Cross Examination

by James C. Gray

  "Did you get the names of all the firefighters on the scene?" Jerrod asked.

  "I did. The names'll all be in my report," Rudy said.

  "What happened next?" Nate asked.

  "I told the fire guys to wait outside and I searched the house for other... people. Their was no one else in the house... other than... the man. It's not a natural death... you'll see. I went back outside, radioed for you guys, and secured the scene."

  Jerrod nodded.

  "The fire guys left a few minutes before you got here," Rudy added.

  "Thanks, Rudy," Jerrod said. "Nice job. Can you stay here at the scene for awhile?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  "Okay. We're going to check the inside and get a game-plan going."

  Jerrod, Nate, and Romero walked back through the gate from the backyard and to the carport.

  "Ready to see a homicide scene, Special Agent?" Jerrod asked.

  "Try not to 'fumble' or 'bumble' or--," Nate said.

  "Let it go, Nate," Romero interrupted... as he cracked a smile. "Let it go."

  The dark brown wooden front door of the house was standing open. Jerrod checked the door and the wood casing around it for any signs of damage that would indicate someone used a tool to force entry. Other than the expected wear from decades of use -- no fresh damage was noted.

  "Coming in," Jerrod yelled to Ted Lindsey and Shroom -- who were still in the bedroom.

  "Okay," Shroom yelled back. "Don't touch anything. Nothing. You hear me?"

  "Okay," Jerrod yelled.

  They entered the living room and were met with the overwhelming stench of the countless cigarettes that had been consumed inside. The smooth plaster walls and "popcorn" ceiling had at one time been painted white, but had since achieved a more yellow-brown tint.

  The living room floor was covered with a badly worn and dirty burnt-orange shag carpet.

  A stained and worn brown leather reclining chair sat in the middle of the living room. A pair of black leather men's dress shoes -- untied -- were neatly placed together on the carpet to the left side of the chair.

  A round wooden table sat to the right of the chair and it held a white eight-inch diameter ceramic ashtray piled high with cigarette butts. Jerrod looked at the butts -- estimating they numbered around fifty -- without disturbing them. He found only the distinctive speckled tan filters with "Marlboro" printed on them. All appeared to have smoked to within a quarter-inch of the filter before being stamped out. One Marlboro cigarette butt sat in the notch of the ashtray -- facing the chair -- which had left an intact trail of ash as it had burned entirely to the filter.

  An opened single silver and blue-colored twelve-ounce can of Natural Lite beer sat next to the ashtray. Jerrod flicked the can lightly with his fingernail and estimated it to be about half full.

  "I told you not to touch anything," Shroom yelled from the bedroom. "Assholes," he said to Ted Lindsey... but just loud enough to be heard in the living room.

  The living room also contained a '60s-style medium-brown television console along the east side, or backyard, wall. A small modern black plastic television sat atop the console. The TV was turned off.

  An avocado-green three-cushion cloth sofa, vintage the '70s, sat along the south wall. It was piled high with newspapers, magazines and junk mail which allowed only enough room for one person to sit.

  All of the various drawers and cabinet doors were closed and none appeared to have been ransacked.

  The living room led to a kitchen with a small dining area. A worn white gas range had an empty sauce pan on one burner and an empty frying pan on another. A newer white refrigerator with a filthy chrome handle was stationed next the sink -- a sink filled with dirty plates, glasses, and coffee cups.

  A square beige Formica-topped table with four chairs on casters filled the small dining area. Another large glass ashtray piled high with Marlboro cigarette butts. An open copy of the Valle Verde Sun newspaper from two days earlier, Monday, lay on the table next to a pile of both opened and unopened mail. A pile of thin red rubber bands sat loose on the table.

  A keyring with three keys on it -- one of which was for a Dodge -- was also on the table.

  A blue and black plaid light wool jacket, with two unbuttoned breast pockets, hung from one of the chairs. All of the chairs were neatly placed under the four sides of the table.

  Ted Lindsey and Shroom emerged from a hallway entrance on the south wall of the living room. Both were wearing disposable white booties over their shoes.

