G'Day USA

by Tony McFadden

  Perkins leaned back in his chair, scratching his head. ‘Dog-show, this is troubling me.’

  Sampson dropped the magazine he was reading. ‘Something is always troubling you, Perk. What this time?’

  The Sergeant slid the ME’s file on his desk. ‘Time of death narrowed down to closer to 8:00pm.’

  ‘Yeah, I read that.’

  ‘Make any sense to you? The cook at the restaurant told me the order for breakfast was placed just after he arrived, a bit after 6:00 p.m.’

  ‘Got that too. Where’s the conspiracy this time?’

  ‘Why would someone bother killing themselves less than two hours after pre-ordering a breakfast for the next morning?’

  Sampson shrugged. ‘Who knows? Manic-depressive ordered food in a manic state then slipped to a deep depression.’

  ‘Seems pretty pat.’ He lifted an evidence bag. ‘And what about this? Pretty pansy gun for a man his size. His finger would barely fit the trigger guard.’

  ‘And it’s cheap and the guy didn’t have much money. Anything on the serial number?’

  ‘Shit. Knew I forgot something.’ Perkins turned on his computer. He held up an earring in another plastic evidence bag. ‘And this. Lady’s earring found on the bathroom floor.’

  ‘He had a guest. Prints will be in sometime later today. Maybe tomorrow. Look, Perk. This is your case. I’ve got other things to do. I only stopped by the house on the call because I was just around the corner. If you don’t think it’s a suicide, by all means investigate it. It’s got all the markers, but you need to be satisfied.’

  ‘I want to bounce some ideas off you once in a while.’

  Sampson pulled on his suit jacket. ‘Sure thing. I’m heading out for a coffee. Want one?’

  ‘We’ve got a machine here. I’m good.’

  ‘That dog piss? I’ll bring you something.’

  Perkins absent-mindedly waved him off. ‘Yeah, thanks. Whatever.’ He returned his focus to the files. He made a mistake before, assuming a murder was suicide. It defined his attitude after that. Never assume. Never guess. Always dig as deep as possible, and one inch more.

  Something didn’t smell right with this one.

  ‘What the fuck is it with this?’ He made notes in his ever-present pad. ‘Timing is all wrong. A guy doesn’t order food then kill himself. Out of character. And the gun. Too small.’ His computer prompted for login credentials. He looked to the back page of his notebook and entered the user name and password. Following the instructions in his book he navigated to the firearms database.

  He lifted the gun out of the evidence bag and tried to read the serial number. ‘Dammit. Fucking eyes are going.’ He put the handgun to one side for the moment and concentrated on the ME’s report.

  The entry angle of the gunshot, according to the report, matched the expected angle of a right-handed person shooting himself in the side of the head. Powder burns on the skin around the entry wound showed the barrel was either contacting the skin, or was very, very close. He flipped the page, scanned through the rest of the examination and sat back in his chair. ‘No powder on the hand. I wonder.’

  He called the ME’s office.

  ‘Morgue. What?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What. What do you want? What can I help you with? What the fuck is it now, Perkins?’

  ‘Hey, Gerry. Good to hear your voice. I’ve got a question about the Bart Sweeney report.’

  ‘The suicide?’

  ‘Maybe a suicide. I can see some inconsistencies. Things which could maybe point the case away from suicide and right into the foul play pile.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. Sometimes suicide is just suicide.’

  ‘Follow me here. Stippling at the entry wound.’

  ‘You can still read. Bueno. I’d say lightly pressed to the skull when he pulled the trigger.’

  ‘Okay, fine. I accept your expertise in the matter.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘Not by half. So where was the GSR on the hand? You don’t mention it.’

  The silence on the phone spoke volumes. ‘Wait.’

  ‘I’m waiting. You missed that?’

  ‘Yeah, I did. Good point.’

  ‘Any chance it could have come off after soaking in the tub for twelve hours?’

  Ben snorted. ‘No, pops. It takes a pretty good scrubbing to remove it. Highly unlikely. This is peculiar. What was the handgun?’

