Wrong Time to Die (Sam Leroy Book 2)

by Philip Cox

  ‘And if you don’t get anywhere today? What then?’

  ‘Then we’ll try a new angle. And before you say anything, if we don’t get anywhere today, I’ll call Agent Calloway.’

  ‘I think you should. And if you don’t I will. We’re all on the same side.’

  ‘Hey, Roman: I’ve no problem with calling him. In all the years I’ve been with the LAPD - and you know this – and the NYPD before that, in any contact I’ve had with the Feds, they’ve always been courteous, professional and helpful. But I want Ray and I to give it one last shot today. If we don’t get anywhere, I’ll call Calloway in the morning.’

  ‘Today’s Friday, Sam. You’ll have to wait till Monday.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Leroy stood up to go.

  ‘Just one more thing, Sam,’ Perez said, opening one of the files on his desk. ‘I’m getting daily calls from the Chief about this one. It seems Mr Hutchinson had quite a high profile in Malibu, so he’s keen to get the case resolved.’

  ‘As he would be if it was in South Central.’

  ‘That’s beside the point. Just make some progress today, okay?’ Impatiently, Perez waved his hand about, dismissing Leroy.

  ‘Will do, Lieutenant.’ Leroy left the lieutenant’s office and wandered back to the Homicide Desk, stopping off at the vending machine for two cups of coffee. Quinn was busy at work on a keyboard. He looked up as Leroy brought over the coffees.

  ‘I thought I’d get Mrs Hutchinson out of the way first,’ Quinn said.

  Leroy sat down at his own desk and swivelled his chair over to face his partner. ‘And? Find anything?’

  Quinn shook his head. ‘Zip.’

  Leroy took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Figured as much.’

  ‘They’d been married for forty-six years. No kids. No nothing, really.’

  ‘I know the type. A professional officer’s wife, then professional housewife. Just kept house and had lunches. Forget her. Let’s concentrate on him.’ Leroy leaned over and pulled out a yellow legal pad from a desk drawer. Taking a pen from his jacket pocket, he said, ‘Let’s review what we know about him.’

  As Quinn started to speak, Leroy noticed two junior legal sized sheets of paper clipped to his computer screen. As Quinn started, Leroy glanced at them.

  Quinn began by reviewing the crime scene, but broke off when he noticed Leroy was not listening. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Stupid.’

  ‘What is?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘Me, not checking my messages.’

  ‘What are they about?’

  Leroy tapped the edge of his desk with the notes. ‘One’s just about one of my informants. He wants to talk about something. Probably not this – he doesn’t know I’m working that case. The other….’

  ‘What about the other?’

  ‘It’s from Captain Eugene Whitaker. You remember, he was that son of a bitch from the NPRC.’

  ‘Oh; what does he have to say? Has he changed his mind?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Leroy said quietly and slowly, flicking the note with his finger. ‘Says he wants to talk with me, face to face.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘IS THAT ALL he says?’ Quinn asked, sitting up, as if trying to look at the piece of paper Leroy was holding.

  ‘More or less.’ Leroy scanned the note. ‘He says I’m to meet him at one o’clock today at the…shit!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He wants to see me in San Diego. At the Village Café, Seaport Village.’

  ‘I know the place,’ said Quinn. ‘That’s near the Naval Base. But he was army, surely?’

  Leroy shrugged. He stared into space, his lips moving slightly.

  ‘What is it, Sam?’

  ‘I was just figuring out how long it would take to get down there.’

  ‘We’ve been there a couple of times: two and a half hours, more or less.’

  Leroy checked his watch. ‘I’d better head off now, then.’

  Quinn started to tidy up his papers.

  ‘No,’ Leroy said, ‘it’s okay: you stay here and carry on with the Hutchinsons. I’ll be okay on my own. I’ll call you once I’ve met him. We need to make some progress today; this way we can cover two lines of enquiry at the same time.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Quinn, his gaze returning to his screen. ‘Good trip.’

  Leroy hurried out of the room, almost knocking over a female uniformed officer on his way out.

  ‘Man,’ she said, brushing down her uniform. ‘What’s his hurry?’

