Memories of a Murder

by Sid Kar

  “Maybe not, what about this,” Frank picked up a small plastic bag with white powder in it, “Coke will get you straight up jail time.”

  Luke said nothing.

  Joe picked up a still burning half-smoked joint with his thumb and index finger and took a puff.

  “Joe,” Frank looked at him intently.

  Joe flicked away the joint and stepped on it. Luke’s eyes almost popped out, “You some cop,” he muttered.

  “Da Best,” Joe nodded.

  “Don’t get high on me, Joe,” Frank said, “Luke, do you have an alibi for last night, maybe a couple of dopehead friend of yours who smoked with you last night?”

  “No man, I was in AC,” Luke said then suddenly his eyes lit up, “That’s right, I was in Atlantic City the whole night, drove back early, like 6 in the morning.”

  “Where’s your car? We didn’t see any out there,” Frank asked.

  “I park it on a street,” Luke replied, “Why you ask?”

  “Tell me you weren’t too cheap for the toll and took the Parkway and not 206,” Frank said.

  “Yeah man, only hicks drive on 206,” Luke said as if slightly insulted by the insinuation of miserliness.

  Joe burst out laughing and said, “Frank drives on 206, every day,” he patted Frank on the shoulder.

  “You got EZ Pass? Or you pay the toll with a credit card?” Frank asked.

  “I paid cash,” Luke said solemnly and glumly.

  “You got any receipts from a casino?”

  “Nope, didn’t gamble,” Luke replied.

  “Then what the hell were you doing down in AC?” Frank asked but Luke remained quiet.

  “Boy was buying weed for his blunt,” Joe said, “Ain’t that right?”

  “Alright, I confess, but don’t call the Narco on me,” Luke said, “I will cooperate. I remember I paid with a card at a fast food joint. But don’t got the receipt on me.”

  “Joe release him,” Frank said and Joe uncuffed Luke. “Here is what you are going to do,” Frank said as he looked around the small cabin with the objects and the utensils scattered around in the shelves, on the table and on the floor, “I don’t see a computer here, but you are going to get on the internet, get to your card company website, print out your statement and mail it to me, certified mail to Detective Frank at the State Police HQ. Then I call the card company and if they verify, you got a strong alibi.”

  “I will do that detective,” Luke said rubbing his wrists.

  “One last thing before we go,” Frank said, “Let’s go outside, I got to see you shoot.”

  “What?” Luke almost jumped.

  “This should be fun,” Joe said and pushed Luke out the front door which Frank had opened. Frank led the way back to where their car was parked then took out an empty cup of coffee from the cup holder and placed it on a thick tree branch roughly fifty yards away. When he returned he took out his Glock pistol and removed the magazine.

  “There is one round in the chamber, and I want you to shoot that cup for me,” Frank said.

  “Hey, are you trying to set me up? Get my prints on that gun, get the residue on my wrist?” Luke said.

  “It’s my official pistol,” Frank said, “The man who shot Adam was a poor shot, plastered the wall with holes from the stray bullets. If you are a good shot, naturally you won’t be a suspect.” Joe opened his mouth in surprise, but Frank shook his head to make him keep quiet. Frank smiled wryly then took out his gloves, “Put these on, so you don’t think I am framing you.”

  Luke put on the gloves then Frank handed him the pistol and stood aside at the right angle but within an arm’s length. Joe stood right behind Luke and put both of his hands around his back and near his elbows.

  “Hey, what the hell…” Luke blurted.

  “He is going to make sure you don’t point that at me, if you even try, he will put you in a chokehold,” Frank grinned.

  “You two some cops,” Luke said then aimed the pistol at the cup. He took a deep breath, aimed and fired and jumped back into Joe. Frank moved ahead and snatched the pistol away. The cup was still there, the shot hadn’t even struck the tree but gone clear of it altogether.

  “Let me try once more,” Luke said

  “Forget it,” Frank said, took back the gloves and started walking back to his car. Joe followed him. “Don’t forget to mail the credit card statement,” Frank said opening the door to his car. Joe went over to the passenger side and just when both of them were about to get inside, Luke shouted after them.

