Blood (3 page)

              “Then how can a forty-seven-year-old man commit a murder twenty-five years ago at the age of fifty-three?”

              The captain shrugged, “We’ll leave that up to the lawyers.  Right now I’m more concerned with how he can open locks and walk out of jails.  And the only way we’ll find the answer to that is to find James Patrick.”

              Underwood sat at his desk trying to keep from being buried under the inevitable paperwork.  Each morning he made the attempt to clean his desk, but usually failed.  Probably he could get it cleared if he wasn’t constantly interrupted.  Sergeant Stomerowski came in with a complaint from the lawyer for a man who had been picked up yesterday driving the wrong way up White Street, a one-way street.  The suspect’s blood alcohol level was point one four in a state where you were legally drunk at point zero eight.  Now the man was claiming that his religion prohibited him from obeying any written word other than the words of the Bible.  Only the Bible contained the truth.  Nothing else could be believed, including signs.  He wanted his ticket for driving the wrong way on a one-way street thrown out because it denied him his freedom of religion.  Furthermore, his citation for DUI should be thrown out also because they wouldn’t have known he was drunk if they hadn’t violated his rights with the first ticket.  The lawyer knew that Underwood couldn’t and wouldn’t drop the charges, but his badgering the captain was his way of earning the exorbitant fees he was charging his client.  Underwood finally got rid of him with a promise to check with the state department on the legitimacy of his claims.  He had barely read one paragraph when the intercom buzzed.

              “Yes.”

              “Captain, there is a call from the FBI on line three.”

              “Thank you, Martha.”  He reached for the phone.  “Underwood.”

              “Captain, I am the secretary for FBI Special Agent Horace Landown.  The director has requested a meeting with you and Commissioner Williams this afternoon.  Would you be able to attend a 3:30 meeting in the commissioner’s office?

              Underwood glanced at his appointment book.  “I have a meeting but it can be rescheduled.  Tell Agent Landown I’ll be there.”

              “Thank you, Captain, I’ll tell him.”

              At 3:25 Captain Underwood walked into the commissioner’s outer office.  “Good afternoon, Grace.”

              “Good afternoon, Captain.  Go right in.  The commissioner is expecting you.”

              Commissioner John Williams met him at the door with a handshake.  Tall and black, with an athlete’s body just starting to bulge a little in the middle, Williams had been in office for four years now, since the last commissioner had resigned in disgrace in the middle of a kickback scandal.  Williams had quickly cleaned house.  Six officers were fired for corruption, and seven more took early retirement within the space of a few months.   “Jim, glad you could come.  Five minutes early, as usual.”

              Underwood grinned.  “You know I hate to be late for anything.  Any idea what this is about?”

              Williams motioned him to a seat.  “Haven’t a clue.  We’ll just have to wait and see what this guy wants.”

              “You don’t really expect to meet Landown, do you?  The scuttlebutt is, since he became Special Agent in Charge, he’s too important to meet with just anybody.  He usually sends one of his agents with a beg-off.”

              William’s eyebrows raised in surprise.  “Do you really think he’d do that to us?”

              The intercom interrupted before Jim could answer.  “Commissioner, Agent Palmer from the FBI is waiting to see you.”

              “Thank you, Grace.  Send him in.”  The commissioner cast a ‘You were right, as usual’ glance toward Jim and turned to the door.

              Mario Palmer was tall and well dressed, with a complexion that reminded Underwood of cherry wood paneling.  The smile on his face seemed arrogant until his eyes belied the insecurity behind them.  The men shook hands and performed the introductions and got down to business.

              “Special Agent Landown sends his regrets, but he was unavoidably detained.”  Williams cast a furtive look at the captain, and Underwood barely suppressed a snicker.  “However he’s briefed me on the case, so if you’re agreeable, we’ll get started.  First I would like to get the officers’ versions of what transpired that night.  After that, I would like to study all the records of the case.  Then, if things look in order, we’ll take this case off your hands.”

              Williams and Underwood looked at each other again.  Williams spoke first.  “Is there something about this case you’re not telling us?”

              Agent Palmer had the sense to look embarrassed.  “I’m sorry.  Officially I’m not at liberty to talk about the case with anyone, even you.”

              “You expect us to let you interview our officers, copy our files, bend over backwards, and smile as you pork it to our asses without a word of protest?”