  Quinn replied, ‘He has to be in Downtown San Diego by one. Just found a telephone message on his desk.’

  The officer laughed. ‘Just found? Ray, those notes have been on his desk a couple of days by now. That’ll teach you both to check in here more often.’

  Quinn grinned and got back to his keyboard.

  *****

  From Police Headquarters to Downtown San Diego is approximately 130 miles. Once Leroy had made it to the I-5, the journey was straightforward: just follow the highway south-east. He left the 5 at the Front Street exit, then made his way to Pacific Highway, which in turn led him to Seaport Village. Once in the complex, he checked a wall map for the location of the Village Café, and set off. It was twelve-thirty, and he considered himself lucky to have gotten here by this time. So much for Ray’s 2½ hours. There again, once he had reached the 5, he had left the worst of the traffic behind. As he strolled though the Village, glancing at the various shops - Apple Shop, Captain’s Cove, Seaport Island Fashion to name three - he could just imagine his young partner and his wife wandering round here. Wandering around window shopping was not something he had done with Julia: Ray and Holly Quinn had married before he and Julia met, and his life as a cop and hers as a busy teacher had precluded anything leisurely.

  And he had no problem with that.

  He reached the Village Café around 12:45. The establishment had a number of tables inside, and half a dozen outside. All the outside tables were occupied, though none by a man on his own.

  He reflected that neither he nor Whitaker had any advantage over the other: Leroy had no idea what the captain looked like, and that Whitaker had no idea what Leroy looked like. He wandered into the café, checked the tables - again, no sign of a single man - and ordered a turkey sandwich and coffee from the counter. He took his lunch outside, and walked across the street where there was a raised flowerbed, and sat on the small wall facing the café. He took a bite from his sandwich, cursed as a large blob of mayonnaise dropped onto the ground. He took out a handkerchief, and wiped his mouth, looking around and hoping that Captain Whitaker would not arrive right now.

  It was now ten after one, and no sign of Whitaker. Leroy wondered what had gone wrong, and why the captain had not shown up. He decided to give it another ten minutes.

  He was just about to get out his phone and call Quinn, when a man dressed in a Hawaiian style floral shirt and beige shorts wandered over and sat on the flower bed wall, about three feet away. From behind his sunglasses, Leroy’s eyes darted to the right to check out this guy. He looked about forty, hair close cropped, auburn, but greying at the sides. He had a camera on a strap around his neck. He looked over at Leroy; Leroy looked back. Both men nodded to each other, saying nothing.

  After a minute or two, Leroy had had enough. He wanted to call Quinn, but not with this idiot sitting next to him. He brushed the remains of his lunch off his legs, and stood up. It was then that the other man spoke.

  ‘Detective Leroy?’

  Leroy did a double take, and sat back down again. ‘I’m Leroy,’ he said, looking ahead.

  ‘Eugene Whitaker.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were going to show up.’

  ‘I had to be careful,’ Whitaker said, also looking ahead. ‘Want to go for a walk?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They both stood up, and Whitaker led Leroy to their left. They walked past a few shops, and after a few minutes came to the water’s edge. There was a paved fenced wal
kway, looking out over San Diego Bay. Whitaker turned round, and leaned on the black metal fence. He looked around, holding up his camera, pretending to be a tourist. ‘Glad you could come,’ he said, looking around.

  Leroy said nothing.

  ‘San Diego’s not too far for you, is it?’ Whitaker asked.

  ‘Three hours or so round trip,’ Leroy replied, wondering when Whitaker was going to cut to the chase.

  ‘Better than driving to St Louis,’ Whitaker replied.

  ‘St Louis?’

  ‘That’s where the NPRC is based.’

  ‘So why San Diego?’ Leroy asked.

  Whitaker shrugged. ‘My brother’s in the Navy, stationed here. I came down here for a few days to visit.’ He paused, as if in thought. ‘I guessed that’s what kind of persuaded me to talk to you. As if it was meant to be. Karma. Is that right?’

  Now Leroy shrugged. ‘No idea. I take it you got me down here to talk about Lt-Col Hutchinson?’