  ‘Ruger LCP. Small girl’s gun. Very narrow, very light. At the angle he’d have to hold it I’d expect to see a little bruising in the thumb webbing.’ Perkins flipped the pages in the report. ‘Don’t see anything about it in here either.’ He dropped the handset in the cradle, stood and called across the room. ‘Stanfield, come with me.’

  ‘Fantastic. Need to get out. What’s on?’

  ‘Canvassing.’

  ‘For what, exactly?’

  ‘Sweeney’s death. Need to see if anyone saw anything there last night at 8:00 or so. Time’s wasting.’

  ‘Not again. It was a suicide. He shot himself in the head, in the tub. It was pretty fucking clear, Perks. Ka-pow in the skull.’

  ‘No GSR on his hand.’

  ‘Twelve hours in the tub, maybe?’

  ‘ME says no. Doesn’t scan. Need to talk to some of the neighbors.’

  ‘There were fingerprints on the bottles picked up, right? Should talk to the owners of them, too.’

  Perkins walked out to the front steps of the Devonshire Street squad room. ‘Warm and sunny. As usually. Those prints will be on my desk by 5:00 I’m told. We’ve got time to knock on a couple of doors before then.’

  ‘So suicide’s completely off the table?’

  ‘Until I can prove conclusively it’s not murder.’

  The Killer stood in his apartment, too hyped to sit. One down. ‘So many more to go.’ He did a little soft-shoe shuffle step and turned on the TV. ‘Five hundred and twenty-three channels and not one is doing local news?’ He left it on a local cable channel and checked his watch. Almost 5:00 p.m. He paced. Waiting was the hardest part. And the best part. Building the anticipation, savoring the rush. The play was unfolding exactly as he wanted. First the suicide. It had to look like a suicide, but not too convincingly.

  He stopped the pacing and frowned. It had to be discovered for what it was. Or for what he wanted it to be. It had to. He picked up his phone and thought. There might be a way to ensure that.

  Perkins and Stanfield left the last house on their canvas. A couple of people mentioned visitors earlier in the night, around 4:00 or 5:00, but the three visitors had left by 6:00. An older, short and slightly overweight gentleman in a BMW, a younger, tall dark-haired guy in an old Honda Accord and a young, shorter blond guy, looking like a “surfer-dude” according to one, who left on foot. All well before the time of death.

  ‘Blanks, Perks. Nobody saw nuttin’.’

  ‘Not in that time frame. The killer was there later. A couple of hours later.’

  ‘So you’re 100% on the no suicide thing now.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘If there’s a single piece of evidence pointing away from suicide I assume foul play. Thought you’d have adopted that stance also.’

  ‘There could be an explanation.’

  ‘For a shooter to have no GSR on his hand, or bruise? You ever shoot one of those Rugers? Tiny little thing. Truly a woman’s gun. Really light, and while it only fires a .380 ACP round, because it’s light it kicks like a son of a bitch. And the grip is thin. That kick with the small grip in a hand as big as Sweeney’s he would have had a bruise.’ Perkins slid into the front seat of the car. ‘And the gun wouldn’t have ended up in the tub.’

  ‘How do you figure?’ Stanfield got behind the wheel of the car.

  ‘Physics. The bullet hits your brain and you immediately lose all muscle control. Newton’s Third law is still in effect, pushing your hand away from your head. The right hand was on the outside of the tub and the Ruger would have ended up somewhe
re near the toilet.’

  Stanfield nodded. ‘Makes sense. So there’s a killer out there.’

  Perkins scrolled through the numbers on his phone. ‘And we need to act like it. We need to review the trace evidence a little better.’ He dialed.

  ‘And we need to establish means, motive and opportunity.’

  ‘We’ve got all three. Hang on.’ Stanfield turned his attention to the phone. ‘Perkins here. Do me a favor, will you? I’m heading back to the station and need to see the evidence collected at the Sweeney residence. Can you have it delivered to my desk?’ He listened. ‘Yes all of it. And no, it wasn’t suicide. If you guys think the place needs another sweep, by all means come out here and do it. As a matter of fact, send some uniforms out here to lock the place down until you do. Thanks.’

  He looked at his partner. ‘You got anything planned tonight?’

  ‘It’s Tuesday. Must see TV is recording as we speak. I’m all yours.’

