?”
“Came back on a 1987 Chevy Camaro, dark blue in color. Registered to Tony McDonald, right here in River City.”
I sipped the coffee. “You talk to him?”
“I called him up and he didn’t know a thing.”
“Why didn’t you bring him in?”
“He works construction in Wenatchee. Only comes home a couple times a month.”
“On the weekend?”
“Right. So I put a little pressure on him. I told him that his car was involved in a burglary and I needed to find out how. He stammers a bit and then tells me this tale about loaning his car to some guy.”
“How convenient.”
“I thought so, too. He says he was visiting his friend over at White Oaks apartments when some guy asked him to borrow his car to go get milk for his family. He’s such a giving guy that he just tossed this total stranger the keys to his Camaro.” Her voice was thick with sarcasm. “The guy took the car and was gone for several hours. He didn’t notice anything strange about the car or the guy when he eventually brought it back.”
“Did you find out who his mysterious friend was that he was visiting?”
“I did. Dennis Kroft.”
“He’s a real person?”
“Yeah, he is. I looked him up in the computer. He’s had a couple of misdemeanor pops, but nothing serious. And he does live at the White Oaks.”
“Did he alibi up McDonald?”
She nodded.
“Backed up McDonald’s story?”
“Backed it up exactly.”
“Exactly?” I raised my eyebrow at her.
“Exactly. Not one variation. Even gave the same vague description of the guy who borrowed the car.”
“So they talked.”
“Pretty sure of it.”
I rubbed my chin briefly and realized I hadn’t shaved that morning. I’d have to avoid Crawford as much as possible.
“You’ve got to break his alibi,” I thought out loud.
“I’ve got zero leverage on him,” she said.
“You’ll have to bluff him a little.”
Katie grimaced. “I don’t like to bluff.”
“It’s really all you’ve got. I mean, you could sit around and hope to get a hit on the TV, but I doubt that’ll happen. And if you don’t have a lever of some kind when you interview McDonald, he’ll never roll on whoever his buddy was.”
“Probably not.” She smiled and touched me lightly on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Any time. Nice to work for a few minutes on something where nobody died.”
Katie chuckled and walked away. “Enjoy your coffee.”
I shook the paper cup. It was almost empty.
Tuesday, April 13th
Davenport Hotel Lobby, Early Afternoon
VIRGIL
I found a pay phone in the lobby of the Davenport and used a pre-paid card to make the call. It was answered on the second ring.
“Bobo’s House of Chicken,” the thick voice said.
“Jay, its Virgil. Tell the old man to call me back.”
“Alright,” Jay said. “What’s the number?”
I rattled off the ten digits
“Got it.”
I sat down on one of the over-stuffed chairs and watched the socialites walking around the lobby of the hotel. Several beautiful young women walked into the Jazz City restaurant with a group of older businessmen on their heels.
When the phone rang, I picked up the receiver on the fourth ring. “Virgil.”
“It’s me.” His voice was hard and proud with the first hints of the frailty of age creeping in on the corners.
I put my hand on the wall and leaned into the phone. “Thanks for calling me back, Mr. Saccamano.”
“Have you found what you’re looking for yet?”
“No sir.”
He grunted before asking, “How long will it take you?”
I pushed away from the wall and watched the lobby. “Not sure, but it shouldn’t be too long.”
“Did you see the ex?”
“Not yet.”
A beautiful woman in her late thirties jogged into the lobby. She wore a light blue sports bra over matching running pants. Her body was covered in sweat as she walked in small circles checking her watch. When she lifted her head, she caught me looking and immediately turned away. She walked to the elevators shaking her head.
“You okay, kid? You don’t sound right.”
“I guess this thing is heavier than I thought.”
Mr. Saccamano let out a short cough. “She was family, for Chrissakes. It better be like a ton of fuckin’ bricks on your shoulders.”
I nodded with my eyes closed.
“You still there?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I was thinking about what you said.”
Mr. Saccamano’s voice softened. “I don’t want to add any more pressure to you, kid.”
I opened my eyes and stared at the phone. “But?”
“As soon as you’re done, I need you to get back here.”
I leaned back into the phone. “What’s going on?”
“The Charlies are on the move again.” The Vietnamese crew had pushed into Mr. Saccamano’s turf a year ago and we’d battled to push them back out.
“What’d they do?”
“They torched our repair shop in Van Nuys. We had several cars getting worked on when it went up.”
“Any of our guys hurt?”
“Nah.”
“Anything traceable to you?”
“No. Not really. You know the drill.”