  "Ready to see a homicide scene, Romero?" Jerrod asked.

  "Ready."

  "Not quite yet," Ted Lindsey said. "All of you put some booties on before you contaminate the whole scene."

  Shroom handed Jerrod, Nate, and Romero each a set of shoe covers. He smiled as he watched the three investigators hop around trying to balance on one foot, while stretching the covers over the opposite shoe.

  Ted Lindsey raised the Polaroid camera and pointed the lens at the sight.

  "Don't you dare --," Nate said just as the flash went off and the film ejected from the camera.

  "It's pretty obvious none of you guys were ballerinas in a past life," Shroom said.

  "Priceless picture," Ted Lindsey said as he wagged the film in the air from his fingertips and admired the developing image. "Oh, this is precious."

  "Just show us the scene," Jerrod said.

  Shroom made a "follow me" motion with his left hand, turned, and walked back into the hallway entrance.

  It then became very serious.

  The five investigators walked into the narrow hallway entrance and then traveled left about six feet to the open bedroom door.

  Jerrod felt his body getting warm.

  The clutter in the bedroom resembled the living room... except it was with clothing items. Men's shirts, pants, underwear, and nightwear were hung or strewn on furniture and the floor of the bedroom. An unmade twin-size bed was against the east wall under the window -- the headboard and pillow situated in the corner to the right.

  A brown pine nightstand sat next to the head of the bed. Its single pull-out drawer was open.

  A heavy royal blue terrycloth bathrobe laid across the foot of the bed.

  On the dirty shag carpet -- laying on his back, with his head wedged between the dark steel bed frame and the night stand -- was the body of a pale elderly man.

  There was no blood.

  The man was at least six feet tall, but with willowy arms and legs and a pot belly. He couldn't have weighed more than 150 pounds. He was dressed in a light green cotton long-sleeved shirt over a white crew-neck T-shirt, black slacks, and black socks. A splash of the color red peaked from the open pack of Marlboro cigarettes in his left breast shirt pocket.

  His arms lay along the sides of his body. His hands were palm-down. His trimmed fingernails had a blue tint. Abrasions dotted the backs of both hands and knuckles.

  Thin short gray hair topped his head. His mouth was open as if he was silently gasping for air. His eyelids were wide open in an expression of shock and surprise -- while his eyes were dull and sunken and lifeless.

  His face had a deep violet color.

  And the sash from a heavy royal blue terrycloth bathrobe was wrapped tightly around his neck.

  CHAPTER 34

  "Time to earn our pay," Jerrod said to Nate and Romero.

  "You two start by interviewing all of the neighbors around this house. Quick interviews. Names, addresses and phone numbers."

  Nate and Romero nodded. Ted Lindsey and Shroom walked back into the living room.

  "The morning newspaper from two days ago is open on the dining room table and there are two more, unopened, in the driveway. Today's Wednesday, so we can assume -- for the moment, at least -- the old guy was still alive Monday morning and not so alive on Tuesday morning."

  "Makes sense," Nate said.

  "He's been down a day or two," Ted Lindsey said. "It's pretty cool in this house and he hasn't really started to 'de
comp' yet. 'Doc' might be able to give a better estimate of how long he's been dead."

  "Doc" was Robert Torosian, M.D. -- the Mesa County Sheriff-Coroner's Forensic Pathologist.

  "Let's learn what the old guy's routine was," Jerrod said to Nate and Romero. "Find out who else lives or visits or works at the house. Any other people or cars that may have come and gone... especially in the last couple days."

  Nate nodded.

  "Got it," Romero said.

  "I'm going to get a legal description of the house and phone Zippy to 'walk' a Mincey warrant for this place to a judge before we search any further."

  Jerrod turned to Shroom. "Process this place as you see fit. If you want to start now with overview photos outside and inside... no problem. We'll help if you want or just stay out of your way. I have a few things I want collected at some point."

  "Okay," Shroom said.