              The agent’s smile was weak.  “I’m sorry.  My instructions are explicit.”

              Underwood took over.  “Just a minute.  We’re in the middle of an ongoing internal investigation into the escape.  Three of my officers have their futures hinging upon the findings of that investigation.  We aren’t going to jeopardize their reputations by dismissing this case!  If you wish to be included as an observer, be my guest.  But we’re not going to hand this case over to you without an explanation!”

              Palmer’s smile became more uncertain as the tension in the room increased.  “There are several points in this case that are confusing, and even a little disturbing.  We feel that our office has had more experience dealing with this sort of case and we have more manpower to handle a situation like this one.”

              Williams jumped in.  “Your office has more experience.  So you personally have solved, or at least seen, more cases like this one?”

              “Well, not exactly like this, but--”

              “Okay, then the Bureau has solved some other cases that resemble this one?”

              The agent was squirming in his chair.  “No, but we believe that--”

              “Then how in the hell do you get off coming in here and telling us to sacrifice three officers’ careers just because you find this case a possible source of good publicity?”  By now the commissioner was bellowing.  “What is there about this case that makes the FBI want to poke its nose into it?”

              The smile vanished completely from Palmer’s face as his eyes bounced from one man to the other, trying to discern whether he had any chance to keep the upper hand over these ‘civilians.’  With a small shrug, he seemed to make up his mind.  “The truth is that, after we made the match between your suspect and the case 25 years ago, a second match came up.  Now, about ten years ago, the Bureau began collecting unsolved cases from around the country and entering them into our computer during lull hours.  Several of these cases were able to be placed in the ‘solved’ category due to the computer matching the M.O. of other cases of the same era.  While they were doing this, they obtained a great deal of evidence that was never turned in earlier.  This evidence included many fingerprints that either were never turned in to the FBI, or were obtained before fingerprints became legal to use in court.”

              “Cut to the chase, Palmer.”  Commissioner Williams was out of patience.

              “Okay.  You thought this case was strange before.  But here’s a wild card that takes this case from interesting to bizarre.  The FBI computer also made a link between the 1973 case and another case from April, 1947.  A young girl’s brutally savaged body turned up near a California highway.  The investigation found no good suspects.  It seemed to be a random killing.  But one bit of evidence existed.  They managed to pull up one fingerprint from the murder weapon.  A match was never found, until now.”  The agent paused, and his mouth turned up in one corner in a sardonic smile.  “Give up?  We’ve linked your man to a murder that happened four years before he was born.”

              Night had fallen once more and he waited in the bushes near the south entrance to the park, like a spider awaiting its prey.   The well-dressed black couple was still two blocks away and he could hear every word they said as the argument raged. 

              “Get away from me!”

              “I’m sorry, honey.

              “You humiliated me back there.  How could you?”

              “Aww, baby.  You know you’re the only girl for me.”

              She twisted around, her red dress swirling as she stuck her finger in his face.  “You take me to a party and spend the entire time looking down another girl’s dress.  And then you want to go to bed with me?  Dream on!”

              His voice turned into a whine.  “But, Gina!  You don’t understand.  I was only...”

              The argument droned on as they moved closer and closer to the park entrance.  He scrunched even deeper in the undergrowth, weighing his options.  Could he subdue the two of them without a great deal of noise?  Disappointment enveloped him as he realized that it was too risky.  Better to wait for a better opportunity than to act stupidly. 

              “Listen, Gina!  If you are gonna act like a little girl, I’ll go back to the party and get a real woman to spend some time with.”

              “You would, too, wouldn’t you?  Well, Johnny Parker, if you’re that shallow that you would stoop to going to bed with anything that wiggles her boobs at you, you just go ahead.  I don’t care.”

              “Well then, goodbye, bitch!”

              “Good riddance, asshole!”

              With those parting shots, the boy turned and began walking back the way they had come.  Gina watched him for a few seconds, and began stumbling toward the park, her sobs gaining momentum as she walked. 

              The man’s need quickly overcame his pity, and he crept silently through the underbrush to get in position.  As she tottered down the sidewalk she wished she were dead, unaware that her wish would be granted so quickly.