I knew it well. Off shore corporations set up to funnel money through. The paperwork was padded with deceased personnel and false names. No one that worked there was ever on the books. I’m sure when the guys showed up for work and saw the building burning they turned and walked back into the crowd. That was the game. If they wanted to continue to play, they had to learn the rules.
“You know which crew did it?”
“No. They tagged it before they burned it, but I can’t read that Gookaniese shit. I need to hire a goddamn translator is what I need to do.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Check around for an old Viet Nam vet with an axe to grind. I don’t think those will be too hard to find.”
“Good thinkin’.”
“They do anything else?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry about it. Just hurry home, kid. I need you.”
“I will, Mr. Saccamano.”
Tuesday, April 13th
1542 hrs
En route to the Taylor Residence
TOWER
I drove slowly through the Rockwood neighborhood. The houses I passed all had huge, perfectly manicured lawns. Most had gates. The homes sat a hundred yards off the street, nestled amongst tall trees and sculpted shrubs. Most of the homes cost more than I’d make in my career.
The phone rang
. I pushed the send button and spoke into the microphone Velcroed to the visor. “Tower.”
“John? It’s Cameron.”
“Good. Whaddya you got for me?”
“There isn’t much,” he said. “I am running the victim’s prints through AFIS now. I should have a name for you later today.”
“Cause of death?”
“Strangulation. And the stab wounds were post-mortem.”
“So this guy is angry,” I muttered to myself.
“What’s that?” Cameron asked.
“I said, any good trace?”
“Not yet,” he told me. “I haven’t been over her clothing yet for fibers, but the body is clean. Nothing from the fingernail scrapings and nothing from the sexual assault kit.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
“Was she sexually assaulted?”
“It appears so. But there’s no seminal fluid.”
“Pubic hair transfer?”
“M.E. said no.”
“M.E. said no? He did the analysis?”
“Yeah.”
“Do me a favor, Cameron.”
“What?”
“Do it again. You do it this time. Just to be sure.”
“John –“
“Just do it again, all right?”
He sighed. “Okay, I will. But off the books.”
“On the books, off the books…I don’t care, unless you find something. Who did the Taylor kit?”
“M.E.,” Cameron answered.
“The M.E. again? Why is the Medical Examiner doing tech work?”
“I don’t know. He’s kind of…”
“Arrogant.”
“Yeah, something like that. Anyway, he did both hair examinations.”
“Well, do ‘em both again. Every single loose hair that came from combing both victims. A guy that arrogant and that busy probably rushed through it.”
Cameron didn’t answer.
“What else is there?”
“She had a tattoo, just off her pelvis, right at the bikini line.”
“Of what?”
“A name, I think. Rena.”
I considered that for a moment. “Her name, you think? Or a daughter, maybe?”
“I don’t know,” Cameron said.
“All right. Get back to me if you get a hit on her fingerprint. Or anything on the hairs.”
“I will.” The phone clicked as he hung up.
I drove the last three blocks to the Taylor home and considered what Cameron had told me. The unknown victim case was going to be a lot of work. At least I knew who Fawn Taylor was. Of course that led to the next obstacle, which was asking questions no one wanted to hear, much less answer.
The Taylor residence was one of the smaller homes and one of the few without a gate. I pulled into the long driveway and came to a stop in front of the front steps. The house was dark red brick with bright white trim. Although it wasn’t as large as some of the other homes, with all that brick, I imagined it cost just as much.
When I knocked on the door, Steve Taylor answered. Taylor was thin and wore John Lennon glasses that sat precariously on his nose.
“Detective,” he greeted me with a nod.
“Mr. Taylor,” I nodded back. “Thanks for taking the time to see me.”
“Anything to help find the guy who…anything to help solve the case.” Taylor stepped to the side and waved me indoors. The entryway was large and I glanced up at the ceiling, which had to be almost three stories up. A wide staircase wound upstairs to the right. I followed Taylor to the left, through a large room with a piano.
He led me into a smaller room lined with books on dark oak shelves. His wife, Andie Taylor, sat on a long couch looking at a photo album. A half-empty glass of white wine rested on the table in front of her. When she looked up, her eyes were puffy and red. She held a tissue balled up in her left hand.
“Mrs. Taylor,” I greeted her.
She nodded absently and set the album on the table without closing it. In the same motion, she retrieved the wine and took a large sip. I waited until she looked up at me to continue.
When she did, I told her, “I wanted to update you both on my investigation and ask you a few more questions.”
“Has there been some sort of break in the case?” Steve asked from behind me.
“No, sir.”
