Omerta

by Larry Darter

  Ortega produced Hamilton’s photograph and showed it to the manager.

  “Is this guy staying here?” he said.

  “He was,” the manager said. “He stayed for a few nights, but he moved out. I heard he is staying at another hotel, but I don’t know which one.”

  “Great,” Ortega muttered on their way out. “We’re always a step behind that fucker.”

  Drew chuckled. “Yeah, but he better watch out,” he said. “We’re gaining on him.”

  The detectives stopped by a few other dilapidated flophouses before ending up at the Los Angeles Mission. They talked to several people who recognized Teddy Hamilton in the picture, but Hamilton hadn’t taken a room at any of the establishments they visited.

  “Let’s just walk around a little,” Ortega said. “Maybe we’ll run into him.”

  Drew nodded, and they kept walking. They checked out a pocket park across from the mission. An eight-foot metal fence enclosed the small park, teeming with people dozing on the grass and sprawled on benches. Others played cards, chess, or dominoes on the concrete tables beneath the jacarandas and spindly palms.

  As they made their way through the park, Ortega and Drew stood out in their dark suits, white shirts, and ties. The local denizens glared at them with suspicion and hostility, immediately making them as cops. When they reached the center of the park, Drew grabbed Ortega’s elbow to stop him.

  “Rudy, I think that’s him over there,” Drew whispered, motioning with a head jerk toward a beefy black man standing beside a group of domino players watching the game. The man with a small gold hoop earring in one ear fit Hamilton’s physical description.”

  Ortega glanced at the man casually. “I can’t see his face very well,” Ortega said. “He’s looking down.”

  The man looked up briefly. “Yeah, that’s him,” Ortega said. “Let’s go.”

  The detectives strolled toward Hamilton. People in the park watched them in alarm. Several scurried away toward the street.

  “Let’s try to play it cool and avoid the drama,” Ortega said. “Let’s try to persuade him to go with us voluntarily and avoid the handcuffs.”

  Drew nodded in agreement. With all the hostile glares they were getting, trying to snatch Hamilton and take him away in handcuff might lead to a big problem.

  When the detectives reached the table, the players froze. They wanted to lower the temperature quickly by convincing Hamilton that he had nothing to fear. But just in case, Drew had his hand in his pocket on a pepper spray canister.

  “Hey, Teddy, where the fuck you been?” Ortega said cordially. He’d picked up a ghetto inflection during the years he spent as a gang cop in South-Central. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  Hamilton shrugged. Unlike many of those in the park, Hamilton was clean-shaven and well-groomed. Tall and muscular, he wore a black tee-shirt with a large DARE insignia, baggy beige shorts, and red Air Jordan basketball shoes. The detectives found the DARE shirt amusing since DARE was the anti-drug program created by the LAPD—Drug Abuse Resistance Education.

  The detectives guided Hamilton away from the domino players to speak with him.

  “I’m Detective Ortega, and this is my partner Detective Drew,” Ortega said. “We’re investigating the murder of a young woman who lived at Crestwood Apartments on Los Feliz Boulevard. We’d like you to ride back to the station with us for a routine interview.”

  Hamilton looked down at the detectives through the sunglasses perched on the end of his nose.

  “What’s for?” he said sullenly. What’s all that got to do with me, man?”

  “You were staying over at Crestwood Apartments with Cheryl Cooke at the time of the incident,” Ortega said. “You’re the last witness we need to interview. Don’t worry. It’s only routine. We’re not accusing you of anything. We’ll have you back here before the next domino game starts.”

  “Why can’t we take care of it here?” Hamilton said.

  “Too noisy, and there are too many people around,” Ortega said. “Wouldn’t be right. The victim and her family deserve privacy. Come with us to the station. It will be more comfortable for everybody.”

  Ortega reached out and laid a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder.

  “Hey man, we’re not trying to fuck with you,” he said. “Ain’t no big thing. If you saw some shit, you can tell us. If not, fuck it. We’ll bring you right back.”

