The Cleanest Kill

by Rick Reed

  The last call Jack made was to Angelina Garcia. She began her career as the IT person for the Evansville Police Department and proven herself invaluable in digging up—read that hacking—information using computers and her connections in the cyber world. She had first come to Jack’s attention several years back when he was chasing a serial killer who was staging his murders as nursery rhymes. At that time, she was a data analyst with the vice unit, but after working with Jack and Liddell she was transferred to work in the violent crimes unit.

  She met the sheriff of Dubois County, Mark Crowley, during an investigation; they married and she eventually semi-retired from the EPD. She was now a consultant for the Evansville Police Department and several other agencies.

  Jack told her he was setting the war room up again and before he could explain further, she said, “I’ll bring my stuff.”

  “You can work from home if you want, Angelina,” Jack said.

  “Mark’s out sick for a few days. It’s no problem.”

  Jack thought for a moment and said, “You can stay at my cabin. Hot tub, beer, privacy.”

  “I get enough privacy here, Jack. I’ll stay at the casino hotel. Lots of people, pool, spa, exercise room, slots, restaurants. When do you want me to start?”

  “There’s no big hurry, Angelina, as long as you get set up in the next couple of hours.”

  “Can I go to the bathroom first?”

  “Well, I didn’t mean…”

  “I’m just kidding, Jack. Let me get my stuff together and I’ll head that way. Is Jake there?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said and the phone vibrated in his hand. “Got to go, Angelina. I’ll see you at the war room in a bit.”

  He disconnected and answered the incoming call.

  “Sergeant Mattingly is in my office.”

  “We’ll be right there, Captain.”

  Chapter 14

  The fluorescent environment of the Civic Center basement was replaced by the sunset when Jack made it to the Chief’s complex. He could see the sun was already setting. It was early evening and the days were getting shorter. His confidence he would be able to solve this case was waning as well. They had so far gotten no further than the original poorly done investigation. Evidence was missing, reports were missing or replaced with fakes, there was one partial witness—George Morgan—and he didn’t have much of a description of the guy. But George knew his guns and was able to tell them the attacker used a semiautomatic handgun. A specific handgun. A .50 caliber Desert Eagle. His information was partly confirmed by the .50 caliber shell casings found at the cemetery this morning.

  As far as the older murders, they had one witness, the person who found the bodies: Sergeant Mattingly. They still had to interview Double Dick and his friends from Rex Mundi, but that would have to wait until they got background on all of them. At least he knew Dick’s background. He was a dick. That was all he needed to know.

  Jack felt the black cloud follow in his footsteps as he and Liddell made their way to the Captain’s office. Judy Mangold had already gone home for the day. Captain Franklin buzzed them inside. The Chief’s complex was dark.

  “Sergeant Mattingly is in my office, but I have something to tell you. It may not mean anything, but I thought you should know. I just got off the phone with Lieutenant Brandsasse. He has the 1980 and 1984 personnel lists for you. He said he’ll be in the office for a few hours if you want to come and get them.”

  Jack thought he knew why, but he asked, “What’s he doing here so late?”

  “Lieutenant Brandsasse said Richard had him pull the 1980 and 1984 personnel records right after he returned from the meeting this morning.”

  “We hadn’t asked for the records yet,” Jack reminded him.

  “We hadn’t. Actually, we weren’t going to involve Richard in that task. He must have known we were going to request them is all I can figure.”

  Jack could think of another reason. Double Dick wanted to see if there was something in the files that needed to disappear. That meant Angelina would have to also get the city personnel records and compare them to the EPD personnel records to see what was missing. Richard wasn’t going to make this easy on them.

  “Lieutenant Brandsasse said Richard took the records to his office.”

  Bingo.

  Franklin continued. “Lieutenant Brandsasse said Richard locked himself in his office and made several phone calls. Richard then left and told the lieutenant to take messages unless it was an emergency or Chief Pope wanted something. Richard told him to stay until eight.”

  “Did the lieutenant say what time he got the call from the mayor’s assistant?” Liddell asked.

  “I didn’t ask. When you pick up the files you can ask him.”

  “It’s not like him to leave early,” Jack said. “I hate to say this, but from the way things are shaking out, we may need to keep an eye on him. We were just in the property room talking with Sergeant Simms and she couldn’t locate any of the evidence. She found a property card from Max’s murder and the items entered were redacted and someone wrote property destroyed on it with no explanation.”

  Franklin’s shoulders fell. “We don’t have squat, Jack. Excuse my language. We can’t do anything without appearing that we’re trying to sabotage Richard in favor of Chief Pope.”

  “Angelina is setting up the war room, Captain,” Jack said. “I can get her to run some history and financials on Richard and every name mentioned in what we do have. She can check phone records and the like. Or don’t you want to know any of this?”

  The Captain said, “I don’t want to get the Chief involved in any further details unless we need his authority. What’s said in Vegas…”

  “Understood, Captain.”

  Jack also understood the thoughts that must have been running through Double Dick’s mind. Even Sergeant Simms had heard Dick was a suspect in the old murders, and she made it sound like the rumors were true. Dick had his sources, so he had heard all of this. He may have been covering his ass while he was locked in his office making phone calls, or he might have been checking to see what his attorney might need. There would have to be an attorney involved sooner or later.

