by Harry Hoge
Send Out the Clowns
By Harry Hoge and Bill Walls
Original Copyright by Harry Hoge and Bill Walls, 2004
Published by Behler Publications, lake Forest, California
All rights reserved.
This is a book of fiction, all Characters, names places or incidents are either of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
e-book copyright by Harry Hoge and Bill Walls, 2012
All rights reserved.
To our wives
Pat Hoge and Lena Walls
For their encouragement and support
“Table of Contents”
Send Out the Clowns
By Harry Hoge and Bill Walls
To our wives
Pat Hoge and Lena Walls
For their encouragement and support
Chapter 1
Chapter
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 7
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 1
Frank Rivers stood in the shadows, away from the mag lights that illuminated the crime scene and the late October moon hanging over the towering monoliths of downtown Houston, waiting as Al Shuman and his crew finished securing the area. All Saints Eve is a perfect time to investigate a bizarre homicide, if the word perfect applies to such an event.
He had received the call about an hour ago, rousing him from a troubled sleep. He would have to go alone. He hadn't had a permanent partner since Skip - Douglas Shields, his partner for more than ten years - had taken the fall for conspiracy to murder and been sent to "The Walls" unit in Huntsville. Frank was the officer in charge who had busted Skip, and he had not slept well one night since. He knew he could not work this case without a partner; another investigator would be assigned to work with him. There had been a parade of rookies to fill that role lately. All those with experience from the downtown homicide division had partners, did not want to change, or refused to work with someone who had rolled over on one of their own. Guilty or not, turning one's partner was unforgivable.
Frank Rivers was born Francisco Riojas and raised in the small, central Texas town of Brenham, noted for making delicious Blue Bell Ice Cream, and for being on the annual tour for people who loved the bluebonnet display in springtime. Senor Riojas changed the family name when Frank first started school, judging that Frank Rivers would have fewer problems coping in a growing Texas community than Francisco Riojas. Frank had matured tall, lean, and dark, a handsome man by any standard. His friends commented that he looked more like a TV news anchor than a cop. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He was thirty-two.
Frank tried to peer through the yellow tape, squad cars, inspection paraphernalia and people moving about the body taking pictures and searching for evidence. The Uniform on duty had discovered the victim when he made a routine check of the parking garage on the corner of Rusk and Caroline. The original report alleged that it was the body of a youngster dressed in a clown suit and carrying a plastic jack-o-lantern filled with candy. Yet unconfirmed, a kid murdered brought gorge to the back of Frank's throat. All he could make out from his "stay out of the way until it was his turn" vantage point was the yellow, red and orange coloring of the tiny mound. Frank turned away from the scene and spit on the street. He was always tormented by anxiety at the beginning of a new round in the endless fight against man's cruelty to man.
He recalled a class he had taken years earlier while studying criminal investigation at Sam Houston State University. The subject had been the psychology of dealing with day-to-day police activity. The professor, a former homicide investigator from Dallas, had talked about walking the thin line; sanity and gratification earned by removing scumbags from the street on one side, and the danger of becoming like them on the other. "Many a good cop," the professor had stated, "has taken one step in the wrong direction and ended up as one of those he is sworn to apprehend." Skip came to mind again. Frank spit once more. Maybe he had been on the street too long, seen too much tragedy, and met too many denizens from the murky void. Maybe. The sight of Al Shuman heading his way interrupted Frank's rumination. It was time to go to work.
As he watched Al walking toward him, Frank tried to think if there was anyone he respected more. Al wore cordovan penny loafers, argyle socks, a tan corduroy sports coat, khakis, a blue oxford-cloth button-down shirt and a maroon wool tie, an outfit known around the department as his uniform. Frank felt himself growing excited in anticipation of Al's summary. Even though Frank would take his time to inspect the entire area, as usual, he doubted Al had missed any evidence. One time, years ago, when Frank became aware of Al's intelligence, he had asked him if he belonged to Mensa. Al showed a rare expression of disgust and shook his head. "I'm not insecure enough to join a group of pseudo-intellectuals who spend their time talking about solving obscure puzzles and drinking vintage wine. Besides, those folks are bragging about something they really didn't have anything to do with... It's like being tall. They didn't develop a good mind. It just happened."
"Figured you'd catch this one, Frank" Al said, proffering a quick smile. "You seem to get all the weird ones."
Frank allowed his friendship for Al Shuman to chase away the gloom of retrospection and managed a grin. "Morning, Al. What's so weird?"
."First, the clown suit.- It's not a kid in Halloween get-up; it's a full-grown adult male, oriental appearing. I'd guess Vietnamese. The stuff in the jack-o-lantern is all fake, rocks and plastic wrapped in cellophane, and this." He held up a plastic bag with a second plastic bag inside. "Street cut heroin. Probably about a hundred bucks worth."
"How was he killed?" Frank asked.
