Fangs Out

by David Freed

“Looking into the case for who?”

  “The father of the victim. I believe Mr. Logan was just leaving, weren’t you, Mr. Logan?”

  “Surf’s up,” I said to the Doberman. “Wouldn’t want to keep Frankie and Annette waiting.”

  His eyes held steady on mine. In a previous life, I can only assume we must’ve crossed swords. Whatever the instinct, it was clear that his dislike of me was as instantaneous as mine was of him. At six-foot-four and 220, he had a good three inches and what looked to be about thirty pounds of steroid-fortified flank steak on me. Ah, but what I gave away in height and weight, I more than made up for in wisdom-rich years. Which is to say that if push came to shove, I was likely going to get my sage, unarmed ass stomped—not without getting in a few good thumps of my own, mind you, but stomped regardless.

  “Who’s Frankie and Annette?” He had a grating, raspy voice.

  “Original Mouseketeers,” I said. “Annette went on to have a very successful career as a professional virgin.”

  The human Doberman smiled frigidly. His teeth looked like something unearthed by a paleontologist. “You’re a regular comedian,” he said.

  “My ex-wife would beg to differ.”

  “Let him pass, Bunny,” Dowd said sternly.

  Bunny? Who names a Doberman pinscher “Bunny”? I wanted to say something snide, but held my fire.

  Grudgingly, Bunny stepped aside. “See you around, funny man.”

  “Not unless I see you first.”

  The receptionist winked at me as I walked out.

  I might’ve blushed if only I could’ve remembered how.

  THE CLERK’S office of the U.S. District Court, Southern District of California, was located a block east on Front Street, in the first floor of a modernistic, five-story building named in honor of a federal judge who, if the memorial plaque in the lobby was to be believed, never uttered an unkind word to anyone, including the hundreds of miscreants he’d sent to federal prison for the rest of their miserable lives. It was past 2:30 by the time I got there. I filled out a request form with the case number I pulled from a computer terminal, turned over my driver’s license to an indifferent civil servant manning the counter, and waited for someone to retrieve the file—or, more accurately, files.

  Excluding subsequent appeals, the government’s proceedings against Dorian Nathan Munz filled three banker’s boxes. The clerk’s office closed in less than two hours. I’d need to do some serious speed reading. Skimming was more like it. I took a seat at a wooden, librarian-style table, on an unpadded wooden chair, and dove into the transcripts of the trial.

  The case file made clear that attorney Dowd had pinned his client’s defense almost wholly on an alibi constructed from the sketchy recollections of Janet Bollinger, a co-worker of Ruth Walker’s at Castle Robotics who described herself as Ruth’s “former” best friend. Bollinger had told FBI agents initially that Dorian Munz could not have possibly killed anyone during the approximately three-hour window in which Ruth was believed murdered because he’d spent that entire evening with her. On the stand, however, Bollinger recanted. She testified that she’d gotten her dates mixed up. Upon reflection, she couldn’t be certain, she said, if she and Munz had been together the night Ruth Walker was killed, or whether it had been the night before. Munz’s attorney pressed Bollinger. Someone had threatened her, he insisted, forcing her to change her testimony, but Janet Bollinger held fast; she’d simply gotten the dates wrong. The defense’s case fell apart faster than a Kardashian marriage.

  A succession of Ruth’s friends and acquaintances testified that her breakup with Munz had been acrimonious, an allegation that Munz himself did not deny when he later took the stand in his own defense. Cellular phone records entered into evidence by the prosecution showed that he’d made several calls to Ruth’s office and home on the day of her slaying, each lasting no more than a few seconds. They were hang-up calls, the kind meant to intimidate Ruth, the prosecution theorized. Munz countered that he’d been framed: someone had stolen his phone from his locker at the YMCA, where he swam daily, then made calls to Ruth to incriminate him.

  Two prosecution witnesses testified that on the day of Ruth Walker’s murder, they observed Munz at the Mystic Mocha coffee shop in San Diego’s University Heights, a few blocks from Ruth’s apartment. Munz seemed upset about something, both witnesses said. Munz insisted that his presence at the coffee shop that day was far from sinister; he stopped by occasionally for his favorite espresso. As for his agitated mood, he claimed to have been under pressure at work.