  “You will be free to leave whenever you want,” Drew added. “We just have to get this done. It won’t take more than a half-hour.”

  Hamilton looked at the detectives for several moments. Finally, he nodded and followed them back to Ortega’s car.

  Rather than make the half-hour drive to West Bureau, the detectives took Hamilton to LAPD Central. On the way, Drew called and reserved an interview room.

  Chapter 30

  In the interview room at the LAPD Central Station, Hamilton kept his sunglasses on and stared at the detectives, arms crossed and fists clenched.

  “You’re here as a witness,” Ortega said. “You’re free to leave at any time. You’re not under arrest. We brought you here for a routine interview like we said. Do you understand all that?”

  “I understand,” Hamilton said.

  “I know you probably have some questions, which is fine,” Ortega said. “Soon as we’re done, you can ask all the questions you want, and we’ll try to answer them for you. Fair enough?”

  Hamilton nodded.

  Ortega took the lead and spent a few minutes questioning Hamilton about his relationship with Cheryl Cooke. Hamilton stared at him with an arrogant expression, arms still crossed.

  “When did you move out and head back east on the bus?” Ortega said.

  “I don’t recall exactly,” Hamilton said. “I move around a lot.”

  “Did you ever hear about the murder at the Los Feliz apartments? She was a young woman in her twenties. Her name was Bailey Henry. Were you living with Cheryl when it happened?”

  Hamilton considered the question for several moments before answering.

  “I don’t know when it occurred,” he said defensively.

  “But you heard about it?”

  Hamilton nodded. “Cheryl told me about it over the phone while I was in Texas.”

  “Did you know Bailey Henry at all?”

  “I didn’t know her.”

  “You ever wave at her or say hi in passing. Anything like that? Or were you friendly with her in any way?”

  “No,” Hamilton said. “I wouldn’t say I was friendly with her. I saw here sometimes, here and there, going to and fro.”

  “Okay,” Ortega said. “Did you ever go in her apartment for any reason?”

  Hamilton considered the question for a moment.

  “Um… one time,” he said finally, staring down at the table. “Once, I was going downstairs to the laundry. She was going upstairs, and she had many bags. I carried them up to her apartment for her.”

  While Hamilton was looking down, Ortega and Drew exchanged a quick glance and rolled their eyes in frustration. Hamilton, they figured, knew the system. He knew there was a chance he had left prints in the apartment, and he was setting up an innocuous explanation for why his prints were there.

  “That was nice of you,” Ortega said. “Where did you go inside the apartment?”

  Hamilton leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap.

  “The kitchen area.”

  “Did you ever go there to socialize with Bailey and hang out?” Ortega said.

  “Naw,” Hamilton said dismissively. “I set the bags in there. The woman offered me a couple of dollars for carrying her bags. I turned it down and said I didn’t expect money for it. That was about it.”

  Ortega backed off and asked a few general questions about Bailey Henry so Hamilton wouldn’t get wise the detectives were keying on what rooms of Henry’s apartment he had entered.

  “Where did you put the bags down when you went inside the apartment?”
he asked.

  “I put them on the counter, by the kitchen.”

  “The little bar thing?”

  Hamilton nodded. “Yes.”

  “So, you didn’t go in the kitchen, actually,” Ortega said. “You just walked across the living room and put the bags on the bar between the living room and kitchen.”

  “Um… yes, that’s correct.”

  Ortega paused for a moment. He was ready to ask the pivotal question, the question that could determine the outcome of the Bailey Henry murder investigation and the fate of Teddy Hamilton.

  “Did you happen to see what the rest of the apartment looked like?” Ortega said straightforwardly. “Did you go into any other part of the apartment after that?”

  Hamilton studied Ortega for a moment.

  “No,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  “You’re sure you didn’t go anywhere else in the apartment?”