              Frank Rodriguez sighed as his wife’s dachshund, Fritz, passed up another likely spot.  He looked forward all week for NCIS to come on, and if the little wiener didn’t do his business soon he would miss the beginning.  Mark Harmon and Pauley Perrette really made that show, and this week promised to be even better than the last episode.  But instead of sitting in his easy chair with remote in hand, he had to walk this stupid dog who wanted to leave his phone number on every bush in the park.  Frank’s anger grew.  Ellen knew how much he looked forward to the show, but she decided that Fritz needed to go out.  And instead of moving his bowels in a timely fashion the little fart has to wander around cruising for chicks.  

              Fritz paused again but, after a brief delay, marked the spot for posterity, and moved on.  The elderly man growled.  At this rate they would never get back to the apartment.

              The black-and-tan dog looked up nervously as his ears picked up loud voices arguing.  Knowing that anxious dachshunds have a tendency to bark, Frank picked him up and tried to stop him before he started.  “Shush, Fritz!  They’re not bothering you.”  But by now the squabble had begun in earnest, and so did the barking.  Standing there, woofing dog in hand, Frank couldn’t help but hear the bitter words tossed about by the teenagers.  They were far enough away so that Frank couldn’t catch all of the words, but the venom in the voices was clear.

              A pause in the yelling made Frank look toward the teenagers.   The boyfriend had turned and was walking back the way he had come.  The girl was sobbing and walking blindly ahead.  The retired engineer stood on the opposite side of the street, so she wasn’t coming straight at him, but her floundering brought her closer to his position.

              Frank bent down to place the squirming dog back on the ground.  “Now behave yourself, and finish your business,” he whispered.  “I want to get home.”  He turned again to look at the girl at just the second that a dark figure popped out of the bushes, and grabbed her.

Chapter 2

              For a second Frank stood still, paralyzed with amazement.  Then leaping into action the ex-Green Beret ran for the site, yelling at the top of his lungs.  Jogging and tennis kept him in decent shape, and he still loved a good fight.

              The shadowy figure had his hands full of squirming female body.  Trying to keep her quiet at the same time was a serious job, so when the yell came from behind him, he nearly panicked.  Making a split-second decision, he twisted the head of the figure in his hands as far as he could.  The neck gave with an audible snap.  Dropping the lifeless body, he positioned himself, ready to strike, when he noticed they were no longer alone.  Lights turned on in nearby apartments, and figures peered out of windows and around corners.  Deciding that the risk was too great, the dark form slipped into the shadows and vanished.

              Frank reached the spot quickly and checked the girl.  No pulse.  He turned to the bushes, but too late.  Not a sign of the attacker remained.  Voices called behind him.  He turned to see nearby neighbors hurrying to the scene.  One more scan of the area revealed nothing, so he turned back to the girl’s body to keep the spectators from trampling the crime scene.

              Sergeant Lee Carlton opened the driver’s side door of the cruiser and got his well-rounded girth behind the wheel.  Assigned to team with Beckman while Johnson was under suspension, the two had spent the last hour involved with a horrible accident at the intersection of Abercorne and Derenne.  It seems an old Mercury station wagon, filled with little girls late for dance class, was nearing the intersection to make a left as the light turned red.  A young mother with two small kids in an Aerostar van tried to rush her son to soccer practice.  Both drivers assumed the other was going to stop for the light.  The ensuing crash spun both cars into neighboring vehicles.  Two people had to be transported to Memorial Hospital.  One little girl would never get to her clogging practice.  Her mangled body lay covered with a sheet in the back of the ambulance, which had just roared away from the scene.  The gaping hole in the windshield of the mother’s car proved a grim reminder of the need for seat belts.  Directing traffic, comforting the victims until the ambulances and tow trucks arrived, then cleaning up the mess and filling out the paperwork were the less-than-glamorous parts of the job, but the chores came with the territory.  Finally it was done.

              Carlton loved it when he was paired with Sam Beckman.  Most of the other guys on the squad were into health food and diets, and usually put up a squawk when Carlton wanted to go to William’s Seafood, one of the finest seafood places in Savannah.  But Beckman enjoyed fried catfish, and could usually eat nearly as much as Carlton.  They tried to eat there at least once a week and both had been anticipating expanding their belts a little tonight, but it was not to be.  As they started to pull out in traffic the radio blared.  “Unit 7, unknown disturbance at Forsyth Park at the Liberty Street entrance.”  

              Sergeant Carlton swore, “Damn!  Here we go again! Third time this week I’ve missed supper.”  They pulled out of the parking lot, siren splitting the traffic in front of them.

