by Luke Murphy
Charlene saw the lone male employee seated at his desk reading the LA Times, and thought it must be her man. He had narrow, hunched shoulders, a trimmed beard, and his black hair showed comb marks. His hazel eyes were hidden behind a pair of reading glasses. He wore a white ACDC T-shirt and jeans. She approached and said, “Russell Evans?”
“Yes?” the man replied, eyeing the detectives.
Charlene took out her badge. “LAPD, I’m Detective Taylor, this is my partner, Detective Baker.”
The man didn’t flinch, accustomed to frequent police visits. “Please, come to my office, Detectives.” The man guided Larry and Charlene to a partitioned-off desk in the corner of the room.
“So this is what they mean by open-concept,” Larry mumbled.
Evans ignored him. “What can I do for you today?”
Charlene asked. “You were Marcus Lopez’s counselor?”
The man’s facial expression registered surprise. “Wow, that’s a very long time ago.”
“So you were?”
A window air conditioner hummed behind him. “Yes,” he nodded. “I was his street counselor for three years.”
“Can you tell us a bit about him?”
He didn’t need to check any files. “Like most Latino kids, Marcus was a good seed but got in with the wrong crowd. Dropped out of school and joined a gang at the age of ten, committed his first crime at eleven, smoked, did drugs, and drank heavily as an adolescent. I did my best to turn him around.”
The counselor spoke with a sense of pride. Charlene noticed a colored picture tacked to the partition, Evans with a group of Latino kids.
“Did it work?”
“Marcus was one of our success stories. Once my kids leave me, I keep track with the police. What’s this about, Detective? Has Marcus done something?”
“We’re investigating an altercation Marcus had with a guy who’s now dead,” Larry said.
“Can I show you something, Detectives?” Evans asked.
When they both nodded, Evans grabbed a set of keys from his desk and led them out of the office.
“I’ll drive,” he said.
Larry looked at the Crown Vic parked against the curb, then at the Pinto parked in front of it. He gave Charlene an ‘are-you-out-of-your-fucking-mind’ look. Charlene couldn’t hide her smile as Larry slid his bulk into the backseat of the compact, two-door Ford Pinto.
They drove three blocks, passing Lincoln Park before turning down a menacing, slummy, one-way street. Trash cans were toppled over, small houses, meters apart, were in ruins and buildings had been vacated. Gangs of kids, bandanas on their heads, stood on the corner sidewalk, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bagged bottles. There was a homemade street sign made from a cardboard box that read ‘No Cops.’
Evans stopped at a stop sign. Charlene was grateful that they hadn’t brought the cruiser.
“This is where Marcus was born and raised. As you can see, there wasn’t much chance for a young boy. He turned to the gang for protection. Most of these kids will never make it past fifteen. It’s my job to make sure they have an opportunity. But there’s only so much three people can do.”
Evans waved at the gang of kids, and a few waved back.
When he took off he said, “These are the odds Marcus beat. He wasn’t a good kid, he got into a lot of trouble, but he has conquered his past. He has a good job, a loving wife, and two beautiful daughters. Why would he risk that?”
“People do stupid things all the time,” Larry said. “Or I wouldn’t have a job.”
Evans didn’t reply. They circled the block, back to the Youth Center.
“Is there anything more I can do for you, Detectives?”
Chapter 22
On their way back to the detective bureau, Larry said, “What about Jessica Philips? Have we found anything on her?”
Charlene shook her head. “Still nothing. But Minor is putting pressure on us to.”
“Okay, we have a dead body in her apartment, no weapon and no fingerprints except for hers and her roommates.”
“Larry, you can’t timeframe a fingerprint. The girls live there.”
He continued by ignoring Charlene’s remark. “No witnesses saw her leave the house and she has no alibi. Nobody saw anyone else enter or leave the house. As for motive, she was Anderson’s lover…the man who raped her sister. Phone records indicate that Anderson had called the house only minutes before his murder. Philips knew he was coming.”
“I asked her about that. Anderson was on his cell phone, and Jessica said that all she could hear was loud music, static and slurring. We know that Anderson was at the bar and was heavily intoxicated. Philips said she left right after the call. We know the call only lasted seconds. If you want to talk motive, what about Beverly Minor, who was facing a lengthy and expensive divorce. Or Sandra Philips, the rape victim. Carl Minor, Marcus Lopez, Alberto Bianchi, Eric and Margaret Connors…we can make a goddamn motive case for them all! Just as concrete as Jessica Philips’.”
“How did that interview go?” Larry asked.
Charlene filled him in about Eric and Margaret Connors.
Larry unbuckled his seatbelt and let out his breath. “Jesus. There’s no end in sight.”
~ * ~
Berry and Clayton were sitting on the edge of Larry’s desk when they got back.
“We found Lopez down on Fifth, where he’s working construction. His boss was pissed when we pulled him, but Lopez didn’t seem surprised. He has a nasty shiner and his knuckles are bruised and scratched. He tried to come up with some bogus story about how he got them, but when we told him we knew about Anderson, he confessed.”
