“Tell them that I appreciate their help. But what were they doing in that alley?”
Huerta turned back to the younger man, and they spoke for several seconds.
“They won’t talk about what they were doing. Just that they were in the back seat of their car,” Huerta said. “They only talk to you because Abuelo Lupe said to.”
“I don’t understand,” Will said.
“All Mexican people in Barstow, they love Abuela Lupe. If you need a place to stay and you have no money, she will find you a room. If you need a job, she will help you find one. If you are sick and you can’t pay a doctor, she will help.”
Comprehension dawned in Will’s mind. “And she works in a gas station?”
“The station is owned by three of her grandsons.”
“Now I understand. How close were they to the white pickup truck?”
Huerta turned to the two men and again they spoke.
“The white pickup stopped right next to their car. The Anglo was talking to the Salvadoran. These men were afraid, but they couldn’t leave because they thought the Salvadoran or the Marine would shoot them.”
“The Anglo was a Marine?”
“He wore a uniform. Camouflage.”
“Did they take the rocket launcher?” Will asked.
Again Huerta translated. “Yes. They put it in front, with them, and then they went east, up Main Street.
“Thank you so much,” Will said to the man. He turned to the uniformed cop. “Can you call your pal and tell him to come back? The search is canceled.”
The cop moved a few feet away, and Will turned back to Huerta.
“Please thank these man, and ask if they will come with me to the police station so an artist can draw a picture of the Marine with the RPG?”
Huerta translated, and each man shook his head.
“They have no papers. They won’t go to a police station—.”
Will nodded. “What if I the artist goes to your café? Would they go there and work with the artist? It would be later, maybe this afternoon or tomorrow, because the artist would have to come from San Bernardino.”
Huerta turned back to the young men, and they spoke at length.
“Si, they will come to the café.”
Twenty-six
“The woman you saved, Mr. Chelmin—she’s sort of the matriarch of the Mexican community in Barstow. Her grandsons own that station.”
Chelmin nodded. After a shower, a change of clothes, two cups of black coffee, and another stack of pancakes, he felt almost human again. Except that he really, really needed a cigarette.
“The fibbies are expecting us. Let’s go,” Chelmin said.
Ten minutes later, they walked into the Barstow PD conference room. At the head of the table was Chief Arthur Spaulding. At the other end of the table, immaculately groomed, sat fifty-four-year-old San Bernardino County District Attorney Dennis Swartz. Between them were Blair and Hollingsworth, Barstow Detective Earl Avery, and two fortyish white men in business suits whom Will did not recognize.
Will took the empty chair next to Blair, and Chelmin the chair between Hollingsworth and one of the unidentified suits.
Arthur Spaulding cleared his throat, and as the room quieted, he gestured toward the man sitting next to Will. “For those of you who don’t know him, let me introduce the U.S. Attorney for the Central District of California, Irwin Shawcross, and his deputy for Organized Crime, Gary Finklestein.”
The man sitting next to Chelmin nodded and smiled.
“Mr. Shawcross?”
Shawcross looked around the room. “A very strange confluence of events here in Barstow, and I want to make sure that all agencies are working in harmony. To begin with, for my own curiosity, could someone please explain how it is that Detective Willson Spaulding of Barstow PD became a federal agent?"
Awkwardly, Chelmin got to his feet. “Special Agent Rudy Chelmin, U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Command. That is on me,” he said, and shorthanded the series of events that had transformed Will from recruit to CID agent.
“Excuse my interruption, Agent Chelmin,” Shawcross said. “I can see where he would be useful to your investigation, but how does a raw recruit become a CID agent overnight?”
“I was coming to that. Colonel Baker appointed Spaulding an Acting Sergeant, and he called the Deputy CID Commander, Brigadier General Morris Goldzweig, and requested that Spaulding be appointed a temporary Special Agent for up to thirty days. Mr. Spaulding has copies of his orders, and I have a confirming email on my phone if you’d care to see it.”
“That won’t be necessary, ” Shawcross said.
“What we have here, legally speaking, is a big bowl of spaghetti,” Shawcross continued. “The Army is investigating a murder that may have taken place on the Marine Base. The FBI is investigating the attempted murder of two Army CID agents. Barstow PD is investigating a bomb or some such that blew up a gas station and that might also have been a further attempt on the life of one or both of the Army agents. Barstow is also investigating a bank robbery, which may have been related to the attack on the Army Agents—and was in any case foiled by their quick and courageous efforts. Because it is an FDIC-insured bank, the FBI also has jurisdiction. Have I got that right so far?”
“Uh, not exactly,” Finklestein said. “I got a call this morning from Homeland Security, and they are saying that if this gasoline station bomb was an act of terrorism, they will take jurisdiction.”
A low groan went around the table.
Swartz, the district attorney, raised his hand. “There is still another meatball in this spaghetti bowl,” he said, eliciting a few chuckles.
