He was putting a pinch of Copenhagen in his mouth. Once finished, he said, “Yeah, all the fairies want the details. Better tighten up that tie, Dickie, make yourself presentable.”
“It’s going to take more than a pretty tie, partner; I’m a wreck.”
He stepped toward the door and paused. “I know. Come on, I’ll buy the gin tonight.”
Captain Stover introduced all of us from the bureau: Lt. Joe Black, then me, Ray, Floyd, Mongo, Rich Farris, Elizabeth Marchesano, and Davey Lopes. He was addressing a gathering of various executives who sat around the long, dark table that was situated in the center of a narrow room with photos of past sheriffs, as well as a prominent one of the present sheriff, adorning the walls. We were apparently expected to know each of the attendants as the introductions were one-sided. I recognized the sheriff of course; I’d known him for a lot of years and he was on the news regularly, more so now than ever before due to a number of scandals hitting our department. The undersheriff was also easily recognizable for all of the same reasons, plus the added fact that he had worked the streets of South Central back when I was a patrol cop. Only he hadn’t spent much time doing it. He was born to be a politician and only stayed somewhere long enough to pad his resume and shake a lot of hands. The captain of Santa Clarita was there, and sitting next to him was a lady whom I had seen at that station but hadn’t met. The others were a bit of a mystery. I recognized the faces of some, which told me they were likely either Internal Affairs or part of the Force Review board. I always felt these meetings would be more appropriately held under a tent like every other circus.
Once Stover sat down, Ray took over.
“I’m Raymond Cortez, assigned to Homicide. Richard Jones is my partner. The other detectives here have all worked on the case we are briefing today and/or cases that are somehow related to ours. By ours, I am obviously referring to the murder of Lisa Renee Williams, the person identified as the woman who was decapitated and dismembered and ultimately found in the industrial area of Santa Clarita. I will begin with that case as it makes sense to do so chronologically.”
He went on to tell the assembly the gruesome details of the recovery. He said we had never identified the location of the murder, but we were confident that it didn’t happen where she was found. He said we also didn’t believe she was killed in the car. He then began explaining the car, how it was the registered vehicle of Marilynn Chaney, who, at the time of this investigation, was a reported missing person. He told how Lisa Williams had been identified by DNA, reminding the audience there was no other way the victim could have been identified. “We were lucky she had been arrested, or we might not have ever identified her.” Ray described her lifestyle, her arrests, her apartment, her expensive vehicle, the fact she had been adopted at birth, and then he paused, looked over at me and said to the group, “And currently we are in the midst of running with a theory that she might in fact be related to Chaney. The two may have been twins.”
Ray went on to say the theory began at the crime lab, and he credited Phil Gentry and Dr. Provost. They were discussing the theory Lopes had proposed that the two were one and the same, that Chaney lived a double life as a call girl in the Marina. That prompted Gentry and the doctor to consider the possibility that they were identical twins, and as such, they would have identical DNA profiles. He said when this theory was presented, it made sense to him and Lopes, and they came up with the following theory: “William Chaney was in financial trouble, though at first glance it appeared otherwise. He has a million-dollar insurance policy on the wife. She and her sister must have learned of each other’s existence recently, somehow. We know that the two must have had some type of relationship, as Williams’s fingerprint was found on the back of the registration papers in Chaney’s vehicle. She had been in that vehicle when she was alive, and likely more than once. At first,” Ray explained, “we theorized that the two of them—Mr. and Mrs. Chaney—were in on it together. They were going to stage Marilynn Chaney’s death to collect on the insurance. To do so, they would kill her sister, Lisa Williams, and put her in Marilynn’s car. They likely believed it would be an assumption that it was Chaney in the car, and not too much else would ever come of it. Part of that reasoning would come from the fact Williams lived the type of life that she likely wouldn’t be missed for a long time. It would also be reasonable to think that the Chaneys looked down upon her for her lifestyle. All of this of course is based on the premise that the two sisters didn’t know each other until recently, both being adopted as infants. Now, however, we are starting to rethink the idea that it was both Mr. and Mrs. Chaney who devised the plan to kill the sister. We’re leaning toward the theory that this was Mr. Chaney’s idea and the missus reluctantly went along with it initially, but later couldn’t live with herself—or with him, for that matter—after her twin sister was murdered.