"I'll know better when I finish the autopsy, but if I had to guess, someone drove a gaff hook through his throat and hung him up like a side of beef. The wound reminded me of a marlin I caught off the coast of Mexico once. They gaffed the fish and cranked it up on a winch so I could stand beside it and have my picture taken."
"A lot of blood round the scene?"
"No, just a little under the fish," Al paused and grinned at Frank. "Oh, you mean here. He was killed someplace else and transported here."
Frank could only return the grin. "TOD?"
"My guess is... let's see, today is Friday. Late Wednesday or early Thursday, but that's a guess."
"Any ID?"
Al shook his head. "Identification will be difficult. We took prints and bagged the hands, then swabbed for DNA, but I don’t think we'll come up with anything unless he has a record. All the labels are cut from the clothes and the pumpkin could have come from any of a thousand different stores. It looks like the killer cleaned and trimmed the dead man's fingernails then wiped the body down with alcohol swabs. I'll run details, especially on the fake candy, but I've seen more incriminating evidence in a funeral home."
"I'll go take a look," Frank replied. "Later today I'll stop by your office. When will you do the autopsy?"
"I don't want the body to get much riper. I've got my hands full today, so I'll come in tomorrow morning. You plan to be there."
"What? On Saturday
?" Frank said, sarcasm dripping from his tone. He and Al often joked about how weekends were generally their busiest time. "Surely you're not going to work on the weekend?"
"I don't have anything else planned."
"Damn. I'll have to cancel my tee time at the club." He patted Al on the forearm. "I'll see you at the lab." He walked toward the garage and up the ramp where a dead man waited.
He stood staring down at the body for a long time, barely aware of the uniformed officer standing beside him and one-step to the rear. A man assigned to render any assistance he might require. The body looked artificial, a mannequin or doll. Frank realized he would come to know more about this person than anyone else alive did. At least he hoped so, but for now, he was framing the first page of the murder book in his mind.
Date: October 31. Time: O445. Location: Parking Garage, Caroline and Rusk.
Victim: Adult Male. Oriental, estimated age, 25 to 30 years.
Cause of death: Unknown, apparently bled out from puncture wound in the neck. No weapon or obvious evidence of the perpetrator or ID of the victim.
Frank spotted a red stain on the floor of the ramp. He turned to the officer behind him and pointed. "Did anyone sample that stain?"
"Yeah, sure, they took a lot of samples of stains." He waved his hand at the pavement. "This is a garage. There are stains everywhere. Mr. Shuman figured that one was probably transmission fluid."
"Okay," Frank responded. "Let me have the camera. I'll take some pictures for my own use and then we can have the body taken to the morgue."
Frank walked to his car, a blue and white patrol car; part of the ever-changing policy of the department to have officers drive official cars home. The idea was that a 'home fleet' would help impede neighborhood crime. It would continue until some bean counter calculated unproductive maintenance costs and mileage without credible return; then the policy would change.
Downtown Houston lay idle and empty in early morning grayness; a rarity for a city that commonly throbbed with activity. Frank loved this time of day. His city, his beat, and he had it all to himself. He took Rusk southeast to the Southwest Freeway and turned right, cruising at a speed that would not be possible in an hour or less. He smiled to himself as the few cars he encountered slowed, regardless of the speed limit, when the drivers saw the patrol car. He turned north on 610 loop and took the first exit, crossed under the freeway to Post Oak and pulled into a coffee shop in the shadow of Galleria Center.
"Hi, Frank," the woman behind the counter shouted when he entered the door. "You're up early this morning."
"Morning, Thelma," Frank countered with a smile. "I'm up early most mornings, but I usually try to drink my coffee in more respectable establishments."
"Still trying to improve your reputation," Thelma grinned as she placed a large, steaming, 'brown mug on the counter and remained there, leaning on her elbows, her face close to Frank's. "You wouldn't come here at all if your girlfriend didn't work next door." Frank smiled and took a sip from the mug. "You and Paulette are still a number, right?"
"Yeah, we're sailin' at the moment."
"Too bad. If you ever get tired of her, I'll be right here."
"That's why I come here, Thelma. I never get tired of seeing you."
"Yeah, right," Thelma said and straightened up, reaching for her order pad with one hand as she pulled a pencil from behind her ear with the other. "What'11 you have besides the coffee?"
"Two over easy, hash browns, sausage, patties not links, and wheat toast."
"Juice?"
"Yeah, orange, small."
"Be right up." She went to turn in the order and left Frank alone with his coffee. He pulled his notebook from his pocket and leafed through the pages he had written at the parking garage. He made side notes from memory and studied his sketch of the scene. No clues. He looked at the Polaroids taken of the victim. They struck him as pathetic; the dead man was the size of a twelve-year old boy, dressed in a clown's costume with his face painted—a broad white mouth, rosy cheeks, a red bulb for a nose and an orange wig. There was not enough information to draw a profile of the killer, but Frank had no doubt he was looking at one, probably the first, of a serial killer's work.
