by Luke Murphy
Larry finally spoke up. “Your husband’s body was found in a house rented by a Ms. Jessica Philips. Do you know Ms. Philips?” He handed her a picture.
The widow accepted the photograph and studied the image, shaking her head and handing it to her father. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“She is your husband’s teaching assistant at UCLA,” Larry said.
Beverly pursed her lips. “If you say so. My husband and I rarely talk about his work here at home.”
“Is this woman a suspect?” Carl Minor asked.
“Not at the moment,” Larry answered.
“Do you know of any reason why your husband would be at Ms. Philips’ house?” Charlene asked.
Beverly shrugged her shoulders. “Like I said, Detective, I don’t know the girl and as for my husband, who knows what he does when he’s not here? He’s a grown man.”
Larry spoke next. “Mrs. Anderson, do you know of anyone who would want to hurt your husband? Does he have any enemies who you are aware of?”
Beverly looked uncomfortably at her guests then turned to face her father. As she opened her mouth to speak, Carl Minor gave a facial sign and the man on the sofa stood up. “Okay, I believe I’ve heard enough.”
“Detectives, this is my attorney, Ian Johnson,” Carl Minor announced.
The attorney continued. “What are you trying to do to my client?”
“We just want to make sure we know everything. And let her know that her husband was shot and killed at Jessica Philips’ house last night. We’d also like to establish a timeline starting from when he left this house,” Charlene said.
“Detectives,” Beverly looked disgusted, “are you implying that I killed my husband?”
“Easy, Beverly, let me handle this,” her lawyer chimed in. “Is this really the time? Mrs. Anderson has just found out that her husband was killed.”
Charlene mumbled, “I think she knew before that. She…”
“Okay, we’re done here. Thank you for your time.” Larry stood up. “I trust that we can come back if we need to?”
“Anything else you need from my client can go through me, and we can make it official downtown. Thank you for coming.”
“Detective Baker, could I see you alone for a minute?” Carl Minor beckoned towards the back room.
Charlene looked at her partner who just shrugged. Larry and Minor disappeared from the room. The attorney guided Charlene to the door.
“You can tell your client that we’ll be in touch,” Charlene said.
The attorney was about to answer when the men returned.
Larry shared their condolences and promised to keep them up to date on the investigation, but Charlene suspected Carl Minor would keep himself well informed. They left the house and headed for the car.
As soon as they were outside, Charlene asked, “What was that all about?”
Larry shrugged. “Nothin’ much. He just wants to make sure we do everything we can.”
They got in the car and shut the doors. Larry started the car and smiled towards the doorway, where Minor and his attorney were still standing. Under his breath he said, “Don’t ever do that again. I told you to let me do the talking. You almost blew everything up.”
“I was letting you talk, but I think your lips were too swollen from kissing Minor’s ass,” Charlene replied.
He backed out of the driveway.
“Listen, Kid, I loved your father like a brother. He was a great cop, but sometimes he tried to push too hard. I see a lot of him in you. You can’t just go at everything head-on, sometimes it takes a little finesse. I’ve been doing this for thirty years and you’ll get there. Not every case will be solved in a day.”
Charlene nodded. “Sorry.”
Larry chuckled. “I don’t think Carl Minor likes you very much. What do you think of the widow?”
“I don’t know if she killed her husband, but she’s definitely hiding something.”
Larry nodded.
“And not only that,” Charlene continued. “Minor is hiding something, and it’s apparent he didn’t like his son-in-law one bit.”
Chapter 10
“Yes, Sir.” Captain Ronald Dunbar sat back in his chair, the phone call set on speaker, his face reddening with each insult thrown his way.
“Listen, Captain. I don’t want this Charlene Taylor, this snot-nosed rookie, running this investigation!”
“But, Sir…”
“Don’t ‘but sir’ me. I’m Carl Minor and I won’t tolerate a rookie handling my son-in-law’s case.”
“But, Sir, Detective Taylor is not lead. She’s working alongside one of our most experienced and most successful detectives.” He looked at Charlene’s partner, Larry Baker, who sat in the seat in front of Dunbar’s desk. “Detective Baker’s record speaks for itself, and I’m confident that he and detective Taylor, working together, will be successful. Or I would have never put them on this case.”
“Well, she sure seemed like the lead this morning. Threatening my daughter with wild accusations.”
“Mr. Minor, once Detective Baker and Detective Taylor get in this morning I’ll have a talk with them and find out what happened. If something inappropriate was said or done, I’ll get to the bottom of it and handle it internally.”
“I don’t like having a rookie involved. She seems like a loose cannon who can’t follow procedures. Her father was just killed a few months ago. I’m worried about her emotional state. I also heard she likes the sauce.”
Dunbar grimaced and shook his head. “I assure you, Charlene Taylor is in fact a rookie, but she’s a more than capable detective and she has this precinct’s full support and cooperation. Don’t worry, Sir, this case is in good hands.”
“What about the FBI?”
“Mr. Minor, murder is not a federal crime. We have jurisdiction. Trust me. We’re doing everything possible to find your son-in-law’s killer.”
“I hear you have a suspect. I want this Philips girl arrested immediately.”