              Beckman spotted the still form on the ground as soon as they turned the corner near the entrance. Exiting the car, he did a 360-degree scan of the scene, his hand on the stock of his revolver, while Carlton approached the body cautiously.  A few neighbors looked on, standing back from the body as if it was going to leap up any minute and grab someone.  After checking for a pulse in the girl’s neck, he called back to his partner, “Get on the radio and tell the Medical Examiner they’ve got some more business.”  He flipped on his powerful flashlight and scanned the bushes.

              By now the lights had attracted a crowd.  One little old lady with blue hair shuffled up squealing, “I saw him!  He grabbed her; then that man yelled and ran up and he dropped the girl and then--“

              Carlton interrupted, pulling out his note pad, “Slow down, Ma’am.  We need the facts.  Can you describe the person who did this?”

              “No, he was all in the shadows.  I only saw a shape for a few seconds.”

              “Could you tell us which direction he went?”

              Her arms danced wildly.  “He just melted into the bushes.  I never saw anybody move so quickly.  He just dropped her, turned and vanished!  He was so--”

              Beckman returned from the car and interrupted, “Can you tell us who was the first person on the scene?  You mentioned someone yelling.”

              The elderly woman sniffed.  “Yes, well, Mr. Rodriguez over there got there first.  He yelled and this evil, horrible figure came out of nowhere and--” 

              Again the hands waved everywhere.  Carlton tried to calm her down, and get a lucid account of the slaying.  Beckman walked over to the elderly man who was talking to another uniformed officer.  More uniforms from the other arriving units kept the crowd away from the scene until the medical examiner and homicide squad could get there to do their grisly jobs.

              The gray haired man seemed too calm to the officer.  “I’m Officer Beckman.  Could you tell us what happened here, sir?”

              “Certainly, officer.  My name is Frank Rodriguez.  I live at 1545 Heckle Street, three blocks south of here.  At about 9:50, I was walking my dog approximately thirty yards south of the crime scene.  I first noticed the victim walking toward us about two blocks north of here.  She was involved in a very loud argument with an unknown male, black, approximately the same age, five-six, five-seven, blond, wearing a white shirt and dark tie, with white sneakers.  The couple proceeded to the south, toward me.  The disagreement reached a climax, and the boy started walking back northward.  The girl continued to the south, crossing Pine Lane.  At that time a person jumped out of the bushes and grabbed her, one arm around the waist and the other over her mouth.”

              Beckman wrote the information into the notepad, but his mind was racing ahead.  The description seemed too quick, too precise.  “Could you give me a description of the assailant, please?”

              “Not much of one, I’m afraid.  He was between six foot and six two with a medium build.  I can’t be more accurate because he was in a slightly crouched position.  The light was too poor to tell whether he was black or white, or even if he was male or female.  I assume he was male because of the brute strength he exhibited in snapping the girl’s neck.”

              “I see.  And what happened next?”

              “Well, I yelled and ran toward the scene.  As the man saw me coming he dropped the girl and ran back into the park.  I went to the girl and saw she was dead.  Then I scouted the immediate area looking for any signs that he was still around, but there was no trace of him.  After that I came back to guard the integrity of the crime scene.”

              Beckman didn’t know whether to buy the story or not.  The detailed account smacked of an alibi to him.  For a minute he thought the old guy might be an ex-policeman, but the way he had trampled around the crime scene put that theory to rest.  “Did anyone else see the attack, sir?”

              Rodriguez seemed amused by the suspicion in the man’s voice, and his officious manner.  “I’m sure I don’t know, officer.  Unless you count Fritz!”

              “And where would I find this Fritz?”

              “A neighbor of ours saw him and took him back to our apartment.”

              “And does this Fritz person have a last name, sir?”

              Frank’s patience was beginning to fray.  “Officer..,” he peered at the policeman’s nametag in the dim light, “Berkman is it?”

              “Beckman, sir.”

              “Officer Beckman, Fritz happens to be my three year old miniature dachshund, who was with me at the scene, and can verify every detail I have given you.  For your report I would describe him as being approximately nine inches tall and weighing about ten pounds.  His hair color is black-and-tan with brown eyes.  You can interview him at 1545 Heckle Street.  You might want to stop and get an interpreter before the interview, however, unless you speak fluent dachshund.”