Andie Taylor watched me, her eyes calm. I remembered how hysterical she had been when I had told her about the death of her daughter. That was to be expected. But she had remained on the edge of hysteria for most of the two weeks since then. I looked at her carefully. She didn’t appear to be drunk or sedated, despite the glass of wine in her hand. The calmness in her eyes still radiated sadness, however.
“Where is your investigation, detective?” Steve asked.
I turned to him. “In a case like this, the forensics team moves slowly to ensure there are no mistakes. Results take time.”
I was lying. Most of the forensics were in several days ago. There just hadn’t been anything helpful. No fibers, no hairs, no fluids. Fawn Taylor had been strangled and possibly sexually assaulted. Probably sexually assaulted is how the actual report read and when Cameron wrote probably, he meant that it had happened but he couldn’t prove it absolutely in court.
“It’s been two weeks,” he observed.
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“Do…these investigations…usually take a long time?”
I could tell he was trying hard not to offend me or his wife.
“It depends,” I told him. “Every case is different. In this case, there hasn’t been anything conclusive yet from the physical evidence at the crime scene. We haven’t had any luck with witnesses. When that happens, the best thing an investigator can do is start working backwards.”
“Backwards?”
I moved around the table, taking a seat on the edge of a white chair. “I need to go back in time and build a timeline of Fawn’s activities. Something may come up that can help. Even small details matter.”
“Didn’t we do this right after she…after you came here the first time?”
“Yes. But that was more general. This will be more specific. And I’d like to do this individually, if that’s possible.”
“You mean separately?”
“Yes.”
Steve glanced at his wife and she nodded to him. “I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he said and walked out of the room.
Andie Taylor didn’t watch him go. She motioned to her wine glass. “I don’t suppose you can join me in a drink, detective?”
“I wish I could.”
She smiled humorlessly.
I flipped open my notepad and began the interview. She filled in a few small gaps for me, but none of them seemed to matter. Most of what she said was a repeat of previous interviews. I just hoped that as she spoke, maybe something new would shake loose from her memory. She explained that Fawn’s real father had been the result of a one-night stand and that he had never been a part of Fawn’s life. She didn’t know where he was now. She married Steve Taylor when Fawn was three years old and he adopted her two years later.
“Did the biological father sign off on the adoption?”
She shook her head. “No. I filed for abandonment. That’s why it took two years.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“It’s been over ten years.”
“What’s his name?”
“His name?” She gave me a blank look.
“Fawn’s biological father. What’s his name?”
She blinked and looked away. “I…I only knew his first name. It’s Richard.”
I paused. The father of her child and she only knew his first name? I could see that being the case early on, when it was just a one night stand, but once she got pregnant…
She must have sensed my thoughts because she snapped, “It’s a source of much embarrassment for me, detective. How would you like
to be reminded of an indiscretion every time you looked at your daughter? That’s just one more reason why Steven wanted to adopt Fawn.”
I let it lie and moved on to Fawn’s upbringing, which she described as firm but loving. Fawn was a good student, but didn’t always apply herself. She had a few friends but wasn’t cheerleader popular. About a year ago, she caught Fawn with marijuana in her room. Her grades took a nosedive. Around that same time, she believed that Fawn became sexually active.
“Why do you believe that?”
Andie Taylor gave me a knowing look. “Detective, my daughter had breasts at age eleven. She’s always had attention from older boys. She started carrying herself differently. I saw the signs. A mother knows. Besides, I was much the same way at her age.”
“Any boys in particular?”
She shook her head. “I would’ve preferred one nice boy. But she enjoyed the attention. Some of the boys were older. I couldn’t keep track.”
“Did she have a cell phone?”
“Of course.”
“Can I have a copy of the bill?”
“Why?”
“To see who she was talking to.”
“We pay a flat rate for unlimited calls. It’s all on one bill. Besides, we took it away from her about a week before she ran away.”
“Why?”
Andie sipped her wine. “Grades. Attitude. Stupid things, really.” Her eyes teared up and she wiped them.
“When she left, did she say anything? Was there a fight?”
“I can’t remember one.” She sniffed and wiped her nose.
“Generally speaking, kids don’t just take off without some kind of catalyst.”
She shrugged and pulled another tissue from a box on the table between us.
“How close was Fawn with her step-father?”
She took a deep breath and thought. “Very close, I suppose. Until recently.”
“Recently? As in how long ago?”
“Last year. Same time frame as the drugs and the bad grades and the boys. The same time she decided she hated me.”
She cried softly again. I waited while she looked away and dabbed at her eyes.