“Early on there was mention of an adult daughter. None exists. The only theory we can come up with for that early statement by Mr. Chaney is that after the initial missing person report was made, Mrs. Chaney must have appeared back at the house for some reason. Maybe she was seen by a neighbor or Mr. Chaney worried she might have been. Either way, we think perhaps he felt the need to prepare for any such sighting being reported to us by a neighbor. He would be able to shrug it off and say it was their daughter, that the two are mistaken as sisters when together, or some such thing. That’s our thought on it, anyway.
“The murder-suicide is essentially caught on audio. Hostage negotiators were on the line with Mr. Chaney, trying to get him to come out. He mentioned at that time that he had been shot, which we didn’t know until the autopsies this morning. He said he didn’t know why a crazy Mexican was chasing him into his home, and that he had shot at the man believing him to be an intruder. In his dying moments, he still stuck with the story and maintained his innocence. However, a female is heard in the background. Her voice is faint, but the tech crew enhanced the recording and what comes across clearly is her calling him a bastard. He only says her name, weakly. Almost pleadingly. “Marilynn.” Then a gunshot. Based on the forensic evidence, coupled with the recording, there is no doubt Mrs. Chaney surprised Mr. Chaney with her presence and then shot him in the chest, killing him. After a few moments, she turned the gun on herself. We don’t know what the delay was, probably contemplation. She shot herself in the head, which is unusual.”
One of the suits asked, “What do you mean by that, Detective?”
“Women seldom shoot themselves in the head or face to commit suicide. If they use a gun at all—which is low percentage—they might shoot themselves in the heart, believe it or not. The head is a better, more effective, and probably less painful way to do it. Either way, she did it; there’s no doubt about that. It was a contact wound to the right temple. She is right-handed. The gun was near her right hand. There is substantial gunshot residue on her right hand and arm. He was shot from a distance of probably three feet or less, and he was positioned lower than the pistol. There was a slight downward trajectory. Given the severity of the other gunshot wound, it is likely he was seated on the floor when she killed him.”
“The other gunshot wound, that was us?” the undersheriff asked.
Ray nodded, turned and glanced at Lopes who sat expressionless to his right. “Yes, that was us. Detective Lopes had pursued the suspect into the home. As the suspect ran up the stairs, he turned and fired at Detective Lopes. Detective Lopes returned fire, striking the suspect once in the buttock. The bullet traveled in an upward trajectory into his lower thorax area, severing a kidney along the way. That trauma may or may not have resulted in his death, according to the medical examiner. It is likely he would have died if he went a long time without treatment.
“Are there any other questions to this point? We have a lot more to discuss, but I want to make sure we’re all on the same page.” He looked around the room. The various executives sat silent, some of them shaking their heads in response to his inquiry. Ray glanced down at
his belt and fumbled with his cell phone. “Excuse me just one second, I’ve been waiting for something pertinent to this briefing to come in as a text.” He quickly read a message on his phone, and put it back in its holster. He looked at me for a moment before continuing.
“It has been confirmed through DNA, Chaney and Williams were identical twins.”
Floyd’s voice carried more than he probably had anticipated in the suddenly silent room when he said, “Holy shit.”
I glanced at him and he just shrugged.
Ray continued: “As for the murder of Lisa Williams, there is no physical evidence linking the serial killer, Leonard Freeman, to her death. At least, not yet. However, there are similarities in a case being handled by LAPD. More on that in a minute.
“We know through an informant that the hit on Detective Jones was contracted by the Mexican mafia through the Irish mafia.”
“Who’s the informant?” someone asked.