  “Hey cop, Detective Frank,” Luke said.

  “What is it?” Frank turned around.

  “You said I had a motive,” Luke said.

  “You do. You and Laura need the money from Adam’s will,” Frank replied.

  “But the old bastard was going to croak anyhow,” Luke said.

  “What did you say!” Frank jumped out of the car.

  “From lung cancer. Laura didn’t tell you?” Luke asked and continued when he saw blank stares, “oh man…some goofball wasted his sorry ass for no reason; he had a few months to live. Always had a cigarette when I visited.”

  Frank said nothing but got in the car and when Joe was inside, he reversed the car, turned around and sped up towards the road.

  “Goddamn,” Frank slammed his palm on the steering wheel.

  “What does this change?” Joe asked.

  “Who wastes money putting out a hit on a man about to die?” Frank said, “this knocks a leg or two from under my theory of a professional job.”

  “Hey Frank, why did you tell Luke back there that nonsense of the killer being a poor shot?” Joe asked.

  “Wanted to see his accuracy, give him incentive to show his best,” Frank said then shook his head, “but the poor bastard probably never fired a pistol before.”

  “He could have faked it. If he is the killer, he knew you were playing with him,” Joe said.

  “True, but he didn’t fake it. I have seen hundreds of men of all levels of skills shoot in my life,” Frank said, “no, Luke flat out chumped out. His was a natural fail.”

  “He off the suspect list now?”

  “Down very low, just above the clerk,” Frank said. He heard a beep and checked his cell phone. “Dr. Evan just texted, he is doing autopsy this afternoon.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Frank and Joe took their lunch on the road. Frank ate a couple slices of pizza while Joe had himself a half pound burger with bacon, cheese, a couple fried eggs and Taylor ham larded atop.

  They pulled into the State Police headquarters sometimes after 2 PM on a sunny but chilly Friday afternoon. Many state employees were already leaving, happy to start their weekend early.

  “Boy had to go get himself whacked on a Thursday at midnight,” Joe said, “ruins our weekend.”

  “What can you do? But I doubt any leads will open up today that need immediate follow up,” Frank said.

  They walked up the stairs to the crime laboratory floor and followed the signs to the Medical Examiner’s office.

  “I hate them autopsies,” Joe said as they walked down the hallway towards Dr. Evan’s medical examination room at the far end.

  “Should have had a lighter lunch,” Frank said.

  “Uhh…Frank thanks for reminding me,” Joe twisted his mouth.

  “We know the cause of death, don’t need him to go through the whole body,” Frank said, “should be quick.”

  They pushed open the door and walked into the room where Adam’s dead body lay flat on a large circular steel top in the center with Dr. Evan standing right behind. A couple of his assistants were entering data on the two terminals at the back wall.

  “Good timing, just finished the autopsy, all the details are fresh in my mind,” Evan said.

  “Doctor, tell me about his lungs,” Frank walked forward and stared down at the opened chest cavity of Adam and saw the blackened lungs.

  “Heavy smoker’s lungs,” Evan replied.

  Joe walked up
, took one look, then turned around with a ‘Uhh…’ and stepped back from the body.

  “What about the cancer?” Frank asked.

  “Good work detective,” Evan smiled, “Yes, he indeed had lung cancer.”

  “What can you tell me?” Frank asked.

  “They are putting in the request for his official records,” Dr. Evan pointed with his thumb to his assistants, “but I called a couple of local hospitals and asked about. I know doctors around here. Happens Adam’s oncologist and me did our residency together, albeit in different specialties. He told me off the record that Adam had six to nine months to live, depending on how much Chemo he was willing to put himself through. Maybe less.”

  “I don’t like this new complication,” Frank said.

  “Dents your theory of a pro, huh?” Dr. Evan said, “you figure a hired assassin would stakeout his target, see him visit a hospital, follow him to a particular department and put two and two together, or maybe fleece Adam’s file from the wall folder hospitals use. Not hard for a man like that to do. You believe otherwise?”