              Beckman shrugged.  “Just doing my job, sir.”

              Rodriguez’s voice softened.  “I understand, officer.  You have to treat every statement with a little skepticism.  I’m not trying to make your job any more difficult.  Rest assured I’m on your side.”

              “Owens.”  Lieutenant Morris looked up from the note he had scribbled on the notepad.  “Take Wilson and check out the homicide in the park.”

              Detective Gail Owens leapt to her feet.  The Lieutenant wanted her to lead the investigation.  She grabbed her purse, collared Bill Wilson and rushed out the door before Morris changed his mind.

Rising through the ranks quickly, Owens had only had her gold shield for a few months.  This would be her chance to head an investigation, and she resolved not to screw it up.

They pulled up behind the black-and-white.  Beckman met them and filled them in.  Then he went back to securing the scene and left them to their inquiries.  Owens went to interview Rodriguez again, while Wilson checked with the other bystanders.

Like Beckman, Owens grew suspicious of Rodriguez’s account.  None of the other bystanders could verify his story.  Even the old lady who first said she saw someone revealed that it had happened so fast, she wasn’t sure what she saw.  The detectives got what information they could and took Rodriguez to the station for further questioning.

              Captain Jim Underwood walked into the station at seven on the dot.  As usual, Lieutenant Morris waited for him just inside the door, clipboard in hand.  Underwood shook his head.  Morris was a wonderful police officer, very conscientious, never leaving anything to the imagination.  But he had a streak of Barney Fife that made for problems.

              “Good morning, Captain.”  A morning person, Morris bounced through each day.  Several officers had threatened to kill him in the past, as he bubbled around the station house.  Once, while he was still a patrolman, a couple of his co-workers locked him in a holding cell, and had refused to let him out until ten o’clock, which they considered a reasonable hour.

              “Good morning, Ben.  Slow night?”

              “Oh, average, or maybe a little more.  Assorted assaults and burglaries.  Two homicides.  But nothing out of the ordinary.”  He cocked his head and looked at the captain.  “Why do you ask?”

              Underwood looked at his junior officer and grinned.  “This is the first Friday night in a month that I got a whole night’s sleep.  Apparently someone is growing into his job.”

              Morris turned red but beamed.  “Thank you, sir.  Here is a copy of the log, as well as a quantitative list of complaints for the shift.  All the reports have been completed and are on your desk.  However, copies of the two homicide reports are attached to the log, as you have requested.”

              “Thanks, Ben.”  The captain scanned quickly through the log, but nothing stood out as a potential problem.  He looked over the first report.  A family disturbance.  The husband had knocked his wife around the house, for the umpteenth time.  After losing two teeth, she had picked up a knife and plunged it into his chest.  The woman had then waited an hour before calling police.  In her words, “I didn’t want them ambulance guys to bring him back.”

              Underwood started to dismiss the other report at a glance, but stopped and read the report more carefully.  Something seemed wrong with the scenario.

              He looked again at the report.  Owens and Wilson had caught the squeal, with Owens leading the team.  A suspect had been questioned but released when his story checked out.  He read it once more before he realized what was bothering him.  “Lieutenant, have Owens and her partner interview the witnesses again.  Tell them to ask each bystander if the suspect was wearing a mask.  Also have them do another canvas of the neighbors for any other clues or witnesses.”

              “I thought this was just a mugging, sir.  What are you seeing that we don’t?”

              “Just a hunch, Morris.  The M.O. doesn’t fit.  Why would the perp kill the girl?  He didn’t take time to grab her purse, which only had twenty-three dollars in it anyway.  She wasn’t a threat to him, unless she could identify him, and in the dark and scared, she probably couldn’t tell us more than his skin color, if that.  Yet, while witnesses are running toward him, instead of just dropping her and running, he takes the time to snap her neck.  This is more than just another mugging.  Sounds like cold-blooded murder,” his grimace grew larger, “or we have a lunatic on our hands.” 

              The captain’s morning went well.  Everything in the IN basket was moved to the OUT by 10:30.  Underwood spent the next hour pulling correspondence from his basket marked WHENEVER and dictating responses to school children doing social studies projects and organizations wanting equipment and services.

              A charming little old lady came into his office threatening to sue for false arrest.  After all, she hadn’t actually had her husband killed.  She just hired somebody else to do it.  But they hadn’t really done it so no harm, no foul, right?  Right?