The Hated: A Detective Jericho Single

by Walter Marks

  He did just that all the way back to Montauk.

  CHAPTER 18.

  By morning Jericho had made up his mind.

  I’m going to the meeting. If they know I’m a police officer, they’ll stop me at the door. And that’ll be that. If at some point Diller comes after me physically, I can handle him. If he says he’ll expose me, I’ll advise him there’s no end to the misery us cops can inflict on him — like drugs planted on his person or in his car. It ain’t ethical but that threat works every time. Besides, Diller could be Lopez’s killer. If he is, I can’t pass up the chance to get close to him.

  One thing I know — of the fifty or so people at that hate group’s meeting, one or more of them is likely to be the murderer of Carlos Lopez.

  Do I have any better ideas? No. So I’m going for it.

  Jericho went online searching for Tattoo in Suffolk County. The closest one was in Riverhead, about an hour and a half drive from Montauk. The place was called “Ink, Inc.” Its webpage featured a rainbow, and over the rainbow was a model dressed in a blue jumper like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz”. On her bare arms were tattoos of The Cowardly Lion and The Tin Man.

  Hours of operation were noon to 5 PM. No appointment necessary.

  It had numerous reviews on Yelp. One read: ✩✩✩✩✩

  Really dig Ink, Inc. The moment I walked in I felt welcomed. Rainbow is a great artist. She showed me an awesome Japanese Samurai Irezumi tattoo that would cover my whole back. I went for it. Took over a month but it was worth it. Lotsa oohs and ahs at the beach — truly a chick magnet! Going back soon for my arms.

  Jericho wrote down the location of Ink, Ink. Then he got dressed, put on his baseball cap and went out to his car.

  Riverhead, the county seat of Suffolk County, is located at the mouth of the Peconic River, which flows into the estuary separating the North and South forks of Long Island. For years there have been efforts to modernize the town, but nothing much has been done.

  Riverhead’s main drag, Pulaski Street, is lined with low, rundown buildings which house mom ‘n’ pop stores and storefront offices. Overhead, the sagging, crisscrossed power lines, supported by tilted telephone poles, give the place the look of a Depression-era Main Street, Everytown, USA.

  Jericho found the tattoo parlor on Sweezy Avenue just off Pulaski. On the bricks over the entrance was a faded painted sign, revealing the faint words: Myron G. Newell — Dry Goods and Notions. A pink neon sign hanging over the curtained front window read — Ink, Inc. Tattoos Piercing

  Jericho parked at a meter and walked in. The place had red-flocked wallpaper and the floor was covered with Persian style rugs. It was furnished with easy chairs and a couch with a coffee table, much like an ordinary living room. The lighting was subdued, the air redolent of sandalwood incense. Soft New Age music emanated from ambient speakers. There was no one around.

  “Hello?” Jericho called out.

  A woman’s voice, with a musical lilt to it, answered from a back room. “Hi. Be right with you. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Jericho sat down in a Morris chair and looked around. On one wall was a grouping of framed pictures; photos of tattoed celebrities — Angelina Jolie, Lil Wayne, David Beckham, Adam Levine, Amy Winehouse, Bruce Lee.

  The opposite wall displayed pictures of assorted tattoo images — Skulls and Roses, Cross with Praying Hands, Starbursts, American Flag, Japanese Horino Eagle.

  On a coffee table in front of him was a large leather bound loose-leaf book, and a few magazines and newspapers.

  A woman in her mid-thirties emerged through a beaded curtain.

  “Hi. I’m Rainbow.”

  She was a replica of a 60’s hippie — wearing a lilac colored Indian saree with one arm bare. Her long, auburn, ironed hair reached to her waist. She had one small silver eyebrow ring and no make-up.

  He stood up. “Hi. I’m Vernon. Vernon Pettibone. Most people call me Vern.”

  She pressed her palms together, fingers up, and said “Namaste”. Then she curled up on a couch opposite him and gestured for Jericho to sit back down.