  “Don’t believe anything right now,” Frank said, “anything else.”

  “No bruises, marks or any sign of a struggle, but we knew that after looking at the crime scene yesterday.”

  “Flat out death by a gunshot wound to the head,” Frank nodded.

  “Died before he hit the ground,” Dr. Evan pointed to the hole in Adam’s forehead.

  “Why you got to open his head Doc?” Joe asked. His attention had been drawn to the top of Adam’s head that had a circular opening in his skull.

  “We took out the brain,” Evan grinned and Joe was jolted in place, “We have to be precise about the damage to the parts of the brain. They are taking notes,” he pointed to his assistants, “we’ll put the brain back when we’re done.”

  “Send over his medical records when you get them, Doc” Frank said, “C’mon, Joe, let’s head down to the ballistics.”

  Joe was happy when they turned around and walked out. His knowledge of firearms was as broad as his medical knowledge was thin.

  Matthew, the ballistics expert, was helping a rookie cop with his stance at the indoor range when Frank and Joe walked in. Matthew was a thin man with a thick crop of hair to go on a small face with a trimmed rectangular mustache. Matthew had been hired for ballistics but he also doubled as a firearms instructor for any police officer who wanted extra training on the range. However, he was a civilian employee and was dressed accordingly in a blue polo shirt and gray khakis.

  “C’mon over guys,” Matthew said, “I got your bullets ready.”

  “You want to instruct him? We can wait,” Frank said.

  “He will be fine,” Matthew said then turned to the young cop he was training, “Practice firing a couple magazines in the stance I showed you. Take your time between each shot.”

  “Will do.”

  Frank and Joe followed Matthew to the end of the range and Matthew took out a key and opened the door to a smaller, side room that had open steel racks with square slots holding firearms with identification tags lining all four walls. Some slots were empty, some only had plastic bags with bullets and identification tags of their own. There was a large wooden table in the middle where a few gun manuals were spread about. Matthew walked over to a lot, grabbed a couple of plastic bags, both containing a fired bullet and tossed one each to Frank and Joe.

  “What you betting Joe?” Matthew asked.

  “0.45 Caliber no doubt, I already called that,” Joe said, “I would bet they came from a 1911 Pistol.”

  “And you would have bet right,” Matthew nodded his head.

  “Matt, confirm for my satisfaction that they came from the same gun,” Frank said.

  “They did, no doubt about that,” Matthew replied, “any luck on getting the gun? With two bullets I can slam dunk it in the court if you get me the piece to match.”

  “That ain’t going to happen,” Joe grinned.

  “Why not?” Matthew asked.

  “The killer probably purchased the gun on the black market,” Frank said, “and he appears to be disciplined enough that he would have used it for only one job and gotten rid of it right away. It might be sitting at the bottom of the Delaware right now.”

  “You know that is the most frustrating part of my job,” Matthew said, “having the bullets but not the gun used or the gun but no fired bullets to match.”

  “I feel the same when I have a dead body but no killer,” Frank said then smirked, “but I have never stumbled on a killer without someone dead to go along.”

  “Let me know if you need me to testify,” Matthew said.

  “Will do,” Frank and Joe walked out of his room and crossed the range back into the office corridor again.

  “Where to now?” Joe asked.

  “That door I had you take from Adam’s trailer,” Frank said, “Let’s see what Hank the tool man can tell us.”

  Hank Holden, the Tool Mark Examiner, worked out of a former storage locker which he had repurposed and set up as his tool shop. A former car mechanic and a machinist, he had no academic education beyond high school, and he wasn’t respected by the forensics fraternity. Judges coughed when he showed up to testify in his greasy overalls with black oil smidges. But he knew his way around metal and tools, and he could even fix police cruisers that the state’s mechanic shop couldn’t.

  Frank knocked on the rusty iron door, felt it move a bit and pushed it open. Joe walked in right behind him.

  A man in his late fifties with a white beard, wearing an old worn baseball cap, gray-blue overalls and work boots was bent over a safe on the floor with a long pry bar in his hand trying to force open the door.