“The corrections officer who was shot in Whittier two weeks ago Thursday. She survived and is talking, giving everything up. Apparently, she was a dirty cop. Her family is heavily tied to the Mexican mafia.”
I glanced at Lopes who stared blankly across the room. It seemed he had focused on something faraway, something beyond the walls of this room. Or perhaps he had gone to a place we all knew to well, a place of pain, darkness, and regret. Either way, he could have been holding aces or deuces, you would never have guessed which.
“We believe Freeman was sent here for the hits on both Lisa Williams and Detective Jones. We know he is tied to the Irish mafia in Florida as we recovered a letter he carried with him from a known hitman for the Irish mob, Whitey Blanchard. It turns out Freeman and Blanchard were longtime cellmates in Raiford, and from the letter, it appears they are very good friends. The letter itself seems to be in code to a degree. Lara over at Prison Gangs is working with it to see if they can decipher any instructions hidden in the message.
“We know that Freeman killed a young girl in San Fernando. That murder seems to have been for nothing other than personal gratification, as far as we can tell. There were photographs of the victim on his cell phone, and he was linked to the crime scene through fingerprints. We expect that case will also be linked by DNA. Detective Farris is going to give you more detail on that in a moment.
“LAPD is investigating three murders in the Hollywood area we believe to be linked to Freeman. One is a young man found at the top of a parking structure. Like the Freeman murder, his hands had been cut from his body and he was decapitated. The other two was a double murder in Hollywood. Two Russians at a car lot were found stabbed to death, throats slit, one nearly decapitated, just a couple weeks ago. The biggest link to that murder at this point is the car Freeman drove. See, Freeman was linked by DNA and prints to the murder of the kid killed on top of the parking structure. That victim’s car was found in Chinatown just down the street from the bar where Freeman died in a shootout with our guys, and Freeman’s prints are in it. The victim—the young man who was decapitated—was found in a Ford Taurus which turns out is the vehicle previously driven by Freeman. That vehicle has been linked to the dead Russians through paperwork recovered in their office. It is a cold-plated, vin-switched car, as were many of the cars on that lot. It was the retail part of an elaborate Russian auto theft ring. But, that’s how all of the cases seemed to be linked together. We don’t know if the Hollywood cases are contract murders or something else.”
He looked at me. “What have I missed?”
While I was thinking, Lopes said, “You want to explain the hit on Dickie, what we got from Maria Lopez?”
He nodded and turned back to the group, still standing at the end of the table near his vacant seat. “The reason for the hit on Detective Jones, according to the same informant, is retaliation for a shooting he was involved in just over a year ago, right over here in East L.A.” Ray nodded toward the east-facing wall as he said it. “Many of you probably remember it. Detective Jones was wounded during the shooting, and in fact, he only returned to work a few weeks ago. The person who shot him—the one Detective Jones killed—was a White Fence gang member. They put in a lot of work for the mob, and it is said that the attempted hit on Detective Jones was a favor to the gang. As a result of the attempted murder of Detective Jones, and other information the corrections officer is now providing about the Mexican mafia, Detective Lopes is working with the D.A.’s Hardcore office and the feds. They will be putting together another RICO on the mob.”
The sheriff nodded with intensity as if he greatly appreciated the idea of it. “Good. I want to be kept up to date on the progress of that.” He looked at his undersheriff. “Make sure I have at least weekly briefings on that operation.” The undersheriff made a note on the pad in front of him.
After a moment, Ray asked again if there were any questions. One of the executives asked how Chaney would have been able to go through the Mexican mafia for a hit, if he did in fact have Lisa Williams killed.
“I have to be honest, sir, when Marilynn Chaney killed her husband and then turned the gun on herself, she took their dirty secrets to the grave with her. The only saving grace is that with both of them and Leonard Freeman all dead, we don’t have to know. Of course, we will continue investigating, looking at all of their friends, associates, business records, et cetera, to see if anything further is learned or anyone else is culpable. But at this point, we just don’t know. Chaney was into gambling, so maybe there’s a connection there. Hell, these casinos around here are breeding grounds for the underworld. We’ll be sure to reach out to Organized Crimes and Gaming also, see if any of our detectives in those units can help us connect any dots.”