  Whitaker nodded. ‘I wasn’t being totally truthful with you when I said there was no information about why he left the Service.’

  ‘I guessed that.’

  ‘Thing is, Detective, I was ordered not to tell you.’

  ‘I guessed that, also.’

  Whitaker looked round again, and fiddled with his camera. ‘You see, Detective, Lt-Col Hutchinson was kind of discharged from the Army.’

  Leroy stood, slowly nodding his head as Whitaker continued.

  ‘For a morals violation.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  RAY QUINN FOLDED his arms and sat back in his chair as Leroy related his conversation with Captain Whitaker earlier. ‘A morals violation?’ he asked, incredulously. ‘What did he do?’

  Leroy perched on the edge of Quinn’s desk. ‘Well, remember it was about thirty years ago.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘Well, it seems our good Lt-Col Hutchinson was found in bed with a Warrant Officer. A male Warrant Officer.’

  Quinn took a deep breath. ‘Ah. I see. Why didn’t Whitaker just tell you that over the phone?’

  ‘I asked him that. He told me when I made the enquiry originally, he did find the records relating to Hutchinson - paper records, nothing was held online. Some stuff had been redacted - I guess we’ll never know what that said - but he was able to establish the reason behind his departure. He told me that his own superior officer had ordered him not to divulge what actually happened.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Whitaker said he didn’t question the order, but had concerns about the secrecy. He told me he was going to leave things the way they were but by coincidence, he was visiting his brother, who’s stationed at the Naval Base, and that was the catalyst, if you like, for coming forward. The cloak and dagger, he told me, was because he had his own orders, and there must have been a reason why the order had been given.

  ‘He struck me as being a bit of a strange character - a couple of rounds short of a full magazine by my reckoning - but insisted that secrecy was paramount. You should have seen him: he was dressed like a tourist; so much so, he stood out like a sore thumb.’

  ‘So,’ Quinn said, ‘he received a dishonourable discharge.’

  ‘Not quite. Whitaker explained to me in great detail that it wasn’t quite as simple as that. First of all, it wasn’t a sexual assault situation: the WO was apparently a willing partner. This was all of course before the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy was introduced.’

  Quinn frowned. ‘I don’t get you.’

  Leroy took a deep breath. His phone bleeped. He paused for a second, then continued. ‘Whitaker explained that it wasn’t straightforward because there is a precedent. Apparently in 1976 the District Court in DC upheld an Air Force decision to dismiss a Sergeant who had admitted he was gay. The Sergeant challenged the Air Force’s anti-gay policy on constitutional grounds, claiming that it infringed his rights under the 1st and 5th Amendments. He appealed the Court’s decision, but eventually accepted an honourable discharge and a cash settlement on condition that he dropped the case against the Air Force.’

  ‘I see,’ said Quinn. ‘So, the same thing happened to Hutchinson?’

  ‘Yeah, only it was several years later, attitudes had changed a little, but the stakes were higher as Hutchinson was of a much higher rank.’

  ‘But then, why didn’t the NPRC just say he received an honourable discharge?’

  ‘Whitaker didn’t know. He said that there were a lot of redactions on the paperwork. Maybe somebody got carried away with the black pen. But there are records there still showing a morals violation.’

  ‘Jesus. Would that have happened today?’

  ‘Don’t know. There are regulations about fraternizing between the ranks. Not sure about a Lt-Col and a Warrant Officer. My understanding is that it is dealt with differently these days, even between two men.’

  ‘What happened to the Warrant Officer?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘Again, Whitaker said he didn’t know. Said that as the senior officer, Hutchinson would have borne the responsibility. Like I said, there was no suggestion of Hutchinson assaulting the WO. Probably he got transferred, maybe demoted. Why? Do you think it’s relevant?’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Quinn. ‘Not as it seemed to be consensual.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we’d ever be able to identify him, in any case,’ said Leroy, getting off the desk and dropping onto his chair.

  ‘He was married at that time, though, wasn’t he?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘Yes, he was, but that didn’t seem a deterrent.’