  ‘I bet you say that to all the guys.’

  Stanfield laughed. ‘What did you mean, “we’ve got all three”?’

  ‘“Means” is the gun, “opportunity” is the apparently otherwise empty house after 6:00 and “motive”? Well, half this town had motive to kill him.’

  ‘True. We need to talk to the people who shared a beer and pizza with him last night. Last people and all that.’ Stanfield parked. The station was less than a mile from the crime scene.

  ‘The results from the prints should be back by now. I’ll buy you food and we’ll go visit.’

  He hung up the phone. It took some coercion. Some threats. Some promises of very nice drugs. But she’d do it. And once she did, he had her for anything else he needed her to do.

  The Killer sat on his sofa, feet twitching with nervous energy. The adrenaline coursing through his system rivaled that of anything he’d done before. ‘Fuck, if I'd known this was so much fun I would have started earlier.’

  He wasn’t finished. There were others on his list. Some deserved it more than others, but none more than Sweeney. Soon stage two would kick off. This was the best spectator sport. Especially when you were the only one who knew what was going on.

  Perkins tossed the results of the AFIS search on Stanfield’s desk. ‘Three people other than the victim: Saul Green, 57, lawyer for the victim. Lives in Reseda. We’ll stop by and see him later. Kent Williams, 27, a small time actor with unfulfilled dreams. I believe he’s worked with Sweeney before. He looks like the lead in that Sweeney horror flick based in Australia. Can’t remember the name. His address is an apartment in Encino. Not the nicer part. Charles Bates, 26. Works, as far as we can tell, as a contractor in the telecoms industry. He doesn’t appear to have any connection to the victim or the other two visitors. He lives in an apartment in Compton.’

  ‘Their prints were all on file?’

  ‘They’ve all been on international flights since the fingerprinting started.’

  Stanfield nodded. ‘Shylock first?’

  ‘That’s an unfair characterization of a man we’ve never met. He might be a nice guy.’ Perkins smiled.

  ‘He’s Sweeney’s lawyer. Or he was. I think that takes him off the nice list.’ Stanfield handed the file back to Perkins. ‘Think he’s home?’

  ‘Let’s find out.’ He stood and headed for the door. ‘You’re driving again.’

  ‘Yeah sure. You ever run the serial number of the murder weapon?’

  ‘Ah, shit. I’m getting forgetful in my advancing years, young pup.’ He slid into the car and pulled his phone from his shirt pocket and called a colleague. ‘You haven’t left. Excellent. Need one more quick favor. I started but didn’t have time to finish. Have you determined ownership of the murder weapon? No? Can you run the serial number and text me the results? Fantastic. Thanks.’ He looked at Stanfield. ‘Done. Should know in half an hour or so.’

  ‘That’ll be another question answered. Lawyer’s place is around here somewhere.’ He pulled up alongside a moderately well-kept yard surrounding a modest two story house. ‘Not the most expensive lawyer, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Sweeney probably owed him a ton.’ Perkins grunted as he opened the door. ‘Let’s go ruin his dinner.’

  Saul opened the door as they walked up the steps. ‘Cops?’

  ‘Did our fashionable haircuts give us away? Are you Saul Green?’

  ‘I am. I’ve been expecting this visit. It’s about Bart, isn’t it?’

  ‘May we come in?’

  ‘Certainly. Something to drink?’

  ‘We’re fine. Thanks.’ Perkins opened his notebook. ‘You were Mr. Sweeney’s defense attorney, correct?’

  ‘Yes. His suicide was complete shock to me. Things were turning around for him.’

  ‘How’s that? He was just released from jail. Hadn’t been out for two days before he was killed. What was looking up?’

  ‘Killed? I thought it was suicide. It was announced on the radio it was suicide.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you hear. New evidence has come to light which is leading us in a different direction. I understand you were with him late yesterday afternoon.

  Saul nodded. ‘I was. That makes a bit more sense then.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Perkins waited with pen poised over paper.

  ‘He had no reason to suicide. I just signed him to a directing job. Not a lot of money, but more than he’s made in the last year.’ He smiled. ‘A lot more. Work was going to start in a day or so. Rehearsals were starting next Monday.’ Saul shook his head. ‘No. This makes more sense.’