Charlene’s eyes grew large as she bit her lip and held her breath.
Berry cut in. “To the fight and the affair.”
Charlene exhaled.
“Lopez claims he was with Beverly Anderson the night of the murder. No witnesses. I got the opinion his story had been rehearsed. Cop alarm.”
Larry looked at Charlene. “Beverly might have tipped him off that we were looking for him.”
Charlene nodded.
Berry continued. “I also sensed tension in his voice. Of course, this is all just speculation. But as a long time cop, I like to think my instincts are pretty accurate.”
“What about a murder weapon?”
“He said he doesn’t own a gun. Here’s the report. If you get a warrant, we can search his house and car.”
Berry handed the report to Larry, who gave it to Charlene.
“What should we do?” Clayton asked.
Charlene looked at Larry, who checked his watch. He said, “Berry, go home and spend some time with your wife and daughter. Clayton, go home and do…whatever it is you do.”
The officers nodded and left.
“Here are the search warrant applications. Do you know how to fill them out?” Larry asked Charlene as he slid the papers onto her desk.
With the fight and admitted affair, they had enough on Lopez to garner a warrant, but Charlene knew the process could take days.
“I think so,” she replied, but knew that her voice lacked confidence.
Larry slid on a pair of bifocals and wheeled his chair next to Charlene’s. He went over the application with her, showing her where and what to insert and initial.
When the forms were completed, she left them on Captain Dunbar’s desk.
“I’m going to call it a night, Kid. Meet you back here in the morning? Don’t be gallivanting tonight.” He smiled.
“Goodnight, Larry.” Charlene smiled back.
She returned to her desk and called Darren, surprised he was still at the bureau after hours, and told him that, when Dunbar was finished signing off on the documents, to find a judge. He complained about finding a judge this late in the evening, but she hung up.
Charlene checked the database for the Margaret Connors rape file, but no charges were laid so a file wasn’t opened. There was no proof of the incident.
“Dead
and buried.” Just as the dean had admitted.
The only people who truly knew what happened were Margaret Connors and Ken Anderson. With no file, there was no way for Charlene to know which officers had even been assigned to the case.
Another dead end.
~ * ~
When she stepped inside her apartment, something didn’t feel right. Her Taylor-Cop alarm was ringing.
Charlene checked the security alarm, but it was still active. She disarmed it, slipped out her weapon and checked each room carefully. Nothing. She examined the windows and locks for any sign of forced entry. Nothing.
She picked up the phone—no messages—and hit number one on her speed-dial. She ordered a dinner-for-one, gave her name, phone number and address, and hung up.
She hadn’t heard from Andy since he’d stormed out, which seemed to be a common thread in their relationship. It wasn’t healthy and Charlene wasn’t sure why he kept coming back. What was she so afraid of? Andy was a good guy and loved her. What more did she want or need?
It was a travel day for the Dodgers, so Charlene, knowing she had time before her food arrived, changed into her favorite sweats, attached her IPod to her waistband, pulled the headphones over her ears and took to the streets.
Since starting the Professor Case, as it was being called around the office, Charlene had been ignoring her runs. It felt good as she increased her pace.
As she ran, she still had that inkling that someone was watching her. She continued to glance around, sometimes perceptibly, but sometimes not. That sense of being followed dogged her right back to the apartment.
She stretched in the parking lot to cool down, continuously scanning the surroundings. She didn’t notice any suspicious vehicles.
When she rounded the corner to head upstairs, Charlene saw what looked like the same biker from the other night. He was parked in the same spot, only this time his helmet was still on and his visor flipped down. His head was turned towards her and his stare gave her a shiver. He sat there staring at her and when she made a move towards him, he gave a quick salute and pulled away from the curb. If that guy was stalking her, he didn’t conceal it very well.
An Asian boy in his teens was standing outside her door when she reached the top of the stairs. She grabbed the bag from his hand, tipped him generously and then let herself in.
She stripped, hopped in the shower, and slipped into a pair of pajama shorts and Andy’s extra-large NYU T-shirt.
Charlene grabbed a beer from the fridge and spread out the Anderson case file. She studied everything again, wanting to get a clear picture in her mind before turning in for the night.
Eight suspects with eight motives. Except for Jessica Philips, they all had alibis, albeit loose ones, but Charlene knew that sometimes only the guilty could produce the perfect alibi.
“Okay, follow evidence and eliminate suspects,” she told herself.
For the next forty minutes, Charlene twirled noodles with chopsticks and information with her brain.
Ashley Stanley and Sarah Crawford were the missing links. The cops knew everything on everyone else, but these women were ghosts.
The google searches were useless. It was just too broad a database and the names too common. But someone, somewhere, knew.
First, she placed a call to the dean at UCLA to request all of the information on Ashley Stanley be sent to the precinct. Next, she called the dean at USC and requested that everything they had on Sarah Crawford also be sent to the precinct.
Charlene’s last thread of hope lay in something in the two records overlapping.
Before falling asleep, the detective programmed herself to dream about the case.
Chapter 23
Early Wednesday morning, Charlene grabbed the case files, locked up and took the building elevator to the basement parking lot.
