by Frank Zafiro
BSC. Brotherhood of the Southern Cross. Rowdy had those three letters tattooed on his right forearm.
Eva Patterson refused the rape kit, but Beverly Stubbs was examined at the hospital. I read the results briefly. There wasn’t any forensic evidence found, only signs of sexual trauma.
Rowdy had learned. He used a condom.
I looked at my watch. Eleven o’clock.
I knew in my gut that Rowdy was my guy. He raped Eva Patterson, then Beverly Stubbs. He liked it. Then he got popped for marijuana possession and spent six months at the County Jail, brooding. As soon as he got out, he started looking for his next girl. He found Fawn. Did he mean to kill her? I wasn’t sure, but I imagined that he got closer each time and for him, the third time was the charm. He killed Fawn. And he liked it. He liked it so much, he killed Serena Gonzalez two weeks later.
Eleven—oh—two .
I didn’t have anything on Rowdy that would hold up in court. Even if I arrested him now, he’d get out at first appearance on insufficient probable cause.
I had to get his DNA and hope the FBI lab was worth a damn on those hairs Cameron sent them.
Even that wouldn’t be enough. I needed a confession. I needed a search warrant for his house, where I hoped to God he still had some mementos from Fawn and Serena.
Eleven—oh—seven.
I rubbed my chin, trying hard to harness my impatience and frustration. I knew this goddamn guy was bad and I couldn’t do anything about it, except sit there and wait for him to show up.
By eleven-forty-five, I was about to give up.
Billings approached my desk. Without a word, he dropped a note in front of me and walked away.
Found the PO Box in Sacramento. Mail Box Stop on Piñero Drive. Rented in the name of Dave Semenko. Paid three years in advance. None of the employees has seen your guy. Go fuck yourself.
I frowned. Dave Semenko. That was a bogus name. Semenko was a hockey player. He was the guy who protected Wayne Gretzky. They called him Cement-Head. Virgil Kelley had a sense of humor, even if he was supposedly dead.
The phone on my desk rang.
I snatched it on the first ring. “Tower.”
“John, it’s Renee.”
“Oh.”
“Well, a happy hello to you, too.”
“Renee, I’ve got a guy coming in for an interview. I think he’s a no show.”
“Well, then, prepare to be happy.”
“Why?”
“I went back another six months on your rapist profile. Found six more rapes.”
“And?”
”And one is unsolved and the suspect fits the behavior profile. Best of all, the victim was still living in River City as of three weeks ago. She was the victim of a hit and run downtown.”
“Think she’ll talk to me?”
“I pulled the report. Detective Billings worked the case and she looked at several montages during the investigation before it was suspended as unsolved.”
I allowed myself a brief smile.
“Well, I have just the picture I want her to see.”
I picked up the report from Renee and read it. It sounded just like the other two. While I read the report, Renee put together a photomontage containing Rowdy’s photo.
“You want him as number two?” she asked.
The montages contained six photos, arranged in two rows of three. Position number two was in the center of the top row. A lot of detectives put their suspect in that position to encourage the victim in making that choice. A few defense attorneys had wised up to that fact and challenged the identification in court as being unduly suggestive.
“Make him number four,” I said.
After finishing the montage, I returned to my desk with the report and montage in hand. I checked my message light, but it wasn’t flashing.
I grabbed Rowdy’s rap sheet along with the rape report filed by Marla Pratt over fifteen months ago and headed out.
“Is this about the guy who hit my car downtown?” Marla Pratt asked me, standing in her doorway. She wore jean cut-offs and a Sturgis T-shirt with no bra and gazed at me with her mouse-like features.
“No. I’m here about the assault.”
“Last year?”
I nodded.
Her lips tightened. “You mind if I grab something to drink?”
“Go ahead.”
She gestured for me to enter and I stepped into her small apartment. It was cluttered but not dirty. A large Harley Davidson wall hanging adorned the living room wall.
“You hang out with bikers much?” I asked as she opened the fridge and leaned inside.
“No. Fucking assholes.” She reappeared holding a can of Keystone Light and proffered one my direction.
“No, thanks,” I said. “On duty.”
She shrugged and closed the fridge, popped open the can of beer as she walked toward me. “You can sit down,” she said and took a healthy slug from the can.
I sat on the chair next to the couch. “Why do you call them assholes?”
“Fucking assholes,” she corrected me. “And it’s because they are.”
“Was it a biker that assaulted you?”
“I think so. Maybe. Why are you here now,” she asked, “after all this time?”
“There have been some developments in your case.”
“Developments?”
I nodded but didn’t elaborate. “I read in the report that you were new to River City when this happened.”
“I came up from Reno. I used to work at a paper plant there and some of the guys rode Harleys on the weekends. We made a bunch of runs over the years. Even went to Sturgis twice.”
