Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series)

by Paul Sekulich

Judd Kemp followed the ME toward the den, abruptly stopped and pivoted back toward the front of the house. He had a feeling. It was a feeling that struck detectives often. A premonition. Not always good.

  When Judd looked out the large window in the front room he saw the uniforms still out on the lawn and driveway in dark blue clusters, some still searching, but many smoking and sipping. Neighbors shuffled to the crime scene tape and gazed with frozen faces. The lady looked on from the next door fence and dabbed her eyes between waves of sobbing. A moment later, the manifestation of Judd’s gut feeling appeared. It was Frank Dugan’s Bronco.

  Frank leapt from the car and let it drift into the curb as he dashed for the house. Judd bolted for the door and crashed through it to get outside. Two uniformed officers intercepted Frank in the driveway, but found him far too strong and athletic to stop. The young detective barged through the men and spun his way in Judd’s direction. Judd extended his hands, to cushion Frank’s momentum.

  “Frank, listen to me,” Judd said as Frank rammed him against the front door. “You can’t go in there.”

  Judd, the much larger man, grasped Frank’s jacket at the collar.

  “Get out of my way, Judd,” Frank said, his blue eyes wide and piercing. “I want to see my family.”

  “You do not need to see what’s in there,” Judd said.

  “Who are you to tell me what to see in my home? You going to pull rank on me, lieutenant?”

  “Please, Frank. I’m begging you as a friend.”

  “Get out of my way.”

  Judd released his grip on Frank and reluctantly stepped aside. Frank shot into the house. Moments later everyone outside turned toward the wailing cries from the house.

  Every man and woman standing around the house bowed their heads and closed their eyes in helplessness. Judd knew that all in witness there would go home that night and gather their loved ones close.

  All save one.

  Chapter 4

  The funeral for the Dugan family was one of such solemnity that exchanges by the attendees never rose above whispers and facial language.

  Frank had difficulty leaving the three closed caskets resting on their biers, and stared at the framed photographs of the children and Amy that sat atop each lid. Pictures from a happier time, frozen in smiling faces.

  Judd Kemp hung back. Frank knew he was there to provide comfort, but mainly to keep watch on his friend. He leaned on Amy’s casket with extended arms, his head bowed. Judd drifted near and placed his hand on Frank’s shoulder.

  “Let’s leave them to heaven,” Judd said.

  Frank nodded.

  “I want to go to a nice bar,” Judd said, “and I don’t want to drink alone.”

  Frank pushed himself off the mahogany lid and faced Judd.

  “Tough day. I could use a drink,” Frank said, his watery eyes burning red.

  “I know you went through some tough ones in Iraq,” Judd said. “I’m sure they weren’t even close to this.”

  The two men walked slowly from the burial site. Frank stopped to look back, but Judd steered him toward a line of waiting cars.

  * * *

  Barbara Chalmers stood at the roadside and smiled at Frank and Judd as they approached their black limousine. Judd seated Frank in the limo and stepped over to her.

  “Ms. Chalmers, I have your statement on my desk,” Judd said. “After the Grand Jury makes its decision to charge those suspects we’ll be heading to trial. I’ll need you to meet with the prosecutor and me to prepare our case.”

  “I’ll be there, detective. Nothing can keep me from testifying for Amy.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be in touch,” Judd said and joined Frank in the limo.

  A moment later the limo drove off. Judd grabbed the car phone and pressed a button.

  “Take us to the del Coronado,” Judd said to the driver.

  * * *

  The Babcock & Story bar at the Hotel del Coronado was one of those five-star lounges that was as good as it gets for ambiance. The elegant rattan seating amid the indoor palms spoke of celebrity, Pacific vacations, and class. The last place Judd wanted to take his grieving partner was to one of their regular saloons slaking the thirst of fifty half-bagged cops from the department. The del Coronado was special, exclusive, and the patrons there were polite and honored individual privacy. One could talk there without shouting, and Judd wanted to assess Frank’s mental health in this awful time. Judd was a veteran of reading people. Years of dealing with hard core liars had sharpened his instincts far beyond the subjective accuracy of a polygraph reading. A couple of drinks and a friendly talk with his partner would tell him volumes.