“Detective, or temporary Special Agent, Spaulding is the key witness in a murder trial of a member of one of the county’s best-known and most respected families. That family’s newspaper and its affiliated television and radio stations have been devoting a lot of ink and airtime to the supposed malfeasances of Detective Spaulding, no doubt in an effort to poison the jury pool. In addition, someone, most likely the defendant’s family—we can’t prove anything—has tampered with evidence to a degree that undermines the people’s case, to wit, they have caused, we believe, key witnesses to refuse to testify or disappear, and they have managed to make a Mercedes-Benz disappear in a manner worthy of David Copperfield. This torrent of public allegations has made it difficult for me on two counts: seating an unbiased jury, and deciding if Detective Spaulding, or Special Agent Spaulding—whatever he is to be called—is a credible witness.
“I’m happy to say that I believe that my office has overcome both these obstacles.
“In the Prinze murder trial, about an hour ago I seated a jury of twelve, with six alternates, all of whom have sworn under oath that they know nothing about the very serious but unproven allegations swirling around Detective Spaulding. My own investigative staff, working in concert with the FBI, the California Bureau of Investigative Services, and the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Office, have found that none of the allegations of misconduct have any basis in fact.
“I intend to put Spaulding on as my first witness, tomorrow morning at ten. And the reason that this is important is that if any of the recent attempts on his life, if that’s what they were, had anything to do with his testimony, once he has testified and the defense has had the opportunity to cross-examine him, it’s too late to prevent him testifying, and so there is little reason for the defendant or his family to want him dead.”
Will raised his hand. “So, I’m on the stand tomorrow, first thing?”
Swartz nodded. “When this meeting is over, I will place you in protective custody. I’ll have my officers take you home to pick up any clothing that you need, and then we will secrete you in a safe location until your testimony is completed.”
“Mr. Chelmin—” Will began.
“That’s fine with me,” Chelmin replied. “Your testimony in this case was always part of the reason that I brought you with me.”
“Hold on
, just a minute,” Hollingsworth said. “I understand that his testimony is crucial, but before you spirit him away, I’d like the Army’s take on this whole sequence of crimes.”
Chelmin nodded. “Here it is, and if Will has anything to add or a different take on something, I hope he’ll speak up.”
“First of all, we believe that the bank robbery, the gas station attack, and the sniper attack while we were in Kendra Farrell’s apartment are all linked. We think this is all the work of an enthusiastic but not-very-capable gang of Salvadorans with unknown motivation. They sent a sniper to kill one or both of us, but he was a crappy shot. A real sniper kills with the first shot.
“Second, we have eyewitness testimony that the Salvadoran who fired the RPG was instructed in how to load and fire the weapon by a Marine, or at least by a Spanish-speaking Anglo wearing Marine utilities. It seems likely that he missed Will’s car and hit a gas pump instead. We now have a preliminary forensic report that confirms that somebody went under Spaulding’s car and used a drill to puncture his gasoline tank. An FBI crime scene tech found a quarter- inch-wide puncture near the bottom of the tank.
“I was driving Spaulding’s car because at the last minute I decided to go back out to the Marine base and continue my investigation into the Farrell murder.
“So this leads me to suppose that Spaulding was the target of the assault.
“As far as the bank heist, I believe that this was a target of opportunity. All of Barstow’s police were at the scene of the gas-station fire. The shortest route out of town from that fire goes past two banks. Supposing that the Salvadorans got the idea as they passed the first one, they came across another, and far larger bank in the next block. I think that, if they had planned this, they would not have left an unoccupied getaway car with its doors open on the street in front of the bank, when this bank has a back entrance from a parking lot accessible from the alley. If they had planned this, they would have brought four men, and one of them would have stayed behind the wheel while the other three went in for the stickup.
“Will?”
Will stood up. “I agree with all that. But I don’t know if any or all of those attempts on our lives had anything to do with the Taylor Prinze case. They might just as easily have something to do with disrupting our investigation of the Farrell murder. And so far, they have done just that. We are no closer to closing that case now than we were when we arrived in Barstow almost three days ago.”
Hollingsworth nodded. “Thank you for your help. I’m sure Chelmin will be happy to have you back when you’re finished in court.”
Twenty-seven
“State your full name,” said the Latina clerk of Division Four of the Superior Court of San Bernardino County.
“Willson—with two els—Voit Spaulding.”
Someone in the back of the packed courtroom tittered, someone else giggled, and Judge Anthony struck the wooden block in front of her with a gavel, twice.
Beatrice Anthony was a very tall, well-proportioned woman of forty-five, with feline features, very black skin, and long, straight black hair that seemed to flow into and merge with her black robes, lending her the appearance of an enormous cat.
“One more outburst and I will clear this courtroom!” she said and looked at her clerk.
The clerk said, “Willson Voit Spaulding, do you solemnly swear or affirm that the testimony that you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you, God?”
“I do,” Will said.
“Be seated,” the clerk replied and returned to her desk.
Swartz strode confidently to the center of the courtroom, then turned to the witness box.
