The Hated: A Detective Jericho Single

by Walter Marks

  “I don’t drink,” Jericho said. “I once had a problem with it,”

  “Did you go to AA?”

  “No. I quit cold turkey. Couldn’t accept the idea of turning my life and will over to... A Higher Power.”

  “You an atheist?”

  “No.

  “Then what are you?

  “...I guess I’m what you call a Possibilian.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a school of thought that says the universe is so vast that we just can’t know enough about it to know what’s possible and what’s not possible. Therefore anything is possible. To me that’s a viable concept”

  It was anathema to McCoy, a God-fearing, church-going Christian. Jericho thinks he’s so deep. Yeah, he’s deep. He’s headed deep into the depths of Hell. This is proof positive Jericho ain’t worthy of being head of the department!

  During dinner McCoy asked Jericho if he had any theories about the Lopez case. He said no. Well, if Jericho was such a hot shit detective, he should’ve at least had some ideas by now. Obviously he didn’t have a clue. Ha-ha!

  If I was in charge, I’d’ve brought that metal detector guy down to the station house and grilled him. Attention to detail! That’s what Jericho doesn’t have. Attention to...

  The bright red-and-blue flashing lights bounced off his rearview mirror and into his bloodshot eyes.

  “Fuck!” he shouted and immediately slowed down and stopped. He looked behind him to see a uniformed cop getting out of his squad car and cautiously approaching him.

  McCoy squinted into the police officer’s flashlight and rolled down his side window.

  “License, registration, insurance card, sir.”

  McCoy pulled out his wallet and flashed his gold shield. “I’m a cop.”

  “License, registration, insurance.”

  “Detective,” McCoy said. “Detective Fred McCoy.”

  “Patrolman,” the cop said. “Patrolman Jeremy Romano.”

  McCoy could see the officer’s Southampton Township patch on his uniform jacket. Sag Harbor’s police jurisdiction is divided by Division Street; EHTP on the east side, STP on the west. McCoy was now on the Southampton side. I’m fucked.

  He reached to open the glove compartment and get his papers.

  “Are you armed, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I am. Now, very carefully, keeping your hands in plain sight, get out your license, registration and insurance card, and hand them to me.”

  McCoy did as instructed.

  “All right,” Officer Romano said. “Now get out of the car and assume the position. You know the drill.”

  McCoy got out and took the spread-eagle stance against the car. He felt totally humiliated. “Would you mind telling me why you pulled me over?”

  The cop patted McCoy down as he answered. “You were driving erratically, weaving all over the road. Have you been drinking?”

  “A couple of glasses of wine.”

  “I’m guessing more than a couple.”

  “C’mom, buddy. Gimme a break. We’re... both cops.”

  “Turn around. You’ve gotta take an FBT.”

  “C’mon, buddy...”

  “I’m sure your department has the same rules. If a cop turns down a Field Breathalyzer Test you’re automatically arrested, and required to take an alcohol level blood test in jail. Your call.”

  “And if I take the test?”

  “If you’re above the legal limit, you’ll get a summons and have to appear in court. In any case, you’ll be suspended till the case is adjudicated. If found guilty you’ll go on temporary leave — maybe thirty days if you’re lucky and this is your first offense. Is this your first offense?”

  “Yeah.”

  Romano took out a black device the size of a cigarette pack, with a thin white tube sticking out of the top.

  “This is the CMI Intoxilyzer 5000. State-of-the-art,” he said with mock pride. “It measures the concentration of alcohol with infrared spectroscopy. Blow!”

  McCoy began to inhale and exhale deeply, hoping the increase in oxygen would diffuse his boozy breath.

  Romano struggled to keep a straight face.

  When McCoy was done, the cop showed him the bright red readout. “.11,” he said. “The legal limit is .07.”

  “C’mon, pal. That’s only .04 over!”

  “Letter of the law,” the cop said. “Scientists came up with that limit for a reason.”

  The cop took out his pad and wrote out the summons. “This’ll be copied to EHTPD in the morning. Sign here.”