As she unlocked the car door and got in, Charlene immediately spotted it. Her guts tightened.
A gold chain hung from the rearview mirror, spinning in midair.
She looked around the dark vacant subbasement.
She eyed the chain. She knew that she shouldn’t touch it, that it was probably some sort of evidence that needed to be examined proficiently. But what if they didn’t have time?
She grabbed a Kleenex from the console, reopened the door, allowing the interior light to come on, and gently removed the chain with the Kleenex. Holding it close to the light, Charlene noticed a small locket at the end of the chain. The initials engraved on the back were T.L.S.
She pried the locket open and was met by a brown-haired woman with a dimply-faced smile. Although the picture was miniscule, Charlene didn’t think she recognized the woman.
It had to be another message from the Celebrity Slayer. But how had he gotten into the secured underground parking?
After further inspection, Charlene closed the locket and slipped it into her jacket. She needed to get to the station, have the photograph blown up and try to positively ID the woman.
The Slayer wanted to be in the spotlight, needed to be heard. And he was using her to achieve his goals. Charlene was starting to feel like a pawn in the Celebrity Slayer’s chess game.
~ * ~
When Charlene stormed into the precinct, she saw the Anderson task force unenthusiastically assembled at her desk. She brushed past them, making her way towards the captain’s office.
“What’s up,” Larry asked.
“Walk with me.” She entered without knocking and threw the locket on the desk.
The captain dropped the morning newspaper and looked down at the locket. “What’s this?” he said, picking it up and examining it.
“I found that in my car this morning.”
Charlene told her captain what she thought.
He seemed to take her more seriously now. “So you think this is another vic.?” He was already getting out of his seat.
“Probably.”
“Then why hasn’t it been bagged and tagged?”
“Come on, Cap.” Charlene was growing exasperated with the lack of cooperation she was receiving. “We both know the killer isn’t stupid enough to leave any trace evidence.”
Charlene could tell the captain was respectfully taking in what she said, which made her feel a little better.
“Give it to tech. Have them blow it up and send out a bulletin to the local news stations. Have them run the picture and tell them anyone with information on this woman is to contact the police immediately. I think that’s the fastest way to find out who T.L.S. is.”
“You think this T.L.S. is still alive?”
“Doubtful.”
“I’ll get on it ASAP. How’s the Anderson case?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Well let’s work a little faster and get this thing nailed shut.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Captain,” Larry said. “This is starting to get serious. I think we should tighten security at her place.”
Charlene first thought he was joking until the captain said, “I think you’re right. Let me make a couple of calls.”
They left the office. Charlene still hadn’t had her morning coffee and was feeling worn-out, but she wasn’t sure whether it was from the Celebrity Slayer or the Anderson case.
She studied her team.
Darren was the only one who looked upbeat. The young officer was always chipper, on alert and ready for action, no matter the circumstances or time of day.
Clayton, as usual, looked more like a stockbroker than a policeman. Neat, thin, always well maintained, his uniform freshly pressed, without a brown gelled hair out of place.
Berry looked the worst. With a two-day beard and bloodshot eyes, Charlene realized this time-consuming case was keeping him away from his family, and with a newborn at home, his nights were probably sleepless. He never complained. Charlene was sure she spotted baby drool on the shoulder of his uniform.
“Here, guys.” Larry handed the papers he was holding to Officer Clayton. “This
warrant was signed last night.” He turned to Darren. “Thanks, Brady.”
Darren smiled, looked at Charlene and blushed.
Larry turned back to the senior officers. “Since it’s only good for twenty-four hours, you better hit Lopez immediately. Brady, go back to your desk and I’ll let you know when I have something for you.”
Charlene collapsed in her chair, at a stalemate—five days on the case with nothing to show except suspects with motive and lack of evidence to support theories.
“I got an interesting phone call last night,” Larry said. “Ashley Stanley’s alibi doesn’t hold up.”
“Go on.” He now had her full attention.
“Her softball game had ended early because the pitcher twisted an ankle. Since there was no backup, they called the game. The coach remembered that last night and called me, thought it might help. According to the time line, that’d give her opportunity.”
Another piece of circumstantial evidence. They still couldn’t place Stanley at the scene at the time of the murder. In fact, there was still no concrete evidence placing any of the suspects at the scene of the crime during the time of the murder.
“Have you ever heard of a woman named Sarah Crawford?”
Larry shook his head.
“That reminds me. Did you check messages this morning?”
“Didn’t get a chance yet,” Larry said.
She got up and went to the front desk. The clerk came out of the back room. “Mornin’, Detectives.”
“Good morning, Henry,” Charlene said. “Anything for me?”
The man turned and checked her in-box and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Fax from UCLA.” He handed the papers to her. “I also transferred a call from USC to your desk this morning. You going back to school, Detective?”
Charlene smiled. “Hardly.”
She read the papers as she walked back to her desk, where Larry was still waiting.
“What is it?” Larry asked.
“I called the schools last night to fax everything they had on Ashley Stanley and Sarah Crawford.”