“Detective Spaulding, how long have you worked in law enforcement?”
“Almost five years,” Will replied.
“And before that, what did you do?”
“I was a college student.”
“Did you graduate from college?”
“I have a bachelor of science in criminal justice enforcement from California State University, Los Angeles.”
“Were you on patrol in Barstow on the night of October 22, 2015?” District Attorney Dennis Swartz asked.
“No. I was investigating a burglary. I finished around ten p.m. and headed home on Barstow Road. I saw a car half on the shoulder, so I stopped.”
“Why did you stop?”
“The car presented a hazard to northbound traffic. I wanted to tell the driver to pull off the road. When I stopped behind his car, I saw what looked like a bloody handprint on its trunk. I took out my flashlight and circled the car.
“The right headlamp was shattered, and the fender was crumpled as if it had struck something. There appeared to be blood on the crumpled area.”
“What did you do then, Detective?”
“I approached the driver. The window was open, and when I shined my flashlight inside, I saw a man fiddling with a handgun.”
“Fiddling?”
“He kind of waved it at me while trying to release the safety with his other hand.”
“What did you do then?”
“I grabbed it.”
“And was this pistol loaded?”
“There was a nine millimeter round in the chamber and a full magazine.”
“If he was pointing a loaded gun at you, why didn’t you shoot him?”
“No need,” Will said. “Faster to take his gun away than to pull my own out and fire.”
Swartz turned and walked quickly to his table, where his assistant handed him a plastic bag with a Walther pistol. Swartz raised the bag for the jury to see, then turned to the judge. “People’s exhibit A, for submission, Your Honor.”
Judge Anthony nodded. “So noted.”
Swartz returned to the witness and handed Will the bag. “Is this the gun that you took from the man in that car, Detective?”
“It appears to be. That’s my signature on the evidence tag.”
Swartz took the package and brought it to the clerk.
“Detective,” he said, “Who did you take this gun from?”
“Taylor Prinze.”
“Did you know who Mr. Prinze was when you arrested him?”
“I went to Barstow High at the same time that he did. We were both on the football team.”
“So, would it be fair to say that you recognized Mr. Prinze when you approached him?”
“Yes,” Will replied.
“Did you say anything to Mr. Prinze before you took the gun away from him?”
“No. I just grabbed it. Then I told him to get out of the car and that he was under arrest.”
Swartz nodded. “And do you see Mr. Prinze in this courtroom?”
Will pointed at the defense table. “The man in the gray suit with a red-and-white tie.”
Swartz turned to the judge. “Your Honor, will you instruct the defendant to rise, so the jury can get a good look at him.”
The judge turned to look at the Defense table. “Mr. Baronholtz?”
“No objection,” Prinze’s lead attorney replied.
Prinze stood, a man well over six feet tall, with a muscular build and a guileless face.
Swartz said, “Detective, is that the man you took the gun from?”
“It is,” Will said.
“Thank you, Mr. Prinze, you may be seated,” Swartz said, then turned back to Will.
“After disarming Mr. Prinze, what did you do next?”
“As I said, I told him that he was to get out of the car and that he was under arrest. When he didn’t move, I opened the door, helped Mr. Prinze out, helped him to lean upright against his car, handcuffed him, then opened the trunk.”
“What did you find in the trunk?”
“A pick, a shovel, and a little girl. She was covered in blood and unconscious but breathing.”
“And then what did you do, Detective?”
“I called an ambulance. Then I searched Mr. Prinze.”
“What did you find?”
&nbs
p; “A wallet, some cash, three plastic bags containing a white crystalline substance. And a Walmart receipt.”
“What was the receipt for?”
“For a shovel and a pickaxe.”
“Was there a date on the receipt?”
“Yes. It was dated October 22nd, and time stamped at about 9:30 p.m.”
Swartz returned to the prosecution table, picked up a plastic bag and looked at the judge. “People’s Exhibit B,” for submission,” he said.
“Permission to approach the witness, your honor?”
Judge Anthony nodded. “You may approach.”
Swartz brought the envelope to Spaulding and handed it to him.
“Is this the receipt that you took into evidence from Mr. Prinze’s possession?”
Will glanced at the envelope, then turned it over and peered at the receipt’s reverse side. “That appears to be my signature on the evidence tag. And the receipt has my initials on the other side.”
Swartz took the envelope from Will and carried it to the clerk, who logged it into evidence. Then Swartz looked at Will again.
“Detective, did Mr. Prinze appear to be in possession of his faculties?”
Will shook his head. “Not at all. He appeared to be under the influence of something. Based on the presence of the white crystals, I surmised it was methamphetamine.”
“Objection!” Baronholtz cried. jumping to his feet. “The witness is not a chemist or a doctor. Move to strike.”
Judge Anthony turned to Swartz.
“Sidebar, Your Honor?”
Judge Anthony beckoned to Baronholtz, and when both attorneys arrived, covered the microphone near her seat with a hand and spoke in a low voice.
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