  Ruth Walker’s autopsy found that she’d been stabbed twice in the abdomen. It revealed scrapes and bruises on her hands and arms consistent with the defensive wounds of someone who’d fought for her life and lost. Munz was taken in for questioning four days after her body was found. There were incriminating bruises on the knuckles of his left hand, photos of which were also entered into evidence. He insisted during his testimony that he’d hurt himself trying to replace the oil filter on his VW Jetta. Dowd, his attorney, claimed during the trial that the bruises were proof of Munz’s innocence; the accused was right handed.

  Though the murder weapon was never recovered, the nature of Ruth’s knife wounds showed the blade to have been approximately six inches in length and one inch wide. Munz owned a pricey set of eight steak knives fitting those specifications. The knives, ironically enough, had been a Christmas present from Ruth, given to him before their relationship soured. Dowd argued that the FBI’s own laboratory examination showed all eight knives to be in pristine condition, free of any DNA that would’ve linked any of them to Ruth Walker’s killing. Justice Department experts, however, pointed out that a well-made knife can show no sign of wear, even after years of heavy use. As for the lack of incriminating DNA on the blades, the experts testified that Munz could’ve simply washed off any flesh or blood after fatally stabbing his victim.

  There was, meanwhile, no denying the bloody Pima cotton dress shirt that was discovered inside a trash can in the alley behind Munz’s condo in San Diego’s North Park neighborhood. The monogram on the shirt’s cuff bore Munz’s initials. The blood was Ruth Walker’s. Munz insisted on the stand that the shirt had also been stolen from his health club locker, and that whoever had framed him had taken the shirt and mopped up Ruth’s blood with it.

  In the end, jurors professed little interest in Munz’s version of events—not with the mosaic of circumstantial evidence laid out by prosecutor Tassio and his team. The jury deliberated less than one day before finding him guilty.

  By the time I looked up from the files, it was nearly 4:30. Closing time. My butt was numb. What kind of federal government shells out $2 billion for a single Stealth bomber and not $2 for a lousy seat cushion? I massaged the circulation back into my bottom, stretched my aching lower back, and returned the file boxes to the counter.

  A medium-sized man in his early forties with a sallow face, short receding hair and tortoiseshell bifocals entered the clerk’s office and approached me. The right sleeve of his conservatively cut gray suit hung limp and empty.

  “Are you Mr. Logan?”

  “Depends. You a bill collector?”

  “Steve Tassio, Assistant U.S. Attorney. You called me.”

  I shook his left hand with mine.

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “The Munz file is flagged, as are all capital cases,” he said. “Anytime anyone asks to review documents in the case, the clerk’s office contacts me as a matter of routine. We like to know who’s snooping and why.”

  He gestured to the wooden table and the same unpadded chairs where’d I’d just spent the last two hours. We sat.

  “I’m afraid you’re spinning your wheels,” Tassio said. “I can assure you, Greg Castle was in no way involved in the death of Ruth Walker. Dorian Munz most definitely was.”

  “I never implied Mr. Castle was involved. Just the opposite. Ruth’s father wants me to dredge up information that would confirm Munz was lyin
g about Castle before you executed him.”

  Tassio cleared his throat, peeved. “I didn’t execute him, Mr. Logan. The people of the United States did. You’ll have to forgive me. I assumed you were attempting to somehow have the case reopened.”

  “I’m attempting to help restore the reputation of an innocent man.”

  “I can certainly appreciate your efforts, but, unfortunately, I can’t be of much assistance. Anything I’d have to say is already on record and can be found in the case file.”

  “Mr. Tassio, I’m sure you can appreciate how significantly Mr. Castle was victimized by Dorian Munz’s allegations. Mr. Castle is at a considerable disadvantage defending himself against those allegations because his accuser, the man you prosecuted, is now fertilizer, and the case is officially closed.”