  “Your aunt saw those men pass by your house in a car,” Judd said. “A little later she saw them behind your house.”

  “Doesn’t prove that they’re murderers,” Frank said and downed the last swallow of his scotch.

  “Puts them at the scene.”

  “Try to make murder stick on that.”

  “Barbara puts them in the house,” Judd said and signaled the bartender for refills.

  “Without hard evidence, it’s circumstantial, at best. Besides, they may discredit my aunt’s testimony for being biased.”

  “You think they were there asking for directions?”

  “Can’t prove what they were there for.”

  The bartender brought fresh drinks. Frank pulled his glass over and took a sip.

  “Marty Dimino will be prosecuting,” Judd said. “You know his conviction record.”

  “He’s the best, but he’s going to need more evidence. Vincent Bugliosi couldn’t get a conviction with what we have.”

  “We have your Aunt Barbara who places them at the scene.”

  “Yeah, but you and I both know what cops and juries think about eye witnesses. Get ten eye witnesses who saw the same event, and you get ten different versions of what happened.”

  Frank sipped his drink and stared out at the ocean.

  “It’s unimaginable that they did what they did without leaving a single piece of hard evidence,” Frank said. “They must’ve been trained by a master.”

  “The grand jury should decide what we’ve got is sufficient for charges and a trial.”

  “How? Forensics didn’t find one fingerprint, or a single hair or fiber that could link any of the four to the crime. On top of that, they all claim they were there asking about a house for sale in the development. So they can’t be convicted for leaving footprints.”

  “We do have something…,” Judd said staring into his glass.

  Frank gazed at Judd, waiting for the rest of Judd’s statement.

  “I didn’t want to bring this up until I had to,” Judd said.

  “You don’t keep anything from me about this. Not ever.”

  “There was a small digital camera found in the den.”

  “Pictures were in it?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah. Shots of your front yard. A ‘95 Chevy Impala, black, is in the background. There are men in the car, staring at Amy.”

  “It’s them?”

  “It’s them,” Judd said. "We had the photo enlarged and digitally enhanced. The driver is Ernie Gaither."

  “Why would you hold an important photo like that back?”

  “The camera and digital card are being held in evidence. Look, it’s not that photo I was concerned about. It’s the other shots on the digital card.”

  Frank stared into his drink glass for a moment.

  “Last pictures of Amy and the kids?” Frank asked low.

  Judd Kemp never found it necessary to reply to rhetorical questions.

  Chapter 5

  Judge Harold Spellman’s courtroom was packed to capacity with its walls covered by standing onlookers and media personnel. The press wasn’t about to miss attending the most sensational criminal trial since the Manson gang murders monopolized the news. It had become a main topic in barroom and office conversations. The Dugan murder trial had achieved media attention equal to the
O. J. Simpson trial, and public interest was off the Nielsen ratings scale. Detective Frank Dugan, whether he liked it or not, was on a celebrity level held by top Hollywood movie stars. He was weary of the attention and glad the trial could wrap up today.

  The prosecuting attorney, Martin Dimino, stepped over and placed his hand on Frank’s shoulder. He leaned close to his ear and whispered.

  “Final summaries will be coming up. From there, it’s in the hands of the jury,” Marty said.

  Frank and mouthed a silent thank you. Marty returned to his seat at the prosecution’s table on the right side of the room.

  Lieutenant Mike Graham, a heavy-set plainclothes detective from the SDPD, drifted by the prosecution table on his way to a seat on the aisle and gave Frank and Marty a thumbs-up.

  Ernie Gaither sat at the defense table on the left. Frank saw the other three suspects, Dwayne Pinkney, Scottie Fisher, and Mitch Davis directly behind him in the gallery. He had taken a good look at their raggedy dress and unkempt appearance when they were brought in and interviewed at the station. Today, all four young men wore conservative jackets and ties, their hair trimmed and neatly combed. A classic real life example of wolves in sheep’s clothing, Frank thought. Uniformed guards surrounded the group with watchful eyes scanning the room often and thoroughly.