  He looked at the tattoo on Rainbow’s bare arm. It was a multi-colored depiction of a woman with blue skin and full breasts, dancing on a large lotus flower. In her four arms, she wielded a sword, a trident, a man’s head, and a small lotus. Her long red tongue lolled out of her mouth.

  “That’s the goddess Mother Kali,” Rainbow said. “Revered by Hindus for her Shakti — power. She’s the destroyer of Evil.”

  “How beautiful,” Jericho said, actually referring to Rainbow.

  “It was done by my guru, Mahendra Chaterjee, out in Venice Beach, California,” she said. “He’s since passed away, so as a tribute to him, I’m not getting any more ink. This way his work is unique to my body”

  “And you also pay tribute by carrying forward what he taught you.”

  “That’s very insightful.”

  He gave her an aw-shucks look.

  “I’m just curious,” he said. “Why is the goddess sticking her tongue out?”

  “Some folks think it’s a demonic gesture, but it’s not,” she said. “See, in India, when people make a mistake, they often stick out their tongues, as if to say my bad. Kali is saying she’s imperfect — that nothing in the world is perfect, even gods. I think that’s cool.”

  Jericho was definitely impressed.

  “So — are you thinking about getting some ink?” she asked.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “What?”

  “That this would be my first?”

  “Yep,” she said smiling. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I dunno,” Jericho said. “Do you have, um, temporary tattoos?”

  “Sure,” she replied. “You can get Henna. It’ll last maybe two weeks.”

  “I don’t think that’ll work for me.”

  Rainbow looked at him with curiosity.

  “Then you’ll need regular ink,” she said. “You have any imagery in mind?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jericho said. “I’m thinking maybe...a few numbers. My lucky number is 8668.”

  “Oh, she said. “The Hated.”

  Jericho was gobsmacked.

  “I’ve done a number of their members,” she said casually. “You a skinhead under that Yankees cap?”

  “Yes, but I’m not... I’m not a member. I’m just... thinking about it.”

  Rainbow smiled and spoke calmly. “Listen, I make no judgments around here. Fact is, I’ve done work on gang-bangers, bikers, rockers, ex-cons, Aryan Nations. I don’t agree with all their ideologies, but I don’t turn anyone away. It’s like, if you’re a doctor in an emergency room, you don’t refuse to treat someone, even if he’s a mass murderer. Plus, this is my business. I’m sure you understand, Vern.”

  “I do,” Jericho said.

  “Where do you want the numbers?” she asked. “Same place as the other members?”

  Jericho pulled down his shirt collar and pointed below his left collar bone. ”Here is good.”

  “Just beneath the sternal extremity of the clavicle.”

  “You’re... anatomically correct,” he said. He realized his words had a somewhat flirtatious tone. That hadn’t happened since Maria. Cool it.

  Rainbow smiled, and indicated her couch. “Why don’t you sit here? I’ll show you some choices.”

  Jericho joined her and she opened the large loose-leaf catalog book on the coffee table. She thumbed through the pages till she came to one filled with numbers. They were in every conceivable font style — modern, deco, gothic, Victorian, medieval, vintage, steampunk, metro. There were various colors; black, red, and blue being the most common.

  He pointed to a small blue one. “I think that’ll work.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Simple but tasteful.”

  “Lemme ask you something,” Jericho said. “If, down the road, I want this removed, can you do that?”

  “I can, but I wouldn’t advise it. Removal is much more p
ainful than application. And it’s not always successful. You could be left with ugly scarring and the tat might still be somewhat visible.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “Rather than removal, most people opt for a re-do. That means I do additional work, and convert the original image into something else — disguise it, so to speak.”

  “You could do that with the numbers?”

  “I could make them into a very nice rose.”

  Jericho thought about it for a few moments.

  “Um... How long will it take to heal?” he asked.

  “It’s small, so a couple of weeks should do it.”