  “Make your point, Mr. Logan.”

  “From what I understand, the local press had a field day with Munz’s last-minute claims. Munz was convicted nearly ten years ago. He was executed last month. The average San Diego resident is not going to come down here, request the case file, and educate himself as to the truth of what actually went down. It would be helpful if you issued a statement saying, in effect, that Munz was lying.”

  “As I said, Mr. Logan, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but whatever I’d have to say about the Munz case, I already said many times, both at trial and during a very long, protracted appellate process. Beyond that, any information, or any personal opinions I may hold, would be considered privileged and confidential.”

  He stood. I stood and gave him my business card.

  “In case you decide to reconsider.”

  “Good luck to you, Mr. Logan,” Tassio said, extending his left hand once more. We shook.

  I watched him walk out, wondering how he’d lost the arm.

  The clerk shoved my driver’s license across the counter like she couldn’t get out of there fast enough and began turning off the office lights.

  As I made my way through the courthouse lobby and toward the exit, past a couple of silver-haired U.S. marshals in blue blazers, I sensed someone’s eyes on my back. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw Steve Tassio staring at me from the elevator. Then the doors slid closed and he was gone.

  Five

  Bunny the Human Doberman was waiting for me when I stepped outside the federal courthouse. The plaza was steaming in the late afternoon sun. So was Bunny.

  “Mr. Dowd doesn’t much appreciate what you’re doing,” he said.

  “What am I doing?”

  “Asking questions. Stirring things up. Making him look bad, like he didn’t do his job ’cuz Dorian Munz lost big-time. There wasn’t nothing nobody could do for that dirt bag, anyway. The case was a dog from the git-go.”

  “You got it all wrong, Bunny. I came to bury Caesar, not to praise him.”

  Bunny stared at me like I was speaking Swahili.

  “Forget it. Have a lovely day.”

  I tried to sidestep him, but he clamped his paw on the front of my shirt and yanked me close. His breath reeked of garlic chicken.

  “Best thing you can do, homeboy, is go get in your ride and go back to wherever the fuck it is you came from, before somebody gets themselves seriously hurt.”

  “You have exactly five seconds to remove your hand,” I said, “or I will. And I guarantee you, you won’t like my methods.”

  “Is that right? Five seconds, huh? Then what, you gonna—”

  I reached down, grabbed his croutons, and squeezed like I was muscling the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.

  Bunny grunted involuntarily and held his breath. His eyes bulged.

  “That probably wasn’t three seconds, was it? Gosh darn. My bad. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, Bunny—I hope you don’t mind me calling you Bunny, it’s just that I feel so close to you right now—but really, I wasn’t counting. Which is why I was never much good at touch football. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. You have to wait to rush the quarterback? What kind of dumbass rule is that? Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d very much appreciate you removing your hand from my shirt before it gets wrinkled.”

  He let go of me, gasping for air, his face the color of eggplant. And I didn’t even have to say please.

  “I’m gonna let you down now, Bunny, nice and slow, and we’re gonna pretend like we never met, OK?”

  He nodded in agony, then vomited. The Buddha must’ve been looking out for me that day because the spatter missed me entirely.

  I lowered him to the ground with one hand still clutching his groin, while unholstering his .50-caliber Desert Eagle with the other. “Holy Moses, what do you shoot with this thing, mastodons?” I released him and started walking. When I was about thirty feet away, I turned and yelled, “Hey, Bunny.”

  He was curled like a fetus on the sidewalk, moaning, both hands clutching his throbbing love spuds. I made sure he could see me toss his gun into one of those big municipal trash cans—I may be many things, but I’m no thief—then waved bye-bye. The Human Doberman didn’t bother waving back.

  Whatever became of basic civility?

  HAVING A friend and former colleague who works for a big government spy agency means knowing someone who has the resources and savvy to find out virtually anything about anyone. I needed a home address for Janet Bollinger. It was for that reason I reached out to my buddy, Buzz.