  ‘They had no kids, did they?’

  ‘No, they didn’t,’ Leroy replied.

  ‘So maybe it was a marriage of convenience? You know: she fulfilled a lifetime ambition to be an officer’s wife; he needed that air of respectability and normalcy.’

  ‘Perhaps. So why didn’t she leave him when he left the Army? Being an Army Officer’s wife is different to being married to somebody who works for a local charity, even the CEO.’

  ‘Guess we’ll never know,’ Quinn said, swinging round to his keyboard.

  Leroy looked at his partner for a second, then said, ‘I know where this is going, Ray.’

  Quinn looked round.

  ‘Think about it,’ said Leroy. ‘Basically, Hutchinson got kicked out of the Army because he was screwing some young WO. He goes to work for a charity working with homeless, vulnerable kids, for Christ’s sake. With homeless, vulnerable boys. Do I need to draw you a picture?’

  Quinn shook his head. ‘No.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘SO WHAT DID you find out while I was in San Diego?’ Leroy asked.

  Quinn swung his chair round and referred to a yellow legal pad. ‘To be honest, what we’ve already learned about Hutchinson and the Avalon Mission is the whole picture.’

  ‘Swell,’ Leroy said wryly. ‘I was afraid of that.’

  ‘Mm. Right down to him joining them as soon as he left the Army and being appointed Area Director, rising through the ranks until he was CEO, from which he retired not so long ago.’

  ‘Where did you get all that from?’

  ‘Google, the Avalon Mission website, IRS and Social Security records.’

  Leroy leaned forward on his desk and massaged his temples. ‘If we’re right - if I’m right - and he was getting payback for something he did maybe years back, then we really need the names and contact details of as many of the kids he came into contact with during his time there. I’m guessing there was nothing there?’

  Quinn shook his head. ‘Zip.’

  ‘We’re going to have to go back to Catalina. It’s too late for that now; we’ll go first thing Monday.’ He paused. ‘Are you going to Hobson’s birthday bash tonight?’

  Quinn shook his head again. ‘No. Holly wants us to go to her father’s for dinner.’

  Leroy laughed. ‘That’s what you get when you marry an heiress.’

  ‘Very funny. Want to know what else I found out? I was going through all the st
uff Agent Calloway gave us, the FBI website, and the theories we have ourselves, and what we know already.’

  Leroy nodded, and sat back in his chair. ‘Okay. Go ahead.’

  Quinn took a deep breath. ‘Considering what happened in the Hutchinsons’ bedroom, I think it’s fair to say we’re dealing with one sick son of a bitch. Correct?’

  ‘Can’t fault you there. Go on.’

  ‘Well, there are two categories of sicko: the disorganised, asocial, and the organised, non-social. Asocial, as opposed to antisocial, means inexperienced -’

  ‘I know – lacking basic social skills. Loser, in other words.’

  Quinn stood up and stepped over to the opposite wall on which was fixed a large whiteboard. Leroy noticed that there were two columns on one of the boards, freshly written in black marker pen. ‘Each of these two categories shows a number of traits. Have a look at this.’

  Leroy walked over to the board and, arms folded, scanned the two columns while Quinn read them out aloud.

  ‘The disorganised, asocial offender will typically have a below average IQ, probably in the 80 to 95 range.’

  ‘A slow learner?’ Leroy asked.

  Quinn nodded. ‘Right. Slow, but not a retard. Normally socially inadequate, living alone, and usually not dating. They would have had an absent or unstable father, and inconsistent discipline.’

  ‘Like too much or too little?’

  ‘That’s right. He may have been on the receiving end of emotional abuse. He would live and/or work near the crime scene; he wouldn’t have much interest in following news bulletins of the case. Typically, he would have dropped out of High School.

  ‘Poor hygiene maybe; would prefer to operate at night.

  ‘He would drive a clunky car or pick up, and would need to return to the crime scene to relieve memories of the event. He may contact the victim’s family to play games.

  ‘He would have no interest in police work. I should say, Sam, that by he, I could mean she also, but -’

  ‘Statistically, we’re looking for a man; I know.’