  "While we're all here," Jerrod said. "That sash from the bathrobe is going to be our 'keeper' -- the one thing only the killer would know about the scene -- that no one else, except us, should have any knowledge of. Please don't mention it to anyone not directly involved in this case."

  The four investigators nodded.

  "I've got some down-time while you get the warrant," Ted Lindsey said. "I can help canvas the neighborhood if you want."

  "Sure," Jerrod said. "Work it out with Nate and Romero."

  All five investigators walked outside into the carport.

  Nate headed south to start his interviews while Romero started north. Ted walked to the two men and a woman standing at the crime scene tape to interview them.

  "Sergeant... Sergeant," Bruce Witt yelled to Jerrod as he raised the large camera to his right shoulder.

  "Hello again," Jerrod said as he walked to him at the crime scene tape.

  Bruce had a perplexed expression on his face. "Isn't that guy in the suit with the FBI? 'Romero'... something?"

  "'Romero Diaz', and yeah, he's with the FBI."

  "Why's he here?"

  "Are you filming now, Bruce?"

  "No."

  "He just happened to be in the office when we got called-out. He's only helping us."

  "No. Really," Bruce said. His face becoming more distorted. "Why is the FBI involved in this investigation?"

  Jerrod stifled a laugh. "I told you, he's just helping out. That's all."

  "I don't believe you."

  "I'm not lying to you. We were shorthanded today and he just offered."

  Bruce held a skeptical look on his face.

  "Let me get some notes down and I'll give some video you can sell."

  "Okay," Bruce said as he lowered the camera from his shoulder.

  Jerrod went to his car and punched seven numbers into the cell phone.

  "Sheriff's Investigations," the always pleasant voice of Linda Westphal answered on the first ring.

  "This is Jerrod. We have a homicide here... for sure."

  "Okay. I'll start a binder."

  "We need to notify the on-call ADA, the Patrol watch commander, and the sheriff. Will you do that, please?"

  "Sure. Should I just refer them to you?"

  "Yes, that'll be fine. And I need to talk to Zippy."

  "He's in his office. I'll transfer.

  "Thanks."

  Jerrod glanced at his watch. It was eleven-thirty.

  "Detective Zippich," Zippy answered.

  "This is Gold. We have a homicide in a house. Let's try out that search warrant system. Crank it out, get an ADA to review it, and find a judge. Quicker the better."

  "Okay. Ready," Zippy said.

  Jerrod held his copy of the Search Warrant and Affidavit form and started from the top. "Night Service... No. Items to be seized...."

  The next ten minutes was spent laying out the facts known to that point and establishing the probable cause necessary to convince a judge to authorize the warrant.

  "I'll call you when it's ready," Zippy said.

  "Call the DA's Office," Jerrod said, "and see if Lorena Delgado is available to review the warrant. She may get a kick out of seeing the process in action."

  "I'll call her first."

  "Thanks."

  "Ready, Bruce?" Jerrod said as he returned to the tape line.

  "Yeah... sure," Bruce said as he again hefted the camera to his shoulder.

  "How much did you pay for that monster camera?"

  "Let me put it this way... it cost more than the car it rides around in."

  "Wow," Jerrod said. "Ready when you are."

  Bruce placed his eye in the viewfinder and made some adjustments to the camera before pointing the lens at Jerrod.

  "Okay. Go."

  "Not 'action?'"

  Bruce pulled his head back and looked around the viewfinder. "We're not making a fucking movie."

  "Sorry," Jerrod said.

  Jerrod said in his most official voice: "The Mesa County Sheriff's Office is investigating the suspicious death of a elderly man in the residence behind me. A warrant to search the premises is currently being sought and neighbors around the residence are being interviewed. More information will be released as additional evidence is gathered."

  "That's it?" Bruce asked as he looked around the viewfinder again.

  "That's it... for now."

  "Thanks for nothing. Do they teach you guys to talk like that in the police academy?"

  "'Talk,' like what?"

  "'Talk' like... every other cop in America who does an interview... 'investigating a suspicious death'... 'to search the premises'... shit like that."