  “Let’s see what Sergeant Mattingly has to say,” the Captain said and they went to his office.

  Mattingly sat in a hardback chair in the corner of Captain Franklin’s office, holding a thick accordion binder on his lap. He didn’t show any curiosity or nervousness. If anything, Jack had the impression Sergeant Mattingly was relieved to be able to unload the secrets he’d been harboring for more than three decades.

  Sergeant Ted Mattingly was a rookie patrolman just off his probationary period at the time Max Day was murdered. He was the one who found the body. Mattingly was mid-fifties now; tall, sturdily built, thick, jet-black hair, and carried himself like a man who had seen and done it all. Nine hash marks were sewn on his left sleeve, indicating his thirty-eight years of service. He joined the police department five years earlier than Richard Dick.

  Jack and Liddell entered the office behind Captain Franklin and said, “I guess you have some questions for me.”

  They sat and Jack said, “You know what we need.”

  “Give me the Reader’s Digest version,” Jack said.

  Sergeant Mattingly took a cleansing breath and began. “I know how this appears. I’m the one who found Max and Harry’s bodies and then I’m first on scene at the cemetery with Reina this morning. Let me start by saying I’m glad the Chief gave these cases to you two.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “We’re just thrilled too. So. My first question, Sergeant Mattingly, is why you didn’t notify the Captain here that you had special knowledge of several murders, not to mention the possible connection to what happened to Reina Day this morning?”

  Mattingly said sheepishly, “I was going to. But I’ve been living with this information, t
hese suspicions, for my entire career.”

  Jack gave him a skeptical look.

  “Jack, there is no Reader’s Digest version. Sorry. I’ll tell you what I know and what I’ve done, but it may take a while.”

  “Should I call Katie and tell her to put the scotch away?” Jack asked to lighten the mood and Mattingly chuckled. It was obviously hard for Mattingly to share what he’d been holding back for over thirty years and he needed to know he wasn’t in trouble. Yet.

  “I’ll answer your question first and then I’ll go back to the beginning,” Mattingly said.

  “Take your time,” Jack said.

  “Why didn’t I come forward earlier? Well, I had tried to make something out of the murder of Max Day and later on Harry Day and was, more or less, ordered to cease and desist inquiring into those cases by the then–Detective Captain Thomas Dick, who is the father of Richard Dick.”

  Jack was thinking cover-up.

  “Captain Dick was a smart detective. He directed the investigations and when he found out—from Detective Olson, I guess—that I was digging into the murders on my own time he promised to not only ruin me, he would put me in jail for tampering with evidence, obstruction of justice, falsifying court documents; you name it. I was on the sergeants list by the time he and Olson caught on to me. He told me it would be a shame if instead of making sergeant I went to prison. You know what they do to cops in prison.”

  “Did you do anything wrong?” Jack asked.

  “Hell no! But I’m sure they could have manufactured evidence, witnesses. Even the stink would be a career ender.”

  Jack said, “You opted for door number one.”

  Mattingly was embarrassed. “I thought I was helping the family by nosing around, but I realized I was only giving them false hope. I figured I couldn’t do any good for anyone if my career ended. Call me an asshole.”

  “Asshole,” Jack said with a grin.

  “Screw you, Jack,” Mattingly said and then, “Sorry for the language, men. You too, Jack.”

  “Good one,” Liddell said.

  Mattingly’s grin faded. “In 1980 I was third shift, motor patrol north. The beats weren’t as small as they are now. Mine was all of the north from Diamond Avenue, east of Highway Forty-one and west from St. Joe Avenue. I was married back then and working two off-duty jobs to keep my wife happy. I had one kid and one on the way. I was always tired. I tried to catch a few winks whenever I could, so I would drive to the backside of Locust Hill Cemetery, turn the police radio up, and instead of taking my meal I’d get some shut-eye. The wife left me anyway. Ran off with the milkman. Seriously. The guy delivered milk and dairy products to the grocery store where she shopped.”

  He gripped the binder tighter, concentrating on its cover, and said, “Sorry. Okay. On the night Max Day was killed I had just left Dunkin’ Donuts on First Avenue, where I was having coffee with two other units, Turpin and Preske. They’re both deceased now. Anyway, I got a dispatch to Locust Hill Cemetery. It was just a ‘suspicious circumstance’ run. I figured it was a couple of teenagers doing the nasty. A lot of kids went there to make out or pull pranks. Still do.

  “Everyone knew about the cemetery. I had the idea I was being set up because I was the new guy. Someone was always pulling pranks back then. Anyway, I pulled into the cemetery and saw a car parked back by the mausoleum with its lights off. Then I noticed the driver’s window and windshield was covered with something dark.

  “I put my spotlight on the car, punched up my bright lights, and flipped on the light bar. The car was facing away from me. All I could see was a shape in the driver’s side. Nothing moved. I called it in and went to check the driver. When I saw he was dead I called for backup. Turpin and Preske were still at Dunkin’ Donuts, a few minutes away, but Olson got there before them. Detective Dan Olson was working third shift that night by himself. No other detectives.