  “I went into the living room,” Hamilton said. “I went over by the kitchen area. Between the kitchen area and living room, there’s a counter. I put the bags on the counter. And that’s it.”

  Ortega posed a few rapid-fire questions to deny Hamilton the chance to construct an alibi.

  “Did you go in the bedroom for any reason?”

  “No.”

  “Did you go in the kitchen for any reason?”

  “No.”

  “Did you go in the bathroom for any reason?”

  “No.”

  Ortega resisted a sigh of relief. He had the key denial, but he continued peppering Hamilton with questions to prevent him from hedging.

  “Did you go through any of the drawers or closets for any reason?”

  “No.”

  “Move stuff or lift stuff?”

  “No.”

  “Did you open the front door, or did she?”

  Hamilton paused for a moment.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Okay, then your statement is you were never in any other rooms of the apartment?”

  “No,” Hamilton said weakly.

  “No?” Ortega said.

  “It’s like what I said,” Hamilton said, “and that’s it.”

  “After the time you helped her with the bags, were you ever in her apartment again?”

  “No.”

  Drew took over and asked Hamilton about his stay at Cheryl Cooke’s apartment, why he left, and when he moved to Texas. Afterward, Hamilton studied their business cards on the table in front of him.

  “Who is Ortega, and who is Drew?” he said.

  Ortega laughed. “What?” he said. “You never met a Latino? I’m Rudy Ortega, and the white boy, he’s Howard Drew.”

  Hamilton smiled wanly.

  “Hey, you want something to drink?” Drew said to Hamilton.

  Hamilton shook his head.

  “I need a drink,” Drew said. “Be right back.”

  Drew left the room, but not for a drink. He went to the watch sergeant’s office and asked for DNA swabs. Then he returned to the interview room.

  “One more thing,” Ortega said when Drew returned with the swabs. “You ever hear of DNA, Teddy?”

  Hamilton slipped off his sunglasses and put them on the table.

  “Yes.”

  “We have all sorts of DNA tests going on,” Ortega said. “What we want to do is take a swab of your throat and the inside of your cheeks so we can rule out that you were ever in any other rooms of the apartment or had anything to do with Bailey Henry besides what you told us. That make sense?”

  Hamilton sat up straight in the chair abruptly and grabbed the sides of the table.

  “That makes sense,” he said. “I understand what you’re saying.”

  Ortega remained amiable because he wanted Hamilton’s cooperation. He knew he could get a court order for the DNA samples later, but it would be easier if Hamilton voluntarily gave the samples. Ortega again explained the DNA sample collection procedure.

  “All that clear to you?”

  “I’m listening,” Hamilton said warily, his voice tinged with fear. “I guess my one question is… am I under arrest?”

  Ortega took a long, deep breath. He dropped his friendly manner, casting a cold, disdainful glance at Hamilton. “Yes, you are under arrest for the murder of Bailey Henry.”

  Hamilton stared at Ortega with hatred, his body tensed.

  Drew believed Hamilton was going to attack Ortega. He stood up, prepared to restrain him.

  Ortega pulled a laminated card out of his pocket and read the Miranda warning to Hamilton.

  “You understand the rights I have read to you?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Having those rights in mind, do you want to discuss further what happened at Bailey Henry’s apartment that day?”

  “Do you want to tell your side of the story?” Drew adds.

  “My side of the story?” Hamilton asked uneasily.

  “DNA doesn’t lie,” Ortega said. “We have a lot of information. Do you want to keep going with this or end it right here?”

  “What do you mean to keep going with it?” Hamilton said.

  “You’re acting stupid,” Ortega snapped. “It’s a simple question. I read you your rights. The question is this. Do you want to continue talking with us about this case—tell us your side of the story about what happened with that poor young woman?”

  “I know one thing for certain,” Hamilton said with resignation. “I won’t be leaving today.”

  “No, pardner,” Ortega said. “You won’t be leaving today.”

  Ortega outlined the evidence they had amassed—the fingerprints lifted at the apartment and Bailey Henry’s necklace Hamilton had pawned in Plano, Texas.