“Sir, Philips is not a suspect. She’s a ‘person of interest’ but that’s all.”
“I don’t care, Captain. Bring her in. This case should be top priority and I want it closed and put to rest. Lord knows my daughter has been through enough. I don’t want her to have to endure anymore. You got that?”
“I understand completely, Sir. But…” Before the captain could say more, Minor had hung up.
Dunbar hung up the phone and stared at it for a long, silent minute.
“Well, that was a pleasant call. You have something brown on your nose,” Detective Baker said.
“Fuck you, Larry. I don’t like taking orders,” Dunbar replied. “How did Taylor do this morning?”
“It was beautiful. She ruffled some feathers,” Baker answered. He and Dunbar smiled. “But Minor lawyered up. We won’t be able to touch him or his daughter with a ten-foot pole. We’ll need some heavy artillery to line her up again.”
“I like the thought of that tight-ass Carl Minor, with his money and power, getting worked up by a rookie, female detective. Taylor might just have that young, cocky attitude we need on this case. What do you think of her?”
Baker shrugged so Dunbar continued. “Charlene is the son her father never had, athletic and tough. When it comes to police work, she acts on hunches and instincts, like her father. But I truly believe she might be better. Her record speaks for itself.”
Dunbar swiveled in his chair and ripped off a precinct manpower list that hung on the wall. He scrolled down the chart, mumbling to himself as he crossed off names.
“Christ! Who’ll work with her, Larry? I’ve got a fuckin’ serial killer on the loose, and I’m being ordered to assign as many as I can to some rich kid’s murder. Not only that, but I have a department full of egotistical, testosterone-pumping jackasses who won’t take orders from a woman. My ulcer is on fire.”
“She doesn’t make friends easy,” Baker said. “She carries that chip on her shoulder. Man, it’s hot
in here.” He pulled at the collar of his shirt.
Even with the steady hum of the high-powered office air conditioner, beads of sweat streaked down the back of both overweight men, and their shirts clung uncomfortably.
“Berry and Clayton won’t have a problem with it.” Dunbar highlighted the two names and continued to scroll down when there was a knock on the door. Dunbar and Baker looked up to find Officer Darren Brady standing outside, his dark brown eyes half covered by curly brown bangs.
Dunbar waved him in. “What do you want, Brady?”
“Sir, if you need extra hands with the Anderson case, I’d like to volunteer.”
“Oh great,” Baker said, heavy sarcasm in his voice.
“Let me handle this, Larry.” Dunbar looked at Officer Brady. “This isn’t to get into Taylor’s pants, is it?”
The officer’s face reddened. “No, Sir.”
“Well then, I’ll let you know.”
The young officer, new to the force, nodded and left the office, shutting the door behind him.
“What do you know about Brady?” Dunbar asked Baker.
“Very little. A transfer from Hollywood. Seems to have a perpetual hard-on for my partner. But…”
“Captain Klaver in the Hollywood division has nothing but praise for Brady. He’s a good cop, organized, methodical and even obsessively clean from what I’ve heard. And he is willing to work with you guys. What do you think?”
Baker sighed audibly. “Why not? What a dream team.”
~ * ~
She was thankful that she’d ignored the fresh case in the fridge when she’d gotten home this morning from the Anderson notification. The demons had been reaching out for her, and it took all she had not to get pulled in.
Charlene showed up for work early Saturday morning, anxious to get started on her first case. She’d only had a couple of hours of sleep, but she didn’t care. She knew she was constantly being watched, given an extremely short leash that could be pulled in at any time.
The news on the car radio hadn’t been encouraging. The press had been briefed and were swarming, already taking the case over, smelling the scent of blood. The names hadn’t been released because, at that time, next of kin had yet to be notified. Once the mention of Anderson’s name hit the streets, all hell would break loose.
The precinct was buzzing, already in full swing. She entered the department and found Larry in the captain’s office, sharing a cigarette. She rushed in before going to her desk.
“Anything new?” she asked.
“Taylor, come in,” the captain ordered. “How’d it go at the Anderson home?”
Charlene shrugged. “Fine.”
The captain looked at Larry then back at Charlene. “Baker said you did a good job.”
She looked at Larry. “Thank you, Sir.”
“Baker says that all of the reports are done and on his desk. That would be a good place to start.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Larry and Charlene left the office.
“Did you tell the captain that Minor is hiding something?” Charlene asked Larry.
“Oh, yeah, that’s the first thing I said when I got here. We should pull Carl Minor in for questioning in his son-in-law’s murder. Gee, Kid, I know I look like Brad Pitt, but this isn’t a Hollywood movie script. You can’t go after big sharks like Minor on suspicion.”
“But you agree, right?”
Larry didn’t respond.
Charlene immediately booted up her computer and entered her password, but Larry grabbed his stained mug and headed for the coffee room.
Seeing the three reports completed and on Larry’s desk made Charlene realize how high profile this case was. Everyone, including the Medical Examiner, Ballistics Team, and Crime Scene Unit, would be reporting to her and Larry, and they had all worked through the night.
