by Jo Robertson
When they finally released him, he realized with sudden terror that he shouldn’t have been in any hurry to be paroled. He had no place to go and no one waiting for him.
The prison gave him two hundred bucks in cash and a backpack that held everything he owned in the world. An officer drove him to the bus stop. Locals didn’t want prison trash hanging around their city. Cole didn’t blame them.
Waiting for the bus to Sacramento, he thought about his situation, knowing the Lords could get to him easy enough on the street through the large gang membership. He wasn’t going to be any safer outside prison.
He wondered how long it'd be until the Professor’s long reach snatched him up like a fish gobbling a worm on a hook.
Frankie fingered the note she’d palmed from Cole Hansen. The ink on the paper was soggy and slightly torn. Luckily, whoever had written it had used pencil, which didn’t run as badly as ink would have.
She couldn’t say why she’d played along with Cole in his clandestine game of note-passing. Maybe because she liked him. He had an earnestness in his expression that rang true to her. He seemed such a harmless guy. She knew she was being terribly naive, as her friends always reminded her.
They told her the same thing about the men she’d dated lately, she thought wryly.
But Cole was harmless and he was truly terrified. There was plenty to be afraid of in Pelican Bay, especially in the SHU. The huge step of debriefing to prison authorities put him in a very precarious position.
If Cole survived the rest of his sentence without gang retaliation for snitching, he’d be just as vulnerable on the street. Frankie knew from his prison profile he had no place to go, no family. No transition house awaited him because he wasn’t in prison on drug-related activities. He’d literally be homeless without any resources.
The man was a throwaway. Not violent enough to be monitored carefully on the outside – when he debriefed, they would expunge the false murder charge – and not resourceful enough to pull himself out of the poverty he faced. He was a lost soul.
Frankie caught a glance of her reflection in the glass window. Talk about lost souls. A pretty, dark-haired woman, who looked younger than her thirty years stared back at her with troubled eyes. The luck of good genes had given her an excellent complexion, good health, and a high IQ.
But the stormy gray eyes told another story. Without the constant search for the truth about her mother, she would live an empty life.
She shook herself mentally and opened Cole Hansen’s medical file, staring at his prison ID photo. Fate hadn’t been generous with Cole. Medium height, on the pudgy side, straight, lackluster hair, and an acne-scarred face all added to the mediocrity of his low intelligence and self-esteem.
However, Frankie had scratched the surface of Cole’s character and found a decent guy underneath. She believed he’d been set up for the prison yard murder, just as he’d claimed. His record was a sad story: unsupportive parents, spotty education, no friends.
He’d been in trouble almost from the start.
She carefully opened the note Cole had sneaked to her during his medical exam. The blocked letters and figures on the note were incomprehensible to her, and yet Cole Hansen had risked his life to get them to her.
Why?
What did Cole expect her to do with the note? And why in the world had he picked her?
Her duty was clear. She should pass the message on to the warden or his assistant, but her gut told her that wasn’t the right move. During his debriefing Cole could’ve given the note to prison authorities, but he’d chosen not to. Was he too slow-witted to know the safest action to take? Or was there someone he didn’t trust?
Frankie jammed the crumpled note in her pants pocket, and closed the folder after making notes on Cole’s medical record. She ordered acetaminophen and a sleeping aid for him, added blood pressure, heart rate and other vital signs to his record.
Nowhere did she make a note of what he’d said to her, or mention the soggy kite.
Chapter 12
Cruz turned away from the mangled body, afraid he’d toss his breakfast at Detective Flood’s feet. A parole officer usually carried a gun, taser and cuffs, often chased parolees, and regularly apprehended them, but seldom saw this kind of butchery. A fine line of sweat prickled at his hairline and he shuttered his eyes briefly before turning back to the scene.
After getting a closer look, Cruz was pretty sure the victim was his parolee Dickey Hinchey. Although much of the face was covered in blood and gore, he recognized the pinky ring Dickey wore on his right hand.