  “If you think I’m gonna access classified government files and go to Leavenworth, Logan, just so you can go chasing some strange piece of tail, you’re dreamin’,” Buzz said. “Why don’t you do what every other creepy stalker does these days—look her up on the Internet.”

  “First of all, I’m not chasing some ‘strange.’ I’m working. Second of all, I’m out of town and I don’t have my laptop. I’m not asking you to compromise national security, Buzz. I’m asking you to check open source records and find me an address, that’s all.”

  “You don’t have a cell phone?”

  “It doesn’t have Internet service.”

  “Everybody has the Internet on their phone these days, Logan. What century are you living in?”

  “The one that requires me to make a choice between eating or paying for cell phone service features I can’t afford. Are you gonna help me or not?”

  Buzz grunted. He was among my oldest friends, a salty, hard-charging Delta vet who had shown me the ropes when I’d first transferred into Alpha. Buzz had done more to help populate the streets of Paradise with demented martyrs than just about any operator alive or dead. He’d lost an eye to an RPG, gunning down the Libyan boy who’d launched it at him. The injuries, both emotional and physical, compelled him to trade field operations for an all-source analyst’s post. But neither his wounds nor his desk job dulled the kiss-my-hind end attitude that made him who he was.

  “The Three Tenors,” Buzz said.

  “The Three Tenors?”

  “They’re opera stars, Logan, you uncultured lout.”

  “I know who they are. What about ’em?”

  “Buy me their concert CD, and I’ll run the address for you.”

  “Since when did you become an opera fan?”

  “Since my old lady decided it was high time I stopped walking around on my knuckles. Face it, Logan, you could stand to do a little less swinging from the trees yourself.”

  “Next thing, you’ll be telling me you’re into ballet, too.”

  “Ballet? Me? Christ, no. Ballet’s for pussies.”

  “Your denial’s just a tad over the top, Buzz. But that’s cool. There’s no shame in liking ballet.”

  “OK, so I like ballet—but you tell anybody, Logan, I swear to God, the fire department’ll have to use the Jaws of Life to remove my foot from your anus.”

  “Chill, buddy, your secret’s safe with me. Three Tenors in concert for Janet Bollinger’s home address. Fair trade.”

  “I probably would’ve run the address for free, you know, you son of a bitch.”

  “You
’re nothing if not a true humanitarian, Buzz.”

  He made a sarcastic smooching sound and hung up.

  RUTH WALKER’S former co-worker, Janet Bollinger, lived just north of the Mexican border in Imperial Beach, among San Diego’s decidedly lesser suburbs. I drove my black rented SUV south down the Golden State freeway from downtown San Diego, got off eighteen minutes later on Palm Avenue and headed west, passing junk shops, tattoo parlors, and various meth heads and other zombies wandering the sidewalks with dazed, whacked-out faces.

  Buzz had gotten back to me with Janet Bollinger’s address ten minutes after I called him. Though he didn’t reveal his sources, it was evident he’d tapped state DMV records—a big no-no in the federal intelligence community if such inquiries are made for other than official purposes, which in truth they are all the time. More than a few analysts and case officers have stepped on their meat running license plates after spotting some sweet young thing in the grocery store parking lot. Buzz, I was confident, had been around too long and was too savvy not to have covered his computer tracks. Along with Bollinger’s address, he passed along her recent driving record. She’d racked up one moving violation in the previous six months and been involved in a two-car, non-injury fender-bender in suburban El Cajon. The other car, Buzz mentioned offhand, was registered to one Hubert Bedford Walker of La Jolla.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “About what?” Buzz said.

  “Hubert Walker.”

  “Who’s Hubert Walker?”

  “Big war hero.”

  “So am I, Logan, but I don’t hear you launching fireworks every time my name is mentioned.”

  “That fender-bender with Walker, you got any further details? Any idea when it happened?”

  “Two-seven May of this year. That’s all it shows.”

  May 27. The day before Dorian Munz was executed.

  “Anything else I can do for you today, Logan? Take a bullet for your sorry ass? Lose my pension?”

  “Thanks, buddy. The Three Tenors are in the mail.”