  “I murdered no one,” Hamilton said without conviction.

  “You want to take a polygraph test?” Drew said.

  “No polygraph test,” Hamilton said. “I’ll tell you this. I know an important thing. And the important thing is I am under arrest.”

  Ortega stared at him with contempt.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Then counsel is in order,” Hamilton said.

  “So you want a lawyer now?” Ortega said. “That’s what you’re telling us?”

  “Yes.”

  Ortega and Drew know the interview is now over. They didn’t get the DNA samples but still felt immense satisfaction. They would get them later with a court order.

  Drew thought to himself: This guy is a predator who preys on the vulnerable. He raped and killed a young woman and attacked others. I’m glad we got this piece of shit off the street. We probably saved lives.

  Tracking down Teddy Hamilton, helping put together the case against him, and locking him up was why Drew became a homicide detective.

  “Get up, turn around and face the wall,” Drew commanded. “You’re in our custody and will do as you’re told.”

  “Whose custody am I in?” Hamilton said.

  “You’re in the custody of the Los Angeles Police Department until remanded into the custody of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department and jailed for murder.”

  Chapter 31

  After showering and putting on a fresh suit, Drew climbed in his car and drove to West Bureau to start another day. It was 7:30 when he got there. Several of the other detectives were already in place, but Ortega wasn’t among them. Drew put down his briefcase. He hadn’t taken time to make coffee at home and needed some. Deciding to risk the questionable bureau brew out of desperation, he headed to the break room. The Keurig machine made the familiar click-clack sounds as it heated up after he dropped in the pod and pushed the button. Next, the slurping sound started as the machine drew the water from the reservoir.

  Once the machine spewed out the last of the coffee, Drew dropped a dollar bill in the can beside the coffeemaker and grabbed a glazed doughnut from the box on the counter. Nearly every day, some thoughtful citizen dropped off a box of doughnuts. Drew supposed it was a small way of letting the cops know there were still peop
le out there who knew and appreciated the men and women who put on a badge every day and tried to do their best. Drew always thought the gesture was so amazing given that it seemed most of those the cops tried to protect and serve didn’t particularly like them and sometimes openly despised them.

  Ortega still wasn’t at his desk when Drew got back to the squad room. Drew put his coffee and doughnut down next to the computer keyboard and went through his phone messages. He had tried to call Bailey Henry’s parents the previous evening before leaving the office with the news of the arrest of the man who had killed their daughter. But the phone call had gone to voicemail. He had left a message asking them to call him back. It disappointed Drew they hadn’t returned his call.

  Drew ate the last bite of the doughnut and sipped the awful coffee, wishing Ortega would arrive soon with the morning Starbucks. His direct line rang, and Drew answered, expecting it to be Robert or Lisa Henry returning his call. But it wasn’t. It was the Westchester County detective Angelo Dellucci Drew he had spoken with over the past many months since the Fiona Silverman murder.

  “Hey, Drew,” Dellucci said. “Unless you’ve already heard about it, you won’t believe this one.”

  “What?” Drew said. “You guys found William Hurst?”

  “In a manner of speaking. The cops in Key West, Florida, arrested him for murder.”

  “Who did he kill?”

  “Apparently, some old guy who lived in the apartment house where he has been living in Key West. Hurst didn’t just whack the poor guy. He dismembered him and dumped the body in the ocean.”

  “You’re shitting me!”

  “Nope, I swear it.”

  Dellucci filled Drew in the details he had got from a Key West detective. William Hurst, disguised as a mute woman, had been hiding out in Key West under an assumed name since fleeing New York. He had befriended a neighbor there, a pensioner named Herbert Turner. Once the two became acquainted, Hurst had dropped his disguise and revealed his true identity to Turner. It seemed the relationship quickly soured after Turner learned Hurst was a wealthy New York real estate scion and began pressuring him to front the money for a business scheme Turner had.