  Jerrod grinned. "I never noticed."

  "No one else in the world talks like that," Bruce said. "I swear."

  "I'll work on that, Bruce." Jerrod took one of his cards and handed to Bruce.

  Bruce grabbed the card, but Jerrod didn't let go.

  "Give me your number," Jerrod said. "I'll call you if something else comes up."

  "Bullshit."

  "I swear. And I'll use normal words and language structure when I do. But please leave the FBI thing out... there's really no story there."

  Bruce nodded. "Okay, deal," he said as Jerrod let go of the card. He fished into his shirt pocket and fumbled with some papers until he found a business card. He handed it to Jerrod. "Cell phone number's on it."

  CHAPTER 35

  A green Ford Taurus drove up and parked behind Jerrod's white Buick Regal. A tall man wearing creased tan slacks, a white dress shirt with a bright red tie, and brown western boots stretched from the driver's door. He adjusted the gold badge and the chrome Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol on his belt before walking toward Jerrod.

  Mesa County District Attorney Inspector Stanley "Stan" Walsh was the senior investigator for the DA's Office Bureau of Inspectors. He was a well-known and capable former Mesa SO detective sergeant who had left to join the DA's office in the early '80s. He had worked on nearly all of the biggest and most notable criminal cases in the county for the previous two decades.

  He had also led the District Attorney's criminal investigation into the 1985 officer-involved shooting death of Armando Mendoza.

  Stan Walsh stopped at the crime scene ribbon and Jerrod walked over the meet him.

  "Stan," Jerrod said as he stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and made it clear he had no intention of shaking hands. "You lost or something?"

  "I'm not lost. Mr. Harlan sent me down to give you a hand," Stan said in his unmistakable North Texas drawl.

  "Mr. Harlan" was the Mesa County District Attorney -- Lawrence Harlan.

  "Mr. Harlan sent you down to make sure we weren't screwing this case up," Jerrod said.

  Stan looked away and shrugged. "I heard you were in Investigations -- some kind of 'admin-weenie' job. Not handling any real cases."

  "Yet, here I am. You're information is as wrong as it's ever been."

  Stan said, "I don't think I've talked to you since the shooting a few years ago."

  "I've been flying under the radar since then
in Patrol," Jerrod said as he rubbed the back of his right hand.

  "Until now, that is." Stan nodded toward Bruce. "You're doing TV interviews, I see."

  "Yeah. I guess."

  "Do you need some help with this case... or not?"

  Jerrod thought for a second. "Not. Thanks, but we've got everything under control here. If that changes, someone will give you a call." He started to walk back toward the house. "Please respect the crime scene perimeter, Inspector," he said over his shoulder.

  "Hang on a second, Jerrod," Stan said.

  Jerrod turned around and saw Bruce Witt taking a great interest in the dynamic unfolding in front of him.

  Jerrod said, "Follow me to the carport."

  Stan lifted the yellow tape and walked past Jerrod.

  Bruce extended his thumb and little finger from his hand and placed it along the side of his face as he mouthed the words: "Call me."

  Jerrod mimicked the gesture and mouthed the word, "I will," back to him.

  In the carport, Stan asked, "Hey, pal, exactly what is your problem?"

  "You know what my problem is," Jerrod said. "So how about you do the same thing I told you to do the last time we talked... and go fuck yourself."

  "That was a long time ago."

  "Not that long ago."

  "Do you need any help on this case, or not."

  Jerrod looked around the carport. "I already told you. I'll have someone call you when we get our killer in custody. Until then, you can go serve subpoenas or have a three-hour lunch or whatever else asshole DA Inspectors like you do."

  Shroom stepped out through the front doorway. "I just need something from the van."

  "No problem," Jerrod said. "Whatever you need."

  Jerrod and Stan held their conversation until Shroom walked past them to and from the van.

  "I had to tell Mr. Harlan what I found out," Stan said while watching Shroom slip quietly past them and back into the house. "I did you a favor. If what really happened back then got out, you probably wouldn't have a job in law enforcement right now."