  McCoy groaned and signed his name.

  “Can I go now?”

  “Not in your car. Your license is suspended. You’ll have to leave it here and have someone pick it up in the morning. Meanwhile, I suggest you call Tuna Taxi and have them take you home.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Or you can call your wife. Which I’d definitely advise against.”

  The cop got in his squad car. “Have a nice evening, sir.”

  He drove away. When he was out of sight, he made a phone call.

  Romano was actually a Southampton detective. He’d worked closely with Jericho on a series of Sag Harbor burglaries in houses on both sides of the police jurisdictional line.

  “Hey JR,” Jericho said, answering the phone. “Any problem?”

  “Nah. I just put on my old uniform, took a blue and white and waited outside the restaurant till you two came out. McCoy was zonkered like you said he’d be. I followed him till he was in my district and then I busted him. DWI. He’ll be out of your hair for at least a month.”

  “Think he’ll fight it in court?”

  “Not a chance,” Jeremy said. “He’ll plead nolo and save the embarrassment.”

  “Thanks, Jeremy. I owe you one.”

  “Dinner at Il Cappuccino?”

  “You got it.”

  CHAPTER 7.

  In the morning Chief Krauss informed Jericho that McCoy had been busted for drunk driving.

  “He was pulled over by another cop,” he said. “Do you fucking believe that? Whatever happened to the Brotherhood of Blue?”

  “Well, no one is above the law.”

  Krauss looked at Jericho as if he’d uttered a sacrilege. “No one?”

  “No one,” Jericho said firmly.

  Later he addressed his fellow detectives in the squad room. “Chief just told me Fred McCoy has been suspended due to a DWI he got last night. I don’t have any details.”

  There was little reaction in the room. They all knew of Jericho’s dislike of McCoy and many of them agreed with him.

  “Fortunately this happened during our slow period,” Jericho said. “So it won’t be too much of a burden on the department. I’m gonna be busy for a while, so Vic will be in charge here.”

  “There’s one case pending,” Jericho went on. “Guy was caught at Big Ed’s Fish Market boosting a 2 lb. lobster from the tank and stashing it in his raincoat pocket. Apparently the rubber band slipped off the lobster’s claw, and it pinched the shit outta the guy’s finger. His screams alerted Big Ed, who decked him and called 911. They’re both in the holding cell now. Whoever wants to take ‘em, go ahead.”

  A first year detective raised his hand.

  “Okay, Rattigan,” Jericho said. “Cut Big Ed loose, and charge the other guy with Grand Theft Lobster.”

  There was general laughter.

  Jericho spoke again as he left the squad room. “The rest of you stand by and be ready for the next outbreak of high crimes and misdemeanors.”

  When Jericho went to his office, there was an e-mail from John Alvarez, the Suffolk County Medical Examiner. Jericho knew and liked the ME — he was smart and thorough and had a dark sense of humor. Jericho still chuckled every time he saw the sign on the medical examiner’s desk — I SEE DEAD PEOPLE.

  The Alvarez email read:

  Subject: Carlos Lopez

  Jericho — Having performed an external exami
nation, here are my learned findings: (I know your eyes glaze over when you read my detailed forensic reports, but at least make an effort.)

  Based on current and historical information available to me, the body is that of 52-year-old Male Hispanic Carlos Lopez. Subject died as a result of asphyxia due to strangulation as evidenced by the fractured hyoid bone in the neck with soft tissue hemorrhage extending downwards to the level of the right thyroid cartilage. Circular laceration surrounding the throat/neck area suggests strangulation by ligature (garrote and/or applied pressure from a rope). Several fibers found in the laceration wound indicate use of a 3/4 inch manila rope. Microscopic scrutiny reveals the presence of finely powdered particulates, possibly drugs, or cornstarch used on latex gloves as a donning agent. Further analysis needed. Autopsy and total DNA scan of body to be performed tomorrow. Current evidence rules out accidental death, suicide, and erotic asphyxiation. Manner of death is in my opinion homicide.

