Memories of a Murder

by Sid Kar

  Just as he had walked out of his office and trotted down the hallway, he saw Captain Arthur at the other end and coming his way. Instantly, Frank spun on his heels, whistled and said to no one in particular, “Damn, forgot it in the office,” and started walking back.

  “Captain Frank Kirk, would you please do me the honors of gracing my office with your presence,” Arthur said loudly but in an exaggeratedly genial tone to the muted chuckles of other detectives.

  “Damn,” Frank muttered under his breath. He had no choice now. He turned around, put on a fake grin on his face and walked towards Arthur. His office was just two doors over from Frank’s, and Frank walked inside right after Arthur.

  “Close the door,” Arthur said, “and take a seat.”

  Arthur Holcomb, who was in his late forties, had run the Major Crimes Bureau for the last few years. A shorter man with a rhombus shaped face, he was known for his sarcastic grins and his caustic putdowns cocooned in superficial complements. His office was messy with folders and files strewn across his desk, boxes piled up around the walls and books scattered on his racks. His two computer screens faced away from each other.

  But he was known for running a tight ship and exacting compliance to the standards and the procedures of the bureau from his detectives and officers. The reports and updates better be on his desk regularly or else…

  Arthur had picked up a folder and was flipping the pages even as Frank sat in the chair waiting on him. He furiously flipped page after page and then suddenly dropped the folder on the table jolting Frank. Frank leaned over and saw that the pages were blank.

  “You know what that is? That is your report,” Arthur said, “all the pages are blank.”

  “I was busy investigating, getting to it eventually,” Frank replied.

  “The homicide happened on Thursday…”

  “Midnight, almost Friday…”

  “THURSDAY!” Arthur exclaimed, “so says the coroner, so believes I. Yet here we are on Monday morning. I heard you are marking the suspect as a real pro. Yet I am hearing this from the rumors in the cafeteria. You didn’t even send me an email.”

  “I will get you something sometime soon,” Frank said.

  “No, you will not get me something. You will write me a full report,” Arthur said, “and you will not get it to me sometime; you will get it to me before you leave office tonight.” Arthur paused for a few seconds and saw Frank’s morose face staring out the window. “Now, look, Frank,” he continued, “I know when you were a Captain you commanded a lot more men than I. But here, I am the Captain, and you must operate according to my orders. I give you some leeway because you solve hard cases, but that is not a license to skip paperwork altogether.”

  “Fine, Captain Arthur. You shall have it this evening,” Frank said, got up with a push from his boots, and left the room. He sulked back to his office and opened the report forms on his computer.

  Joe peeked his head in the room half an hour later. Five troopers were standing behind him outside the office. Frank felt greatly relieved to see them.

  “What you doing, Frank?” Joe asked.

  “Captain’s got me doing reports,” Frank said, “tell me you got a video?”

  “Only one from some old carpenter, now retired but does woodworking for hobby. Had his tools and a cabinet he made stolen from his garage; put the camera up since then,” Joe replied, “we found cameras at four other houses along the road leading to the traffic lights on either side. Two were off or broken. A third was willing to give but wanted to talk to her lawyer first so I told her to forget it. Last one was a civil liberties type, told us to go to hell.”

  “One will do,” Frank said, “All I need is a license plate. Where is it?”

  Joe walked inside and dropped a USB stick on Frank’s desk.

  “Let’s go to the computer lab,” Frank said picking up the memory stick. He addressed the troopers outside, “I appreciate all of you canvassing the neighborhood in this bitter cold. But I need your help a little bit more.”

  “For sure, Detective Frank,” one of them said and others nodded their heads in agreement.

  “It’s been a while since I was on the patrol and my road instincts are a bit rusty, but all of you are out there every day, seeing fools driving crazy and driving drunk,” Frank said.

  “Tell us about it, no shortage of idiots on the road,” one trooper said.

  “Help me identify a drunk driver in this video,” Frank said, “Follow me.”

  The whole group of them marched over to the computer lab with Frank and Joe in the lead.

  Frank logged on a computer and Joe took a seat next to him. The troopers stood right behind surrounding them and leaning over their shoulders.

  “What are we looking for Detective Frank?” a trooper asked.

  “A red sedan that looks like a drunk was driving,” Frank said.

  He plugged in the memory stick and copied the video file into a police software that allowed for fast forward, rewind and zooming in and out. He rewound the video back to Thursday night at 11:30 PM and played it on regular speed.

  “Frank, the clerk said he came at 11:50,” Joe said.

  “Nevertheless, I rather not miss anything,” Frank said, “where was this carpenter’s house?”

  “North of Adam’s motor home, on the other side of the street,” Joe replied, “at least five or six blocks.”

  The video showed cars driving by every now and then. It was late at night and the traffic was sparse. But sometimes there was a group of cars and they would know that the traffic light must have turned green just a few seconds before.

  They all stared intently and quietly as the time on the video showed 11:50PM, then 11:55 PM and then at 11:58 a red sedan appeared on the screen.

  “There, that is a drunk driver if I ever saw one,” a couple of troopers exclaimed and others concurred loudly.