When the screen booted up, Charlene noticed that the date and time of her last entry indicated last night. But she hadn’t been in the department. Who had been inside her account? How had they gotten in and why?
This was the first time she’d been in the account so she had no files or anything to hide, but the fact that her privacy had been breached gave her worry.
Maybe it was the tech that had set up the account.
Charlene picked up her phone and dialed the captain.
“What?”
“Captain, when was my computer account set up?”
“What do I look like to you, Taylor, a computer geek? How should I know? Call the tech center.”
She hung up and called downstairs. She was informed that her account was set up yesterday morning, that her last log in was in fact last night and there was no error. Charlene hung up.
She looked around the room but no one was paying attention to her. Were they keeping tabs on her?
She plugged the case information into the computer, looking for a match to the Anderson murder. The FBI VICAP System—the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—was a computer database of every homicide that had occurred within the city of Los Angeles—and throughout the rest of the country—since 1985.
First, she scanned the database of the LA County Homicide Cold Case Department for a link. Then she checked the CAS VICAP for California State matches and then switched to the federal level. While the computer searched, she picked up the case book and sorted through the papers. Each case book included a page on the victim.
She read.
Victim—Kenneth Vincent Anderson—was killed between the approximate hours of 8 PM and 10 PM, Friday, May 26, from multiple—two—gunshot wounds to the chest. The bullets pierced vital organs and victim died almost instantly. Evidence found on person—body—legally withdrawn and placed in concealed plastic envelope, stapled to document.
Charlene checked the file but found no such evidence. Then she saw the staple holes at the top of the folder. Someone had removed the evidence. She looked around the room quickly but no one gave her a second look. Who had tampered with her crime scene and investigation?
She read on and noted that Anderson’s preliminary toxicology report showed that his blood-alcohol level to be at zero point one eight, well above the legal limit in Los Angeles of zero point zero eight percent. At that level, Anderson would have undergone severe emotional swings, and a major loss in reflexes, reaction time, and gross motor control. He would not have been able to defend himself.
The victim’s Jaguar as well as Philips’ car had been vacuumed and combed through, but nothing in the way of evidence for the case was recovered. His phone was recovered in the car and was currently being scanned.
Charlene opened the ballistics report. The bullets pulled from Anderson’s body were from a nine-millimeter, just as Larry had guessed. No other bullets, holes, or casings were found at the scene, meaning the killer had only fired the gun twice—perfect shooting.
Forensics found no fingerprints on or around the body. Only four sets of prints were found in the house. One belonged to Anderson and the other three were unknown. Charlene assumed the three leftover belonged to the girls living there, but because they had never been arrested, their prints weren’t on file.
There were several hair fibers found on Anderson clothes, belonging to a female. Those hairs could have been left on Anderson anywhere, at anytime. But Charlene would still have to test them against the female suspects in the case.
She quickly scribbled on a sticky pad to have Larry send someone to fingerprint the girls to compare the prints they’d pulled from the scene. Then she stuck it on his computer screen.
Turning back to her desk, she found the folder stuffed with transcribed interviews of neighbors. Most people had been home, but no one saw or heard anything that night, not even gun shots. Silencer? But how many people owned a silencer? As easy as it was to obtain a firearm in LA, it wasn’t the same for a silencer.
The GSR Test on Philips’ hands and clothing came back negative, eliminating her as having fired a gun that night, unless she changed clothes
and washed thoroughly before getting back home. It was a possibility. She could have discarded the garments during the time she’d left the house.
The computer chimed, completing its search. Two hundred eighty-six matches were found in the state of California dating back one year, but that was understandable. A gun was a common weapon, easily accessible. Charlene then focused her search on LA murders only. The computer found forty-eight. Then to narrow it further, she typed in ‘two bullets in chest.’ The computer came back with eight matches.
“Find anything?” Larry asked, handing her a warm mug.
“Eight matches in LA.”
“What do ya got?” Larry slipped on a pair of reading glasses and looked over her shoulder, as Charlene read off the list.
“Looks like…” Charlene scrolled down the screen. “Four are gang/mob related, two robberies, and two are closed, both shooters in prison for life without parole.”
She looked at Larry who was rummaging in his pocket.
“ME found this in Anderson’s breast pocket after we left.” He set a zip lock bag on top of Charlene’s keyboard.
She picked up the bag, which was labeled with the case number, date, time, and details of where it was found. Examining the contents, she noticed the staple holes at the top.
She heard Larry grunt and rip the sticky note off his screen, but pick up the phone and call forensics. Charlene smiled to herself.
Inside the bag were multiple black-painted rose petals, although they were now wilted and a bit mushy from the moisture. The color of the rose was significant, because a black rose meant death or farewell.
When he’d hung up the phone, Charlene asked, “How many petals?”
“Thirteen,” Larry said, giving her a look.
Thirteen roses meant secret admirer.
She looked at her partner. “Thirteen black rose petals? Mob hit?”
“Could be. They’ve already been dusted but there are no prints. They pried the bullets from Anderson and are running them through the system, hoping for a cold hit.”
“I know that black rose petals placed in the victim’s pocket is a calling card for LA’s version of the mafia. But it just doesn’t feel like a mob hit.”