“They weren’t bikers?”
“No. Just guys on bikes.” She took another drink and smiled humorlessly. “I mean, they weren’t like those yuppie jerk-offs you seen cruising around on Harleys now. These were blue-collar guys. A little rough, maybe, but we never hung out with any fuckin’ outlaws.”
“What brought you up here?”
“A job. There’s a paper mill out in the Valley.”
She took another hard drink from the can and went to the fridge to retrieve another.
I pulled out the montage and lay it face down on the coffee table. Marla sauntered back into the room, sipping from the beer can. She pointed. “What’s that?”
“This is a photo montage, Marla. I think you may have looked at some before?”
“Yeah. My attacker was never in there.”
“This is the same process as before. I’ll show you the montage and if you recognize anyone, tell me who and where you recognize them from. All right?”
She nodded.
“Remember, hair styles and facial hair can change appearances, too, okay?”
Another nod.
I turned over the montage.
Her eyes scanned the paper for two seconds. Then her finger stabbed at a photo. “That one right there. Number Four. That’s the motherfucker who raped me.”
The clubhouse door swung open on the third knock. It was the same guy who answered the door last time I was there. He must be the door man.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Rowdy.”
“You got a search warrant?”
“Send him out here. He said something to me yesterday that might help out with Sammy G.’s case.”
“He knows something about Sammy G. getting killed?”
I nodded.
“No wonder he was acting funny after you left. Sumbitch was holding out.”
“Can you send him out?”
“He’s not here. Took off a little while after he talked to you yesterday.”
I clenched my jaw and fought to keep myself under control. I handed Door Man one of my business cards. “If Rowdy shows up or you hear where he is, you call me.”
“Why do you care who killed Sammy G., anyway?”
“It’s my job to care.”
Rowdy’s only other address of record was his mother’s house in
Hillyard. I took Market north until I reached Asbury and turned west. She lived on the 2800 block. I parked off about half a block and crept up to the house.
The house was dark red brick. The lawn was an off yellow with intermittent patches of pale green and dirt. A motorcycle sat in the front yard near the curb with a For Sale sign taped to the handlebars.
I knocked on the door and listened As the door swung open, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of a soap opera. The woman who opened the door had a cigarette dangling from her lip and she bore what looked like a permanent squint.
“What do you want?”
I showed her my badge. “Yeah, so?”
“I need to talk to your son.”
“Why are you guys always picking on my Cody?”
“Is he home?”
She stared at me. “No. He comes and goes as he pleases.”
“Is that his bike?” I pointed to the Harley in the front yard.
“Yeah,” she said.
“How long has it been for sale?”
“Since yesterday afternoon when he dropped it off.”
“If he doesn’t have his bike, what is he driving?”
Her squint deepened into a scowl. “His van. Why’re you asking all these questions?”
I pulled out a business card. “If Cody comes by, give me a call, would you?”
She looked at the card between my fingers like it was a turd. “I don’t think so. Cody wants to talk to you, he can find you.”
“Mrs. Heinz—”
She jerked her head toward the street. “Now get off of my property.”
She slammed the door.
I slipped my card in her mailbox and walked back out to the street. Before I left, I wrote down the phone number on the For Sale sign.
Wednesday, April 21st
Late Morning, Davenport Hotel
VIRGIL
The front portion of the Palms Hotel was smoldering and two fire trucks stood at the ready in the background. A beautiful blonde reporter babbled silently into her microphone.
“Turn that up,” I said.
Gina reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the remote. In seconds, the volume was up.
“—engines from Fire Station One responded to this blaze. According to sources, the first alarm was received around four this morning. Three engines responded and managed to suppress the fire, but not after extensive damage had been sustained by the hotel.”
While the reporter spoke, file footage was shown of the Palms blazing away in the darkness of the morning.
“Initial statements from Assistant Fire Chief Mike Pierson were that three bodies were discovered in one of the hotel rooms.”
The face of the Assistant Fire Chief filled the screen. “At this time, the bodies have been badly burned and we are unable to determine whether they were killed by the fire.”
The blonde returned to the screen. “The names of the victims have not been determined at this time. Once the victims are identified, the names won’t be released until the families have been notified. For Channel 5 Action News, I’m Shawna Matheson.”
Gina stopped the noise from the screen. “Is that the loose end you had to wrap up?”
“You sure you want to know?”
“I already know the answer,” she said and rolled out of bed.
Gina padded over to the table in the corner of the room and grabbed a cigarette. Still naked, she dropped into the upholstered chair and brought her knees up to her chest. She fired up her cigarette and took a pull.
“Throw me the pack and the lighter.”
Gina carefully arced the items on to the bed next to me. I shook one free, lit it and inhaled deep.
“What’s the next step?” she asked.
“I’m going back to find Rowdy.”