  “How much cash you expect in that Old Hank?” Joe asked, “If you willing to split three ways, I am willing to shoot off the lock with my Glock.” Joe said and tapped his holster.

  “Joey boy, this ain’t your grandfather’s safe,” Hank replied, “no sir, this is industrial grade steel. Some amateur numbskull tried to blast it open but only ended up mangling the bolts and twisting the door.”

  Frank and Joe watched in silence as Hank tried to push the locking bolts with his bar one more time with all of his strength, and then he gave up.

  “Faeck it, it’s Friday,” Hank exclaimed as he flung the pry bar at the floor which struck the CNC machine with a loud metallic clang jolting Frank and Joe on the spot, “if the State is too cheap to pay for my Oxy-Acetylene Torch, State can wait till the chickens come home.” Hank stood angrily with both hands pushing out his waist.

  “Now don’t break that CNC they got you,” Frank said.

  “Bought used many times, cheapest one to boot,” Hank replied, “the Police been taken over by college boys, no disrespect, Detective Frank,” Hank said, “I like you; you one of them who supported getting CNC for me,” Hank continued, “but them college boys got boatloads to spend on that DNA bullcrap, and chump change for old Hank who can trace metal like they claim to trace blood. No place for those o’ us with more common sense than book sense,” Hank looked at Joe, “Ain’t that right, Joey boy?”

  “Damn right. I always said we need a raise,” Joe added, “or free lunches, a’ least.”

  “I will put in the word for your torch, Hank,” Frank said, “but tell me you got to that door we dropped off this morning.”

  “O’ course, I always put your job on top o’ my pile,” Hank replied and walked over to the door that he had kept leaning against a lathe and dropped it on his workbench.

  “You took off the plastic wrap?” Frank asked.

  “Don’t worry, Detective,” Hank grinned, “Jenny done dusting it for fingerprints. I done examining the lock.”

  “Talk to me, Hank,” Frank said, “What can you tell me?”

  “Bad news,” Hank said, “you see, I got the metal shavings all right, but they all came from the broken lock parts inside the door. Barely a smudge of the lock pick, nothing that will help you in court,” Hank look
ed around and pointed to some lock picking tools on a rack, “even them tools made of quality steel leave some shavings. I never seen a tool like this used on a job. If I had to guess I would say this lockpick was made out of…” he scratched his head for a few seconds.

  “Let me guess,” Frank said, “Tungsten carbide.”

  “Seems about right,” Hank nodded, “you used one yourself, Frank?”

  “I have seen men use them,” Frank said, “But thanks, Hank, it is actually good news.”

  Frank and Joe took Hank’s leave and walked out.

  “What kinda knucklehead uses a tool like that to break into a trailer? Hell, break into a bank vault or something,” Hank muttered after them.

  “You happy, Frank? Your theory of a pro back on track again,” Joe said, “you heard old Hank. That ain’t a street thief’s lockpick.”

  “Nope, it is a spook’s pick.”

  Frank and Joe walked upstairs to the fingerprint section and knocked on Jenny’s door but no one answered. Frank tried to push the door but it was locked. The textured glass on the door blocked the view but no light seemed to be on inside.

  Frank took out his cellphone and called Jenny at her house.

  “Hey Jenny, Frank here, hope I didn’t wake you up?” Frank said.

  “Oh no, detective, I intend to stay up all day, don’t intend to upset my clock like jet lag,” Jenny replied.

  “What time did you leave last night?” Frank asked.

  “Like 4AM, I came straight to office then left early,” Jenny replied, “but I finished dusting the trailer for you. Even the door you brought along with you.”

  “Hank told me. Listen, I don’t want to take time away from your rest,” Frank said, “Give me a quick rundown in a couple minutes. Any suspicious prints.”

  “I wish, after all that effort,” Jenny yawned, “I found five distinct sets of prints all over the trailer besides the victim’s. And by ‘all over’ I mean everywhere, like refrigerator, beer cans, television; all those five individuals must be friends or family. I ran them through the FBI’s Fingerprint Identification System and only one match came up with a minor criminal record.”