  Frank paused the video, rewound it back two minutes and played it on half the speed. They saw a Red Corolla meandering in and out of lanes as it slowly made its way past the screen.

  “That boy is drunk,” Joe said, “and driving slow. Could have seen our killer.”

  “Time seems right too,” Frank said, “but let’s be sure and go till 12:30.”

  Just as the screen clock turned 12:00 they saw another car, a Black Accord this time, drive fast off their screen.

  Frank slammed his middle finger on the pause key multiple times and Joe clapped and whistled. The troopers were startled.

  Frank turned to face them and said, “This was most likely our killer’s car.”

  “Why are we looking for the drunk then?” a trooper asked, “when we can get the name and address of the killer from his license plate.”

  Frank shook his head and half smiled, “I know the MO of these types. The car will be stolen, untraceable to him. I do intend to run his license plates for formality but nothing will come from it. Let’s continue watching till 12:30 AM.”

  Joe and the troopers were impatient for the next half an hour. As far as they were concerned, they had gleaned all the secrets from the camera. But Frank believed in thoroughness; that is why he was a good detective; he always reminded himself. Frank watched intently while Joe and the other troopers fidgeted with their fingers, cracked a joke or two and shuffled their feet.

  Frank saw nothing more of note and stopped the video when the screen clock ticked 12:31 PM.

  “Alright, nothing interesting after midnight, but I had to be sure,” Frank said, “troopers, I appreciate your help and there will be a round of beer for you all with me and Joe in near future.”

  “You buying – then we drinking,” a trooper said to the chuckles.

  “I am buying – but the state is paying,” Frank replied and they all guffawed.

  The troopers left them there and went back to their patrol duties. Frank rolled back the video to capture screenshots of both the Red Corolla and the Black Accord that were of interest to him and then zoomed in on their licen
se plates. The camera was facing the street northward at an angle and thus the license plates could be seen. He wrote down the plate numbers in his personal diary and then logged into the DMV database.

  First he did a search for Accord’s license plates and came up with a name and address.

  “Tim Davis,” Joe read the name, “that could be our boy, Frank.”

  “Almost certainly isn’t,” Frank shook his head.

  Frank looked at the address which was near enough to Adam’s home, and he owned a Black Accord too but his age wasn’t right. “Tim’s date of birth shows he is in his mid-forties. Panther is my age.”

  “I don’t see his car reported as stolen in DMV,” Joe said.

  “So he stole the license plates,” Frank said.

  Frank then searched for Tim Davis on the internet and looked at his LinkedIn and Facebook profiles. “He looks similar,” Frank said, “with his boyish face. But look at his work experience, an accountant since he finished college. This ain’t him. But we will visit him tonight, just to officially write him off.”

  Frank then typed in the license plate number for the Corolla in the DMV database.

  “Steve Winters,” Frank read the name, “address is a frat house at Rutgers in New Brunswick.”

  “It was Thursday night, boy was out partying late,” Joe said, “Let’s give him a visit.”

  “We will, but later in the evening,” Frank said logging of the computer. He gave the memory stick to Joe, “Submit this in the evidence room for our case.”

  “What are we waiting for? You think this Steve will be in a class now?” Joe asked.

  “Possible,” Frank said, “but no, Captain Arthur,” Frank looked around the lab and then whispered, “I got to get a full report of our investigation so far to him to get him off my back.”

  “Sorry, Frank,” Joe grinned impishly, “glad I ain’t as smart as you. If they ask me for a report, I will draw them cartoons.”

  Frank and Joe walked out and went different ways. Frank walked back to his office, checked his printer for papers, found it empty and loaded a new ream. He sat down to begin typing where he had left off. Then he stopped and mulled over Joe’s words.

  A sly grin crossed his own face as he decided to write his report as Joe used to write his essays in high school before Frank helped him correct them. And that was when he could be bothered to actually write sentences and not submit cartoon stripes for the class assignments.

  Frank erased what he had written and then began typing imagining what Joe might write:

  ‘Myself and Joe waz chillin’ when we waz called too da crime scene…’

  He wrote a report filled with many deliberate spelling mistakes, missing punctuations, grammatical errors, run on sentences and peppered with folksy, hicksy and regional expressions he had heard in the movies or read in the novels. But he was careful not to go overboard and make the report unreadable. Captain Arthur would be irritated, Frank knew, but he would have to live with it. There were some detectives who couldn’t write for the life of them and if he made Frank redo his report, Arthur would have a mutiny on his hand.

  The paperwork took longer than he had imagined. Frank always had a hard time doing repetitive, tedious work especially sitting on a desk and having to do with papers. He could work long and hard if he was out in the field, on the road or chasing down leads, but for office work, a few hours were all he could do. Why he had not followed his father to the profession of a corporate attorney. Glad I didn’t listen to that old fool, Frank always reminded himself whenever he had to fill in his police reports. If he had to do it every day he would have gone head bangingly insane.