“You’re going back to the house in Hillyard?”
“As soon as I get a shower.”
“Want me to go along?”
“No.”
“I can help you.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I stitched you back up, if you don’t remember.”
“And I’m thankful for that.”
“I also let you get naked with me last night.”
“Which I’m also thankful for. But this isn’t a path you want to go down, Gina. I’ll drop you off at your house and then I’ll take care of this business.”
“How about I stay here?”
“What would you do while I’m gone?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Order room service. Watch movies.”
“If you want to wait here, I’m not going to kick you out.”
Gina took a deep drag on her cigarette and pushed the smoke out in one long exhale. She watched me, her eyes intent. “You must have loved her.” Her tone was different, jealous almost.
“Loved who?”
“Your daughter. For you to put yourself this situation, take the kind of hurting that you did and still want to go forward, she must have been very special.”
I rolled my cigarette carefully between my thumb and forefinger. “I never met her.”
“What?” Gina kicked her legs out from underneath her and ground out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table.
“I never met her,” I repeated.
“Then why are you doing all of this?”
I stood and walked over to the table and ground out my own cigarette. With a single step I was back at the bed and dropped onto my back. I winced with pain when my broken teeth clacked together.
Gina leaned forward in the chair with her elbows on her knees, waiting for an answer.
“She was my daughter.”
“But you never met her.”
I turned my head to her and met her eyes. “Do you believe in God?”
She smirked. “What?”
“God. Do you believe in him?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” she said with a small shrug.
“Have you ever seen him?”
Gina slanted her eyes at me. “It’s not the same thing.”
I turned my head back and stared at the ceiling.
Silence hung in the room for several moments before Gina spoke softly. “You can tell me, Virgil.”
I didn’t know what to tell her. I witnessed Fawn’s life through pictures sent by her mother. The only love I gave her came in the form of money I secretly sent her mother. I never heard her voice or the joy in her laugh. I wouldn’t get to see her graduate high school or get married or have children.
Had she lived I still would have never seen those things. That was the reality of our family.
Gina slipped out of her chair and climbed onto the bed. She pulled in close to me and I could feel her breath on my chest.
“It’s okay, Virgil, you don’t have to tell me. But make me one promise.”
I stroked her hair and closed my eyes. “What’s that?”
“Come back in one piece.”
I stopped down the street from the house on Asbury and saw the same maroon colored patrol car that was at the Brotherhood’s clubhouse. The white van was not in the driveway and a motorcycle stood in the middle of the front lawn.
At the front door of the red brick house, Detective John Tower was trying to talk with a woman in her early fifties. I couldn’t see her well, but could tell she was giving Tower a hard time. He tried to say something to her and she slammed the door in his face. He walked over to the motorcycle and wrote down the number on the For Sale sign.
I lowered the driver’s seat back and waited until I heard the patrol car fire up and drive by me.
Several minutes passed while I reclined. The motorcycle had been moved since I was there the first time and a For Sale sign was put out. If I had waited, Rowdy would have returned and I could have ended it before now. Hindsight is a dangerous game to start playing so I shook it free from my head.
With a quick tug, I sat the seat up straight. The neighborhood was quiet as I walked towards the house. The front lawn was yellowed, the hangover
of a winter thaw.
At the door I heard the sounds of television blaring loudly in the house. The broad must have been deaf. I pounded on the door and it jerked open.
A haggard looking woman opened the door with an unlit cigarette dangling out of her mouth. She stood about five-foot five and maybe broke a hundred and ten pounds. Her eyes squinted like imaginary cigarette smoke was burning them. She wore red stretch pants and a white t-shirt which had long since yellowed. “He’s gone,” she said with a raspy voice.
“Who?”
She looked past me and searched around the neighborhood. “Your partner. He’s gone.”
I smiled and shrugged at her. “I don’t have a partner.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “You ain’t a cop?”
“I need to talk to Rowdy.”
“Why?”
I thumbed in the direction of the Harley. “About his bike.”
She eyed me for a moment before shaking her head. “I don’t think so.”
“What?”
“I don’t think you’re here for the bike. You want him for something else.”
“Where’s he at?”
“I didn’t tell no cop about Rowdy and I sure as hell ain’t gonna tell you.”
I put my hand on the door and felt her resistance.
My voice dropped a couple of octaves and I leaned forward into her face. “I need to come in and talk to you about Rowdy.”
She stabbed her finger in my chest. “You come in and I’ll call the cops.”
“Now you like the police?”
“What?”
I snapped an uppercut punch into her stomach, doubling her up and causing her to let go of the door. With a quick step I was inside the house with the front door closed behind me.
“You mother—,” she gasped.
I smacked her hard across the face and spun her completely around. She fell in a heap. I helped her to her knees as she still cradled her stomach.
“What’s your name?”
“Marion,” she whispered.