Al Shuman had guessed the victim was Vietnamese; maybe some veteran of the war who had freaked out, tut why the clown suit? Al was certain the killer had dressed the body post-mortem. He saw Thelma coming with his food. He put the notebook and photos away and glanced at his watch. Pauley would just be getting up.
"Here you go, sweet cakes," Thelma said. "Enjoy." She laid an early edition of the Chronicle beside the plate, refilled his mug and carried the pot down the counter to two men dressed in work clothes hovering over their cups.
Frank ate the breakfast, scanning the morning news and mulling over the case. He had too little information. He considered interviewing some Vietnamese he knew around town to see if anyone had reported a missing person. He decided it was too early for an official report and most of the people he knew lived and worked far from downtown. He finished eating and wiped his mouth with a napkin, then fished out enough money to pay for the meal and leave a generous tip. He gulped the last of his coffee and waved goodbye to Thelma as she moved toward a man in a booth near the window.
Outside, he sat in the patrol car and punched in Pauley's number on his cell phone. When she answered, she said she was pulling into the parking area for the Galleria. He did not mention the case, but explained he would be too busy to meet her for lunch, before heading for the office.
Traffic was picking up. He followed the 610 loop north to Memorial Drive, then headed east through the southern edge of Memorial Park golf course and along the north side of Buffalo Bayou to Reisner Street and Police Headquarters. He entered the building, milling with the crowd arriving for the morning shift.
When he reached his office, he poured a cup of coffee from the perennial Bunn coffee maker and settled into his desk chair. He took a sip of the bitter, "bottom of the pot" coffee and turned on his computer. While the machine booted, he went to a tall storage cabinet and removed a new, blue folder and several forms with punched three-ring holes. When he finished recording the information he had from his inspection, he searched the case files for any information on homicides involving Vietnamese. By the time he satisfied himself that he had all the background that might help from that venue, he was ready for another cup of coffee. Before he could get out of his chair, the phone rang.
"Rivers, Homicide," he barked, leaning back.
"Detective Rivers, would you come to my office, please?" It was Lieutenant Barker. Her voice always sounded polite and cordial over the phone, but she seldom called Frank to her office of late when it had been good news.
"I'm on my way, Lieutenant," he answered, and heard the click of her hanging up. As he made his way to her office, he tried to recall if he had done anything recently to incur her wrath. He rapped on the opaque glass of the door and turned the knob. He was surprised to see a woman sitting quietly in a side chair near the wall to his left. He gave the visitor a glance, taking in her appearance: Black, short-cropped hair like a man, full-bodied, wide serious mouth, large silver earrings of geometric design, hands folded in her lap and dark quizzical eyes staring at him. Frank decided she was a cop.
Lieutenant Sheridan (Sherri to friends, if she had any, Sumbitch in the squad room) Barker looked up from the file on her desk. She was the antithesis of the black woman; blond hair drawn back in a bun, yet frizzy, like an ad about "loose ends," green eyes under narrow, nearly horizontal brows, a long face with full upturned lips and a slender nose. Gold studs pierced her ears, and her uniform was tailored and neat in minute detail. Frank had heard rumors that she was lesbian, so maybe the other woman was her partner, but then he had heard such rumors at one time or the other about every female in the detective bureau and had long since dismissed such comments as defensive reinforcement by men who had had their tail singed by an efficient Supervisor.
"Detective Rivers," B
arker nodded, looking up from her desk. "Come in." Frank obeyed and stood in front of her, wondering if he should sit. "I understand you caught a case this morning." It was a statement, not a question,
"That's right. Early this morning." He did not try to fill her in on the case. She no doubt knew as much as he did.
She studied the file, as if he were not standing there. Without looking at him, she asked, "What's your take so far?"
"It's far too early to have much. There was little evidence at the scene. We haven't identified the body, and as yet have no motive or murder weapon."
Barker caught his eyes and held them, hers boring through him like green emeralds. He was intimidated in spite of his resolve not to be. "You say you don't have 'much.' As I understand it, the vic was dressed like a clown, complete with make-up and a false nose and had been hung up on a gaff hook."
Frank became angry. It had not been four hours since he left the scene and already the lieutenant had all the information. He doubted that Al Shuman had provided it. Some Uniform or lab tech must have told her.
"The gaff hook is speculation. I haven't heard from the lab yet. There was a jagged wound in the man's neck."
"It appears to be a ritual killing. Do you agree?"
"I'm not into making quantum leaps this early in an investigation, but yes, I've considered it might be a serial."
"Are there any similar cases on record?"
Frank suppressed a grin, pleased that he had run the computer search earlier. "I've gone through the case file. I found no reference to similar cases either for clowns or Vietnamese."
An expression crossed the lieutenant's face, telling Frank she was surprised that he had already referenced the files. Barker stood, straightened her skirt and continued to stare at Frank. "I've been reading your file, Detective. This isn't the first time, as you know because of our discussion when I first arrived and you had just beaten up one of your colleagues."