“I think he’s mine,” he murmured in Slater’s ear, one hand on the Sheriff’s shoulder as he knelt over the body.
“Murder weapon?” Slater asked Flood.
“Something sharp. Something blunt.” Flood shrugged and signaled for the ambulance to ease forward onto the grass. “Coroner said to find more, he’ll have to autopsy and test for drugs.”
“This it? No backpack? Nothing else?” Slater asked.
“I’d have said if there was more,” Flood retorted in annoyance. “Just the sleeping bag and what he’s wearing.”
“Who ID’ed him?”
Flood jutted his chin toward the thinning crowd. “One of the street hags – a woman – says she knows him from Jesus Saves, recognized his sleeping bag.” He shook his head at the possibility. “If you can believe her.”
“Get her in interview right away,” Slater advised, ignoring the skeptical look on Flood’s face. He rose from the body and straightened to his full height. “The case is all yours now, Detective Flood.” Slater smiled slyly. “Be sure to keep Officer Cruz in the loop. Could be one of his parolees.” He winked discreetly at Santiago.
"Oh, and ask the M.E. how many blood types he finds." Slater sauntered off, whistling softly, Flood glaring at the Sheriff’s back.
A call came in on Cruz’s cell just after Slater left. Angie from Jesus Saves.
“I wanted to tell you before I notify the police,” she whispered into the phone. “We found Dickey’s backpack. Across Washington Street by that drive-in? In their dumpster.”
Cruz turned away so Flood couldn’t overhear. “Who found it?”
“Sergei. He – he was real upset about Dickey, decided to go dumpster diving even though I told him it’s too early. Nothing good this time of morning.” Angie was babbling, her voice rising. She sounded terrified.
“How’d he know it was – uh, the right one?”
“He didn’t at first, brought it here to the office. Jesus, Cruz, it’s in the bathroom now. Layin’ on the floor, all – all wet and bloody like.”
“What?” Cruz dug his fingers into his temple.
“Yeah, but I could tell it was Dickey’s. Got this Forty-niners signature on it – Joe Montana.” She hiccupped quietly. “Dickey was always so proud of that.”
“Don’t say anything to anyone until I get there, and for Christ’s sake, keep Sergei under wraps.” Cruz pressed the end button. The backpack, if it did belong to Dickey Hinchey, had been tossed right by the Jesus Saves shelter. The backpack could implicate Angie and all the other homeless men and women at Jesus Saves who clung to the shelter as their one sure place of safety and sanity.
Cruz surveyed the park, pondering the situation. Dry Creek ran down one side, wide spans of thick green grass and trees, and across the street stood a quiet line of elegant houses built in the 1920's when Rosedale, initially a railroad town, had flourished.
Who’d kill a harmless, homeless parolee? And why had the killer dumped the backpack so far from the body?
Unfortunately, the homeless population had taken up residence in the park recently, causing incessant complaints from the neighborhood residents. The city council had passed several ordinances which reduced the number of street people hanging out where moms and dads watched their kids' t-ball games and retirees liked to stroll leisurely at dusk.
Still, it was nearly impossible to keep the homeless from pitching their sleeping
bags in secluded park areas. Patrol officers spent most of their time rousting them. A thankless job because the homeless always came back a few hours later, or the next day or night.
Police couldn't really keep the homeless from hanging out in the park, so they nailed them for littering or loitering. Misdemeanors at best, one the offenders didn't mind. For the older ones, a few hours or a night off the street in a warm cell was a good deal, especially during the winter rains.
Was one of his parolees responsible for Dickey’s death?
Andy Flood’s rigid back faced him. As a law enforcement officer, Cruz should inform the detective about the discovery of the backpack, but Flood’s sense of self-importance rankled him. He tapped Flood on the shoulder. “Who discovered the body?”
Flood turned around, irritated, rolled his neck. Cruz heard a pop. “Some old guy out walking his dog called in around seven.”