  “What will it look like in, say, a week?”

  “A little red and swollen, but... presentable.”

  Jericho smiled. ”Let’s do it.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. How much will it cost.”

  “Two hundred. Including after-care if you need it.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  “Rarely.”

  “Okay.”

  “I need to see your ID,” she said. “It’s the law.”

  Jericho handed her his drivers’ license. She wrote down his ID info on a note pad.

  “Just hang here,” she said, getting up. “I need about five minutes to get my work room ready.”

  She turned and walked through the beaded curtain and flicked a switch. A bright light shown through the translucent multicolored beads.

  “One question,” Jericho said loudly. “Is this gonna hurt?”

  “Yes,” came her matter-of-fact reply.

  On the coffee table Jericho saw a copy of The East Hampton Star. The headline read: MURDER OF HISPANIC ACTIVIST STIRS PROTESTS. Below that was a photograph of the demonstrators in front of Police Headquarters. Further down the page was a photo of the Lopez boys, standing with their mother in front of their house. The caption read: Lopez Family Urges Calm.

  Jericho looked intently at the picture of Paz Lopez and her two sons. His eye caught something on Eric’s varsity baseball jacket. He peered at it closely, then shouted — “OHMIGOD!”

  He stood up as Rainbow appeared behind the beaded curtain.

  “Listen,” the detective said. “Something’s come up. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Did I... did the pain scare you off? It’s really not...”

  “No, no. It’s just... something unexpected.”

  “...Okay.

  “I’ll call you later and we’ll... figure things out.”

  “All right.”

  She came through the curtain. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Jericho grabbed the copy of the Star and stuck

  it under his arm,

  “Mind if I take this paper?”

  “...Sure.”

  Jericho was already out the door when he yelled back.

  “Sorry!”

  As Jericho drove quickly back to East Hampton, something he’d said to Vangie kept repeating in his mind — At times, in the past, I’ve followed a straight path, only to find the facts suddenly took me in an entirely new direction.

  CHAPTER 19.

  When Jericho got to the police headquarters, he went to his office, booted up his computer and found the online edition of The Star.

  The screen showed a digital version of the front page, with a high resolution 300 dpi picture of Eric and Seth Lopez with their mother. It was much clearer than the pixelated newsprint photo. Jericho zoomed in tight on the picture and it confirmed what he’d seen in the newspaper. Eric’s varsity baseball jacket was open and one of the five shank buttons, the middle one, was missing. Each of the other buttons was embossed with a six pointed star surrounded by a circle. They seemed identical to the button found in the sand near the lifeguard chair where the body was sitting.

  After printing out the detailed photo, Jericho went to the evidence room, where he retrieved the evidence bag containing the button from the beach. He compared it to the buttons on the jacket Eric was wearing in the photograph. It was an exact match.

  This placed Eric Lopez at the scene of the crime!

  He brought the button to Sean Anderson at the fingerprint lab.

  “Can you find me a print?”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  Sean went into a back room and came back about ten minutes later.

  “Found a decent partial,” he said. “I ran it through the database and it belongs to Eric Lopez, one of the kids who was here last week after their father was killed.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “You think the kid had something to do with the murder?”

  “Yes,” Jericho said. “But I’m not sure what yet. Thanks, Sean.”

  When Jericho got back to his office, the possibilities were whirling in his brain. The hate group had been the prime suspect. Were they now out of the picture? What was Eric Lopez’s role? Hard to believe he killed his father. But if he did, what about his brother? Was Seth involved? What could’ve been the motive?

  Stop it! Jericho said to himself. Experience had taught him that imagining murder scenarios could be misleading and counter-productive. As Mouse used to say, ”Investigate, don't speculate.

  Right now, Jericho’s next step was to interview Seth and Eric Lopez. Knowing the boys would be at school, he called their mother.

  “Mrs. Lopez,” he said. “I heard about Caroline. How’s she doing?”