  * * *

  Marty Dimino stood before the jury dressed in a dark gray suit, a white dress shirt, and a muted paisley tie. His erect posture and short-cropped black hair showed a sprinkling of gray, giving him an ex-military demeanor. He passed his dark eyes carefully over each member of the jury. After panning past the last juror, he began.

  “Four men enter a home, our last bastion of security, an inviolate place, a sacred domain where we share our innermost secrets and our love. Three strange, terrifying men break all the rules of that sanctity, and illegally enter a family’s private home. Perhaps, they came for money or whatever they could sell for money."

  Errol Malay, the defense attorney, rose from behind the defense counsel’s table.

  “Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay,” Malay said.

  Judge Spellman, an imposing man in his forties, shot a look at Malay.

  “Overruled,” Spellman said. “May I remind the defense, as well as the jury, that summations are not evidence. Proceed, Mr. Dimino.”

  “Mister Gaither and the three other men, you see here,” Marty said, indicating Ernie and the three men behind him, “entered the Dugan home armed with knives, ostensibly to steal—”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Malay said, jumping up. “Irrelevant. Only one man is on trial here today.”

  “Mr. Malay,” Spellman said. “If you object once more during this summation, I will object to you being here during Mr. Dimino’s statements. Make your objections in the body of your own summation to the jury, where you may include rebuttal. I feel like I have to teach law school here, and I, frankly, don’t like it.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” Malay said, and sat.

  Dimino continued.

  “This lady here,” Dimino said, pointing to Barbara Chalmers in the gallery behind Frank, “has testified that she saw the four men leaving the Dugan home and went over to check on Amy Dugan. What she saw was the horror of watching her brutally stabbed friend dying.

  Dimino took a sip of water from the prosecution table, allowing his last statement time to have maximum effect.

  “Amy Dugan managed to tell Ms. Chalmers that the men wanted jewelry and believed the Dugans were rich jewelry dealers. So the accused, their leader, came to steal jewelry to probably fence for money. But that apparently wasn’t enough. He wanted something more. Something decent citizens never imagine, ever, in their entire lives. These men came with lethal weapons, far above and beyond what was needed to pull off a robbery against a single, unarmed woman and two tiny children. No, Mr. Gaither wanted something more. Much more. He wanted blood. He wanted to brutally murder a helpless family, who never caused him one moment’s discomfort. Indeed, people who had never laid eyes on him before that fateful day last July. Mr. Gaither and his men wanted to watch a lovely, innocent lady and two small children; one bright-eyed, three‑year‑old little boy and a pretty little girl of five, die. Here, take a look at them.”

  Dimino picked up a framed picture of Amy Dugan and the two children from the prosecution table and showed it to the jury. The photo showed a happy Amy and the two children laughing in a beach setting.

  “Look at them. Look at those faces, those smiles. Look at the happiness that’s there in this picture. Ah, but there’s something missing. One face is absent. The smiling and happy face of the photographer. When he took this picture he was happy too, like the subjects in the picture. The photographer is this man here,” Dimino said, indicating Frank Dugan sitting behind the prosecution table, “the loving father of those children, and the devoted husband of that beautiful woman. His smile has been removed from his face ... and perhaps from his life.

  Dimino paced slowly to the evidence table, picked up a 9x12 manila envelope, opened it and removed a handful of large photographs.

  “Now I’m going to show you pictures that are not so happy. You’ve seen these before, but I want to make them indelible in your minds before you decide the fate of the accused.”

  Dimino moved close to the jury box and held up one of the photos.

  “This is that same little boy you saw in the family picture,” Dimino said.

  Several jurors were visibly appalled by what was depicted in the photo.

  “This is the little girl.”

  Dimino showed them a different photo.

  “It took the county coroner several hours to figure out which child was which.”

  Frank dropped his chin on his chest and closed his eyes.