  Blood spot on automobile seat types out as AB negative (quite rare) which matches the victim. This suggests Lopez was killed in his car. Genetic testing needed to confirm.

  More to come after internal examination later today.

  Your favorite cut-up —

  John

  Chief Krauss entered Jericho’s office and slammed a sheet of paper down on his desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “Print-out of today’s East Hampton Patch”

  Jericho looked at the headline of the local daily online newspaper:

  BODY FOUND SITTING ON LIFEGUARD CHAIR

  Hispanic Leader Carlos Lopez

  dead at Indian Wells Beach.

  Police Mystified.

  Krauss grimaced in anger. “I got a call from a Latino community organizer who’d read the Patch article. They’re up in arms and calling for justice. A committee’s coming in this afternoon for a meeting. Who the hell spilled the beans on this?”

  Jericho knew it was probably Rufus Pugh, but he just shrugged.

  “And I hate headlines like Police Mystified.”

  “I’m on it, Sid.” Jericho said. “And look, sadly I don’t have McCoy any more, so it’s all on my shoulders.”

  “What do I tell the committee?”

  “We have several leads and we’re following up on all of them.”

  “Is that true?”

  “No.”

  “Well, get to fucking work.”

  Jericho’s reply was a silent stare. Krauss stared back. The staring contest ended with the chief leaving the room.

  Jericho was reading online material about OLA and activist leader Carlos Lopez when Bobby Rattigan, the neophyte detective, entered his office.

  “Sir, I’m sorry to bother you,” Rattigan said, “But I’m having a problem with the lobster thief — Benny Rosen.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “He says he wasn’t stealing, he was bringing the lobster over to the counter to pay for it. He says Big Ed accused him of stealing because he has it in for him, because he hates Jews.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Nah,” Rattigan said. “I know Ed, he doesn’t have a prejudiced bone in his body. Besides, he’s married to a Jewish girl.”

  “All right,” Jericho said “Let’s get Rosen to confess, then let him off with a warning. That way the case is cleared and we don’t have to go to court and go through all that rigmarole.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Is there surveillance tape?”

  “No,” Rattigan said. “I asked Big Ed about that.”

  “Okay,” Jericho said. “Just tell Rosen you’ve got him on tape...”

  “But...”

  Jericho went on. “His charges are Criminal Possession of Stolen Property in the Fifth Degree and Petit Larceny, both Class A Misdemeanors — punishable by up to one year in jail. Tell him if he confesses, you’ll let him walk. Providing he pays Big Ed for the lobster.”

  “But we don’t have him on tape. There is no tape!”

  “Tell him there is.”

  “But that’s a lie.”

  “Duh!”

  Rattigan looked perplexed.

  “Let me ‘splain it to ya, son,” Jericho said. “We’re allowed to use lying and deception in an interview, as long as that doesn’t coerce a suspect into confessing to a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “What if he asks to see the tape?”

  “Say his lawyer will get it on Disclosure,” Jericho said. “Tell him this offer is a one-off — confess now or become a high publicity case that his family and neighbors can read about in the East Hampton Star. He’ll cave.”

  Rattigan looked Jericho with admiration.

  “Okay, sir,” the young man said. “That’s real good advice. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Didn’t you learn that in your detective training course?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rattigan said. “It was taught by Detective McCoy. And sometimes... he was kinda hard to follow.”

  Jericho smiled. “I’m not surprised. Now go get your confession. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Yessir.”

  CHAPTER 8.

  In the afternoon, Vangie came in to see Jericho.

  “How did it go in Hauppauge?” he asked.

  “They were all pretty shook up,” Vangie said. “I went into the room with Mrs. Lopez and she started crying when she saw her husband’s body. She kept saying ‘Yes, I ID, Yes, I ID’ over and over again. Then she asked the ME’s assistant if she could touch her husband, and he said yes, but she’d have to put on a latex glove. This turned into a huge argument and finally Mrs. Lopez stormed out of the room, cursing in Spanish.”

  “Displaced anger, it’s not uncommon,” Jericho said. “What about her kids?”