Cruz glanced in the direction Flood pointed. The frail-looking elderly gentleman, still armed with his pooper-scooper and baggie, held a noisy terrier next to his chest, both shivering like leaves on a windy day. They looked scared and shaken, and Cruz felt a momentary pang for the odd duo.
Without thinking it through, Cruz made up his mind.
He doubted the police would find any ID in the backpack. Homeless people often didn't carry identification with them. Most couldn’t afford a driver's license or county ID card.
Cruz called Angie back. “Dial 911,” he murmured. “Tell them someone found blood in the dumpster. Keep everyone out of the bathroom, and for God’s sake don’t touch the item. I’m on my way.”
Chapter 13
It was hard to stick to his job with the murder trending everywhere.
Brutal Park Murder.
Motive Unknown.
Police Baffled.
Mid-morning newscasts and sound bites screamed the latest gory gossip.
The words were raw lesions on his skin, burning and blistering. They were painting the dead as poor and pathetic, and the death as some grotesque murder.
He clicked off his cell phone in irritation.
No one cared about the homeless population in Bigler County, not in Sacramento County either, although they put on a good show at American River Food Bank.
The reality was vagrants were damn bloodsuckers, living off the government teat. Taking hard-working people’s hard-earned money. They could get jobs, live better lives if they wanted, but they’d rather live off the sweat of someone else’s labors.
Lazy good-for-nothings, like his father had always claimed.
The whole situation disgusted him.
He felt rage at the injustice of the system rise again in his gorge and remembered ...
The quiet, deserted park. The man leaning against the tree without a care in the world. His approach and the raw exchange of words.
Then the accident. It was an accident, he told himself. No planning. No premeditation. No intent. The phrases of TV crime shows lolled lazily inside his brain like drifting clouds.
An accident, he argued to himself. Not murder!
Still, the death of the homeless man had shaken him up. Not that the world was experiencing any great loss with him gone. But a kind of shame raced along his nerves in tandem with the same fire that burned there, the same unacknowledged thrill. He compartmentalized the emotions, but they lingered, two giants battling for dominance.
He was ashamed, yes! He’d taken a man’s life, but still ... the secret tinge of excitement remained. Even now, he felt himself remembering, dwelling on the feeling of emotional power. It was a seductive aphrodisiac.
After the clean up at Ryder Park, he had walked hurriedly back to his car, glancing around to be sure he wasn’t seen. He’d stowed the backpack and his tools in the car’s trunk on an old blanket.
Ditch the backpack, but where? None of this could lead back to him.
Before he drove to his grubby apartment in Old Rosedale – the only thing he could afford since his wife divorced him – he’d decided what to do.
Once home in the small kitchen he made a good strong cup of coffee, added a bit of brandy, and sipped it slowly at the counter. It was almost morning, and by then he’d stopped shaking and only a slight tremor remained in his hand.
Glancing at the clock, he thought about work, considered calling in sick. He quickly discarded the idea. Business as usual was the best way to proceed, but he didn’t like leaving the tools and blood-stained blanket in the trunk of his car.
He hadn’t tossed those items in the dumpster with the backpack. Too risky. The tools would be safe for the day in his car, he finally concluded. Then he’d determine what to do with them – dump them in the lake or a bleach soak to remove stains and DNA.
Would the tools be ruined? He thought he might enjoy using them ... again ... for other purposes, of course.
He took long, deep breaths, calming himself. No one would ever suspect him.
After a long, hot shower, he lay down in his shorts on top of the bedding. Stared at the white, water-stained ceiling. He’d have to repair that soon. Maybe a leak in the apartment above him? He relaxed a long time, letting the terror of what he’d done play itself out in his mind like an old-time movie – jerky and disconnected, shades of gray and an occasional bleep of white or black.