  Frank looked out the window when he went to pick up the printed, finished report. It was already dark at 6:00PM and when he looked out of his office, the floor seemed deserted. He put his report in a large envelop, glued it shut and wrote ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ with a red marker on top of it. He went to Captain’s office and was about to fling his report through the door at his desk when he spotted Arthur, still in his office, but packing his bag.

  “Waiting for this report, Captain?” Frank asked.

  “Oh no,” Arthur grinned, “it is not that important.”

  Frank bit his lips. Arthur was known to play mind games.

  “I can drop it tomorrow…”

  “Now that you are here, I will take it,” Arthur walked over to Frank and frisked the report away from his hand. “I will read it at home,” he replied and put it in his bag, “where to Detective Frank?”

  “Me and Joe going to New Brunswick to try to locate a potential witness,” Frank said.

  “Frank, I like your dedication to your job. Once you have a target in front of you, you go after it like a bull after the red flag,” Arthur said, “Just remember, in this job we don’t get to pick the parts we like and ignore those we don’t.”

  Frank said nothing.

  “See you tomorrow,” Arthur left with his bag. Frank followed him but went down to the cafeteria where he found Joe munching on a bag of potato chips while watching news.

  “Time to go, Joe,” Frank said.

  CHAPTER 8

  Panther looked at his pistol with the silencer attached laying on the square table in his luxury suite on the top floor of a posh business hotel. It was the last piece of material evidence that linked him to the kill. His ski hat, the gloves, his jacket, shirt, pants, socks, shoes and even his undergarments, he had rolled up in a plastic bag, doused in gasoline and burned in a metal trash can. The ashes he had scattered to the four winds. The lockpick he had thrown down a manhole. The rental car which he had procured with a false driver’s license had now been returned unseen. He had dropped it off in the parking lot after hours. The fake drivers license he had cut up and burned with his clothes.

  The fake license plates he had put on the rental car were now at the bottom of the Delaware River. The real ones he had put back on again before returning the car. He was quite proud of this part. He had cased the neighborhood till he had found a man who looked similar to him and owned a top selling car. He had had fake license plates made that matched that man’s plate numbers. He rented a car that was also the same make and model. If his car was caught on any surveillance cameras, it would be dismissed by the police as a nearby local going home.

  And his pistol and the silencer would have been also lying at the bottom of the Delaware, flung out the window as he crossed the bridge to Pennsylvania, scot free and ready to cash in his contract; but for the goddamn Murphy’s Law.

  What could possibly go wrong, had…

  There was only one loose screw in his otherwise airtight plan. He had cased the traffic signals to pick the time when there would be red lights on either side of Route 1. At midnight, the chance of a car making a turn from a side road was very low.

  But a damn drunk had to run the red light at that same time! And he was fool enough to slow down and stare out the passenger side window when he saw Panther walking back to his car. But he had memorized the plate number of the car.

  An idiot college kid out partying. Panther had just returned from a café with public wi-fi access and had anonymously logged into his secret CIA account to access the DMV database. He had suspected this day might come when he would no longer have official access to government systems. But he was a man of foresight and preparation. Panther had asked an IT programmer to create an account for a fictional agent in the field. But the IT admin was in no position to ask questions of classified operations. When Panther had quit and decided to put his skills to work for his own benefit; his own account and access had been disabled. But no higher ups knew about the fictional agent’s account and Panther now used his login and password for access.

  Steve Winters…that was the name of the drunken fool.

  Panther did not know what to do about him. On one hand, it was unlikely the kid saw and remembered his face in enough detail to provide a sufficient description to the police for an accurate sketch. A million dollars’ worth of
Bitcoins had already hit his accounts. He could even now, rent another car with a second fake license he had, drive over the Delaware river, throw away the pistol and the silencer and leave the country and the bitter winter behind him. It was summer in the southern hemisphere, and Sydney or Buenos Aires would be nice this time of year.

  But on the other hand, there was also the risk that the kid might just remember his face. That he might stumble along on the news of his kill, if he hadn’t already, and go to the police of his own accord. That would blow up the case for him. His sketch could come across the desk of his former employers and they could instigate a nationwide manhunt for him. They were happy to think he was out of the country as he had led them to believe. He knew too many secrets, too many places where the bodies were buried, bodies that were dead because of him. But they could not risk having him running around on US soil.

  And there was the question of the second half of his fee: another million dollars’ worth in Bitcoin. His client was a wily and cunning man. He had set the terms of payment when he had hired him for the hit. Half in advance, but half one year later. The client had reasoned if they weren’t caught in a year’s time, then the case had gone cold. This was his client’s way of motivating Panther into taking painstaking care to avoid leaving any clues behind. What was the word he had used…Incentives…yes, a shrewd businessman. His client had compared his payment structure to deferred stock compensation becoming popular on Wall Street and Fortune 500 corporations. Incentives to avoid taking short term risks that would blow up in the long term…

  And he needed the second million. The Major was waiting for him with an opportunity of a lifetime. A very dangerous job crossing international borders that would have a ROI of 10,000%, a chance to turn his million into a hundred million. But a million was the investment required, the buy in on the job along with the requisite skills which he already possessed. And he would have hated to gamble his first million on a scheme riskier than roulette.