  “Caroline stayed home with a neighbor,” Vangie said. “But the boys’ behavior I thought was a little odd. The younger one, Seth, he went in and stared at his father for a long time, studying the body like it was some kind of curiosity. He showed no emotion at all. The older son, Eric, refused to even enter the room. He said he didn’t need to see the body. There was a grief counselor there who urged him to at least go in to comfort his mother. But he just took out his cell and started playing some game.”

  “Bereavement is complicated,” Jericho said. “I’ve seen every reaction you can think of. I once saw a guy start doing chest compressions on his dead wife, and it took me and two cops to pull him off her.”

  “Well, I’m glad I was there,” Vangie said. “At least I could help Mrs. Lopez.”

  “I’m glad you were there too.”

  “I gave her my number,” Vangie said. “In case she, y’know, needs anything. If you need me for anything else, I’m around.”

  “Good to know.”

  Later that afternoon Mrs. Lopez and her three kids arrived to be fingerprinted. EHTPD has a state-of-the-art biometric fingerprint scanner. A finger placed on the sensing surface will generate a high-resolution image on a computer screen. That image will be stored and also sent to the IAFIS, the FBI’s nationwide fingerprint database.

  The print facility is the bailiwick of Sgt. Sean Anderson — an expert in his field, who supervises all fingerprinting activity.

  When the Lopez family entered they were in a somber mood. Paz Lopez introduced her kids to Jericho and Sean.

  Jericho watched as they all filled out ID forms. Mrs. Lopez and her daughter Caroline were dressed all in black. The little girl kept looking down at the floor. The eldest son, Eric, was a tall, strapping, shaggy-haired kid, wearing a crimson-and-white varsity jacket with a logo — Bonack Baseball. Seth, the younger son, had spiked gelled hair, wore rimless glasses, and had a neon yellow backpack strapped over his Army surplus field jacket.

  When Eric placed his hand on the scanner, Caroline looked up and saw his fingerprint on the computer display.

  “Mommy, what’s that?”

  “That’s Eric’s fingerprint, dear.”

  “All those squiggles?”

  Mr
s. Lopez turned to Jericho. “Maybe this nice detective would like explain it to you.”

  Jericho knelt down to talk to the little girl. It felt as if he were talking to his own daughter. “Well, see, honey,” he said. “Everybody in the world has little squiggles on their fingertips. And no two squiggles are the same. I’ll show you, give me your hand...”

  He reached out but when he touched the child’s hand, she shrieked, yanked it away and ran to her mother, crying.

  Jericho was stunned. He was so confident in his ability to connect with a girl of Katie’s age, that he wasn’t prepared for this kind of reaction.

  “I’m so sorry, Detective,” Mrs. Lopez said. “You’re kind of a big guy, and Caroline’s been having these nightmares about a big, scary monster chasing her. I think it started after she saw this Godzilla movie on TV.”

  Jericho smiled and said he understood, but inside he felt an inchoate sadness. Was it about Caroline’s fear, or Katie’s absence? Probably both.

  When the fingerprinting process was finished, Seth, the younger son, spoke to Jericho.

  “Detective,” he said. “Could you meet with my brother and I somewhere private? We’ve got something to show you.”

  Jericho took the two boys into his office. When they were seated, Seth took his laptop out of his backpack.

  “When we went over to Hauppauge this morning,” he said, booting up his computer “I saw those weird numbers — 8668 — on my dad’s face. So when we got home, me and Eric went on Google to try and figure out what they meant.”

  He made a few taps and swipes on the touchpad, then showed a webpage on the screen to Jericho:

  :

  Hate on Display™ HATE SYMBOLS DATABASE

  Hated, The

  The Hated is a racist skinhead group that was originally active in the early 2000s, primarily in New Jersey and Florida, then resurrected itself and became active again in the 2010s. Members use a variety of symbols for their group; one of the most common is a white fist inside a cogwheel, with the number 14 and the words The Hated on the outside. Also common is a pair of steel-toed boots with the name of the group over them, as are other graphic images with the words "Hated" or "The Hated" inserted into them.