The executive who asked the question just nodded. Ray looked around quickly and then settled his eyes on Rich Farris.
“With that, I’m going to turn this over to Detective Rich Farris. He and Detective Marchesano investigated the case of the little girl killed in the valley, so he can provide more detail on that. I believe he is also going to brief about two other cases that might be related to Freeman, a homeless man who was murdered downtown, and a storeowner out in Burbank. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Nobody clapped. I was tempted to, but realized that only Floyd would appreciate the humor of it.
Farris stood and cleared his throat. As he began to speak, Detective Raymond Cortez—my new partner—took his seat next to me. He leaned over and whispered, “Everything’s going to be good, partner. You watch and see.”
43
I’VE BEEN WORRIED sick about you. Have you heard about everything going on in Santa Clarita?”
It was Valerie. I probably sounded a little over the top excited and quickly regretted answering the phone that way. I hadn’t spoken with her in weeks. I was worried, and it showed. But I also knew the second I finished saying it—in that brief moment of silence that followed—that this part of me is what had driven her away. I was too intense, all of the time. She was the opposite, believing nothing would ever happen to anyone she knew or loved. Even at times when she should have been worried sick about me, she remained unaffected. During the 1992 L.A. riots we had worked around the clock. Violence consumed every hour of every shift. The city was on fire, her citizenry out of control. Once in a while she would check in, seemingly oblivious to what might be going on around me. How’s work?
How’s work? Well, I’m standing on a bed of ash, the remains of which comprised Griff’s Liquor down here on Firestone Boulevard. I’m looking for a gun some asshole tossed right after he shot at us and my partner lit off two rounds of double-ought buck from the window of our unit. We were patrolling with our lights off when he ambushed us from the ruins of the same store his mama likely bought his diapers and formula, and up until two days ago, he would buy his single cigarettes and malt liquor. Our window was blown out but we’re okay, how’s everything at home?
Oh, okay, I had dinner with the neighbors . . .
“Richard, I’m calling to tell you I n
eed you to stop checking on me. There’s a reason I am not answering your phone calls, and I know you’ve been by my house several times. Please, this needs to stop. You need to stop.”
“I still care about you, Val.”
“Richard, there’s someone else now; you need to know that. It’s awkward when you call and we’re together. Twice you called while we were away on vacation. It would be best for all of us if you just accepted this and moved on. Really . . . Please.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear to see who was calling through. It was Katherine. I didn’t answer her call. I also didn’t say goodbye to Valerie. I powered off my cell and tossed it onto the seat next to me and redirected the Crown Victoria toward Chinatown. Pasadena and Dr. Katherine James would have to wait while I sorted things out. Hopefully she would.
Tonight, the place stood empty. Zhong—which he had told me long ago translates to loyal, steadfast—reached for the blue bottle of Bombay, and I nodded. He noticed me looking around. “It’s been this way in here a week now. Nobody comes in, ever since . . .”
He met me at the end of the bar where I took my seat furthest from the door with a wall at my back. It’s where I sat. Always. That night. He set my drink down and lazily swiped at the bar top with a towel, working his way to the other end. Leaving me alone in my misery, marinating in regret, reflection, and deliberation. The demons.
Oldies played from the jukebox but even Sinatra provided little distraction as I recalled the images of a killer whose life I ended one week ago. The man who had been sent to kill me and died on the floor I had just walked over with neither reverence nor contempt. As I sat staring at the door he had walked through that night, the scene played on a continuous loop in my head.
He stepped through the door and quickly assessed the room. His villainous eyes found me watching him, closely, contemplating . . . But only for a brief moment. And in that moment, we knew . . . We both knew.
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