  “I’ve known our coroner for over ten years. He’s a dedicated professional who has no peer in his field. After he examined the victims in these pictures, he went out into the street in front of the Dugan home and wept. There are limits to us all.”

  Dimino pointed to a man in the first row of the gallery.

  “San Diego police Lieutenant Judd Kemp here, who led the initial investigation, said the crime scene was so gruesome that several of his veteran men became so physically ill that they asked not be sent back into the Dugan house.

  Dimino took out another photo from envelope.

  “This is that pretty lady in the family picture. After they raped and tortured her, this is what they did to Amy Dugan. It’s hard to believe that this was once a person.

  Several jurors shook their heads, a few looked away, while others took out handkerchiefs and dabbed their eyes.

  “What’s even harder to believe is that human beings could do this to someone. And I guess the answer is that no human being could. Only animals, with no conscience whatsoever could do such a thing.”

  Errol Malay squirmed in his seat and clenched his fists.

  Dimino stuffed the photos into the manila envelope, except one, and placed them on his table. He returned to the jury carrying the single photo at his side.

  “They came for jewelry, for money. And, while fully aware of their predetermined course, they committed the most heinous and unthinkable crimes of horror against fellow humans. This is but the first of four trials to be conducted in this case. At present, there is only one man on trial, he man who owned the car identified at the scene. The other perpetrators will soon have their day in court, but for now, we want to concentrate our attention on Ernest Bernard Gaither, or Ernie Gaither, as he’s known to his associates. But whether it’s one trial, or four separate trials, the State demands justice. Every peace‑loving citizen demands justice. Frank Dugan here, as a husband, a father, and a decorated veteran and police officer, pleads with you, his distinguished peers, to, one by one, make it impossible for these four, insufferable individuals to ever cause innocents pain again. To ensure this, we have only one recourse. We ask for the death penalty. We ask that societal cancers be removed. Cut out so they can’t re
appear and continue to kill. We ask you to make our place in the world safe for our families and safe for little children to smile and laugh again.”

  Once again, Dimino displayed the happy photograph of Amy and the Dugan children, then stepped to the prosecution table and turned back to the jury box.

  “Whatever you decide, I want you to be aware of the fact that this man, Frank Dugan, has already been illegally and cruelly given a life sentence from which there is no return. A life condemned to only remembering his beloved family, loved ones that are never coming back. The State rests, Your Honor.”

  Dimino sat next to Frank, patted him on the forearm.

  “Will the defense make its closing remarks?” the judge said.

  “It will, Your Honor,” Errol Malay said, rising.

  “Proceed.”

  Malay stepped before the jury. His black silk, double-breasted suit and charcoal shirt sharply contrasted with his fire engine red tie. He smiled at several of the jurors as if they were old friends he recognized.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defense wants to see justice prevail in this case every bit as much as you do. Whoever did these crimes has to answer and pay the price for their unspeakable acts. What we don’t want is to see innocent people wrongly convicted of something they didn’t do, and thereby compound tragedy and wrongdoing with yet more tragedy and more wrongdoing. For then, it is we who become the criminals. Right now, we are asked to consider this case as it pertains to Ernest Bernard Gaither.”

  Malay strode to the defense table and indicated Gaither with an outstretched palm.

  “Mr. Gaither’s car has been allegedly placed near the scene of the crime by a solitary witness who claims to have memorized a license plate on a moving vehicle never closer to her than forty to fifty feet and pulling rapidly away. This witness, Barbara Chalmers, the aunt of Frank Dugan,” Malay said, pointing her out, “and the next door neighbor of the Dugans, further stated that she saw the four men who left the Dugan house at around 11:30 AM on the day of the crime, yet she was never able to pick out even one of these alleged perpetrators in several police line‑ups. We must be certain, when we convict anyone of a crime, that the evidence supports that conviction, and, need I remind you, beyond a reasonable doubt. Therein is the problem with convicting Mr. Gaither, who is on trial for his life and is facing, among other charges, the capital crime of murder. The problem is that there has not been one piece of hard evidence linking him with the crime. Not one shred. There is enormous reasonable doubt."