  “I was pretty new. I’d seen dead bodies when I was in training. Natural deaths, a few stabbings and shootings. Nothing like this. This boy, Max Day, was slumped against the driver’s side window and part of his head was missing. There was blood and stuff stuck to the ceiling.

  “Turpin and Preske got there right after Olson pulled in. I remember thinking Olson must have been real close because I had barely got there myself. This was about one in the morning. The kid hadn’t been dead long.

  “Preske came up to see what I had, but Turpin stayed back. Olson ran Preske out of the scene and took over. Then he bent over and picked something up off the ground by the car. Olson declared the weapon used was a handgun. He held up a shell casing for me to see and then put it in his pocket. He told Preske and Turpin they could take off. He told me to make out an incident report and not an offense report. I asked him if he was sure he didn’t want an offense report and he got real mad and told me to go ahead and do an offense report if I wanted. I told him I needed some ID on the victim and he told me to leave that part blank, he’d fill it in later.

  “I made out the offense report and started a supplementary report while Olson called for crime scene and the coroner. I thought it was strange that Olson would be doing all of this himself. He didn’t call for another detective or call his supervisors, which was department policy. He’d dismissed Preske and Turpin. He didn’t ask me to help crime scene do their search. But I was new. You never questioned the detectives.”

  “Go on,” Jack said.

  “Crime scene got there and Olson said something to them. They took a few pictures and a wrecker showed up. The coroner came and took the body, the wrecker took the car, and Olson told me to leave. The whole thing took thirty or forty minutes.”

  “That’s all you can remember?” Jack asked.

  “I remember it very well. I was new, but I wasn’t dumb. I thought Olson was cutting way too many corners. I made out two identical offense report forms and a supplement form. The supplement was handwritten and I wasn’t done, so I didn’t give him that one and I kept one of the offense reports. On the one I gave Olson I put the crime down as a murder. I included the car description and plate number and a description of the scene. He told me that the report should have said suicide, but he would fix it later. He said that was it for me and I should leave, but he stayed.”

  “You said he didn’t call for another detective or supervisor,” Jack said. “Was that uncommon?”

  “There may have been other detectives scheduled to work that night, but back then detectives working third shift were home in bed, meeting some woman, drunk, or all three. Olson was a skirt-chaser, a drunk, and low on the seniority totem pole. I don’t know if other detectives were on duty that night but, in any case, Olson got there real fast. I wondered if this was his first homicide because he was guarding the scene, keeping everyone out—and I mean everyone.

  “I knew detectives didn’t even talk to other detectives about their active cases, and definitely motor patrol was kept in the dark. They locked the files up in their desks or took the case file and evidence home. They didn’t turn in an offense report on an active investigation until it was necessary or they were ordered to.”

  Jack didn’t tell Mattingly that he’d been ordered by the Chief to do exactly that.

  “Olson told you to leave. What did you do then?”

  “I left and waited about twenty minutes until Olson was gone, then I went back and searched the area. I saw scuff marks in the grit where the front of the car had been. Crime scene, Olson, and the wrecker had messed up most of it, but I could still make out where the fight was. Something on the ground glinted in my headlights and I found pieces of broken beer bottles. Maybe three or four bottles in all. A tire iron was off to the side of the road maybe twenty feet away, near one of the headstones. The tire iron had blood on the lug end. I collected the bottles and the tire iron, but I didn’t have a camera to take pictures of where I found them. I thought about calling Olson or crime scene back
out, but he got pretty mad about being questioned the first time. I figured I’d put it in evidence myself and turn a supplement in to crime scene. Let them notify Olson. You know?

  “I made out an evidence supplement, the details of what I’d collected and where I found it. When I got downtown I made a copy of my evidence report. That time of night I had to leave the evidence and supplement in records because the property sergeant was a first-shift job.

  “I checked the records room the next day. The evidence was gone—I thought it had been picked up by the property sergeant. I asked to see the reports and I saw Olson had changed my offense report from homicide to death investigation/suicide. His signature was on it instead of mine. I couldn’t believe he would call it a possible suicide when a weapon wasn’t found. He didn’t know about the tire iron and I doubt Max clubbed himself to death. My evidence report was gone from records.

  “I made a copy of Olson’s offense report and compared it to my offense report. He didn’t mention the description of the victim’s car. He didn’t mention the broken beer bottles or the bloody tire iron. He didn’t mention any type of struggle or fight. Just a dead kid sitting in his car.”

  Jack said, “You definitely turned in the broken glass and tire tool as evidence?”

  “Yeah,” Mattingly said. “I made a copy of the evidence report when I turned it in. I didn’t have a camera, but I saw Olson taking some Polaroids and crime scene was photographing the body and car.”

  “What did you think happened?” Jack asked.

  “I’ve thought about this almost every day. I believe there was a fight outside the car. I remembered seeing one of the taillight lenses broken. Pieces of it were on the ground. The car was banged up pretty good; dents in the trunk lid and roof. I didn’t think that was from a wreck because of the broken pieces of tail lens on the ground. Something had to have happened right where the car set. I need to tell the rest of my story.”