He worked through the whole event in his mind – from the time he’d left work the night before until, edgy and restless, he’d gone for a drive. He’d left his apartment and eased his older-model car through the dark, empty streets of Rosedale, past the million-dollar-plus homes in the ritzy part of town to the pawn shops and empty store fronts in Old Town. On almost every corner one or two street people slouched against a lamp post or sprawled in a darkened alley, a bottle of vodka clutched to their worthless bodies.
The sight had made him sick. Was that why he’d snapped?
The night was chilly for northern California in late fall. Low forties, high thirties the news said. Hard to keep warm, living on the street on a night like this. He tried to conjure up a thread of emotion, force sympathy or pity, or even civic duty for the wretched night creatures.
But he couldn’t. Hell, most cities had passed an ordinance making it illegal to sleep outside anywhere in town. Why was Rosedale so lax?
Where did they go, he wondered, if not to the alleys and abandoned buildings? If they got arrested for sleeping in the parks, they’d spend the night in jail. A stir of irritation sifted through him. Who was supposed to pay for that? How did arresting the bastards do anything except give them food and a bed for the night?
And always his father’s words came back to him, dashing through his mind in a crazed 100-meter race. Lazy good-for-nothings. Sucking life out of hard-working folks.
Chapter 14
When Cruz reached the Jesus Saves office, a squad car was parked in front of the drive-in across Washington street. He pulled into the convenience store lot and walked over, flashing his badge to the officers standing beside a dumpster. “Find anything?”
The male officer eyed the badge carefully and then relaxed. “Looks like some blood smears inside the bin. Crime scene’s on the way.”
Cruz deliberated a moment and then jutted with his head. “What about the Jesus Saves woman?”
“What? The 911 dispatcher said there was a call about evidence in the dumpster.”
Angie probably thought she was helping, but she could get in a hell of a lot of trouble for concealing evidence. “Anonymous call?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Lots of homeless people around here. They hang out at the shelter across the street. Maybe one of them saw ... ” He let the sentence trail off, hoping they would be smart enough to fit the pieces together, but not too clever to nail Angie for obstruction.
“Come on,” Cruz offered. “I know the woman in charge. We can ask her.”
“You go,” the pretty female officer offered. “I’ll stay here.”
When Angie saw the police officer with Cruz, she was smart enoug
h to keep her mouth shut.
No, she didn’t know nothing about no backpack. No, no one had used her office phone, far as she knew. Sure, he could search without a warrant, no trouble at all.
“Honey, we ain’t got nothing to hide here.” She ended with an expansive sweep of her hands around the comfortable, but worn lounge, just as the female officer stepped in.
Cruz gave Angie a look of approval. They waited patiently while the partner, Officer Summers, the redhead who’d been at the park crime scene earlier taking names and contact numbers, searched the Jesus Saves building.
The older officer noticed Cruz watching Summers. “She’s new, but ... enthusiastic.”
Summers hurried back with a grin on her freckled face and the bloody backpack dangling from her latex-covered fingers. She looked so green and eager her shield sparkled like a shiny new button on the waistband of her pants. Cruz watched her alacrity and tried to remember if he'd ever been so freshly unaware.
When Angie saw Summers holding the backpack gingerly by one bloody strap, she gave a genuine-sounding little squeak.
Well played, Angie.
Cruz didn’t question why he’d allowed the subterfuge to continue. If one of the street people had murdered Dickey Hinchey, he wouldn’t let them get away with it.
The thing was, at one time in their lives one of these guys, or even a woman, could’ve killed a person, but not now. He was sure of it. Life had leached the intellect or nerve or rage out of them.
He’d swear on his life that not one of them had the ... bravado to carve up a person so brutally. He hoped he wasn’t staking his career on that belief.
After the discovery of the backpack was called in, the evidence bagged and tagged, and the homeless had boarded the bus for the night’s destination, Cruz caught Angie alone in her office. “Which church tonight?”
Every local church provided a hot meal and a place to sleep for the night during the winter.
“Presbyterian,” she replied shortly, and held her hands up, palms out to ward off his next question. “I ain’t gonna talk about this, Officer Cruz. I just ain’t.”