  “Officer Clark was here with a shrink yesterday,” she said. “They took her over to the hospital. I visited her today and she seems to be doing better. She’s still medicated but she’s a lot calmer.”

  “They’ll take good care of her. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “I understand,” Jericho said. “...Listen, I need to get some more background on your husband. I’d like to talk to Seth and Eric about him.”

  “I could give you some background. Carlos was such a wonderful...”

  “You’ve been through enough,” Jericho said. “Best not to stir up old memories. Can you get the boys to my office around eight o’clock tonight?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Detective... are you... how is it going with your investigation?”

  “It’s a slow process, but things are moving along.”

  “I’m praying for you.”

  “Thank you,” Jericho said. ”And tell your sons not to worry. Some folks get nervous when they get interviewed at a police station. But there’s no cause for concern. It’ll just be an informal chat.”

  This was just the first of many half-truths, subterfuges, and outright falsehoods that were the necessary evils of a police interrogation. Lies — to reveal the truth.

  Jericho was never entirely comfortable with this dishonesty, but as he often told himself — It comes with the territory.

  CHAPTER 20.

  When Jericho entered the precint house, Officer James Ho was the night desk sergeant. Jericho told him to expect two teenage boys, and to please bring them to Interrogation Room B. when they arrived.

  As he walked to his office Jericho passed the detective squad room and saw Rattigan, the only detective on duty, texting on his IPhone. At night during the off-season, the station house was quiet, with only a few cops and the radio dispatcher on duty.

  There are two interrogation rooms at EHTP Police Headquarters. Room A is the old-fashioned kind; cramped, with harsh lighting, peeling paint, and the traditional one-way mirror. Room B is spacious, neat and clean, and features state-of-the-art recording equipment. Observers can watch the interview in a little room containing the CCTV monitor.

  In his office Jericho prepared for the Lopez boys’ interview. He printed out two registration forms, and placed them on separate clipboards, each with a ballpoint pen attached to it by a string.

  Afterwards he went to the CCTV room. He opened the control panel and pressed RECORD. There would now be digital audio and video of the entire interview. Under the law, Jericho was not required to inform Seth and Eric
about the recording.

  Jericho entered the interrogation room and sat down at a steel table. Next to him he placed his canvas bag, containing the two clipboards, the Star photograph of Seth and Eric, and the evidence bag holding Eric’s jacket button.

  Usually, when there are two possible suspects in a case, the police interview them separately. But in this instance, Jericho felt talking to both brothers at the same time would likely expose any inconsistencies, and yield a more truthful outcome. Plus, he had set up this meeting as an informal chat, so separating them would only put them on guard.

  Seth and Eric arrived about five minutes later, ushered in by Officer Ho. Jericho greeted them warmly and had them take seats across the table from him. Eric was wearing an OLA hoodie, rather than his baseball jacket.

  “Guys, I really appreciate your coming in,” Jericho said. “I know you’re going through a lot right now, but I’m sure you want to help with this investigation.”

  Both boys nodded.

  Jericho took out the two clipboards. “Before we get started, I need you to fill out these registration forms. We already have your contact info, but this is just bureaucratic bullshit — typical of government paper-pushers, whose sole function is creating rules to make it harder for the police to do their jobs.”

  The boys smiled knowingly.

  Jericho handed them the clipboards. They filled out the forms with the attached ballpoint pens and returned them to Jericho. He put them back in his canvas bag.

  “Just so we understand each other,” Jericho said, knowing this interview was being recorded. “You came here voluntarily. I mean, you don’t feel like I pressured you or anything like that. Right?”

  “Right,” Eric said.

  “We’re glad to help,” his brother said.

  “Okay,” Jericho said. “Now, thanks to you guys, I’m continuing to investigate that racist group, The Hated. In fact, I’m planning to go undercover and infiltrate their operation.”

  He doffed his baseball cap, revealing his bald pate.