  ‘If it makes more sense, could you tell me who you think may have had enough of a grudge with him to kill him?’

  Saul sighed and smiled. ‘Who didn’t, really? He wasn’t the most loveable of men.’

  ‘Who had he been talking to recently?’

  ‘Aside from me, that I know of, were Kent Williams and Charlie Bates - they were over last night - and the financial backers of the project earlier in the day. None of them would gain by killing him. Certainly not the backers. This is going to delay the movie. And Kent and Charlie had parts in the piece.’

  ‘I thought Charlie was in the telecoms business. He acts on the side?’

  ‘No. He’s been Assistant Director for Bart a couple of times. Bart asked him to come back. Signed him up as AD and Second Unit. He seemed keen to get back in the saddle.’

  ‘So with Bart out of the picture this Bates kid would slide into the spot?’

  Saul frowned. ‘Possible. I’d have to talk to the backers, but he’d be the logical choice.’

  Stanfield leaned forward. ‘How well do you know Mr. Bates?’

  ‘Just met him. Seemed a quiet guy. Definitely the quieter of the two. Looked like your typical surfer dude.’

  ‘So you don’t know if he was talking to anyone else?’

  ‘Who, Sweeney? No. Check his phone records.’

  ‘PacBell is sending us the records of his house phone. We’ll certainly look at that.’

  ‘Check his mobile also.’

  Perkins looked at Stanfield. ‘Do you remember seeing a mobile phone in the personal effects inventory?’

  ‘No. Strange in this day and age, but I put it down to his recent release from prison.’

  ‘I picked up a pre-pay for him. I don’t have any of the paperwork. I don’t even think I took it with me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Alltel shop in Northridge Plaza. Check with them. It would have been under my name. Wonder where it is?’

  Perkins took his phone out to arrange for the sales records from Alltel when an incoming message vibrated his phone. He opened it and swore.

  ‘What is it, pops?’

  Perkins frowned. ‘First, what have I said about calling me that in front of others? And second, they just sent me the name and address of the registered owner of the murder weapon.’ He held the phone up so Stanfield could read it.

  ‘Shit. We better go.’ To Saul he said, ‘Thanks for your time Mr
. Green. If we need anything else we’ll give you a call.’

  Perkins clenched his jaw. ‘I hope there’s a mistake with this. I kinda liked her.’

  Chapter Nine

  I knew how the scene, and the movie, ended, but the emotional hit was still strong. I blinked back tears and looked around me. Wet cheeks reflected the explosion on the screen as the music swelled and the movie came to an end. Credits crawled up the screen and there was a sudden explosion of applause as the theatre stood as one.

  Now that was freaky.

  Marty took my hand and lifted me gently to my feet. I looked around. Everyone was facing me as they applauded. I knew the movie was good; I was part of it. But I had no idea it was that good.

  He leaned close to my ear. ‘Wow. That was incredible.’

  ‘This is incredible. They’re being awfully nice, aren’t they?’

  ‘This response isn’t because they’re nice. It’s because you, and the Hanks, and Ratner made an incredible movie. This is going to break all records. When this hits the rest of the country on Thursday there isn’t going to be an empty theatre seat in America.’ He gave me a squeeze. ‘And you won’t have to audition for anything again, if you don’t want to.’

  Tom Hanks reached across a couple of seats, took my hand and smiled. ‘You nailed it. So glad you were part of this. It wouldn’t have been even half of the movie without you. And man am I glad my name is attached. Makes me look even smarter than I am. When all this hoopla dies down we need to meet, you and I and Ratner, and decide what next you’re going to do. If you’ll excuse a slightly inappropriate turn of phrase, I’m going to milk you for all you’re worth.’ He gave my hand a pat. ‘Damn fine working with you. Now where did Ratner go?’

  We made our way to the lobby. The champagne flowed and press who were at the screening waited for their opportunity to ask questions.

  A sea of other supporters took turns poking a nose in and offering congratulations. I’m cynical for my young age, but this seemed to me to be people wanting to rub against success, hoping some of it rubs off on them. But hell it was fun.