Kiss & Tell

by Luke Murphy

  Charlene didn’t say anything, because she couldn’t begin to organize the chaos running rampant through her mind.

  “Let’s discuss the suspects, acting as if the Anderson and Porter murders are connected, which we both think are.”

  Larry grunted his agreement.

  Charlene started. “Jessica Philips, the lover, the ‘other’ woman, the young, naïve college girl who thought her professor, who she put on a pedestal, would leave his wife. She was looking for a fairytale ending that never worked out. She was at home that night. No one saw her leave. She had means and opportunity and no alibi. Anderson probably told her he’d never leave his wife and then he raped Sandra, just to prove he could.”

  “Sandra Philips,” Larry intervened. “The rape victim. I can’t say I know what she’s going through, but I know what I would do to the bastard who did that to me. She has skills in handling a weapon, owns a gun and, although she has an alibi for that night, could have left that meeting at any time and then returned.”

  Charlene’s turn. “Beverly Anderson, the jaded wife. Abused both mentally and physically. If not her, she has the money and resources to make it happen. The prideful, scheming wife who had her own lover.”

  They were in police mode, completing each other’s sentences now.

  “The lover,” Larry continued. “Marcus Lopez. He looks and plays the part of the tough guy. Muscular, tattooed, with a sordid past. He’s a former gang member accustomed to violence. He’s admitted to a fight with Anderson near the time of the murder and his ties to gangs could get him close to Nelson Porter.”

  Charlene couldn’t resist. “Carl Minor, billionaire, with an ego the size of the Hollywood Hills. He’s admitted to not liking his son-in-law and was probably embarrassed by his daughter’s marriage. ‘No one treats a Minor like that.’ Again he has the money to hire a pro and knowing his reputation, he wouldn’t think twice about pulling the trigger on that. It would also avoid a large court settlement.”

  Larry quickly moved on. “Eric Connors’ daughter was a rape victim. As a father myself, if something like that happened to my daughter, I wouldn’t blame Connors one bit for taking the law into his hands. From what you told me, that incident changed that family’s life.”

  “If we mention Eric Connors, then we have to mention Margaret, who was the rape victim. But I don’t like Margaret for this, after seeing how she reacts around other people.”

  Charlene continued. “Alberto Bianchi, a perpetual criminal, violent, egotistical, with a mean streak longer than the Golden Gate Bridge. He wouldn’t think twice about having Anderson or Porter offed.”

  “That leaves us with Ashley Stanley.”

  “Yes,” Charlene said. “Ashley Stanley or Sarah Crawford. Whoever she might be.”

  Larry smiled a crooked smile. “What are you thinking, Taylor?”

  “I think it’s time to turn up the heat and get serious about finding Crawford.”

  Larry nodded.

  “There’s no trace of her on the internet, but you can’t totally hide from your past. Someone, somewhere, knows her.”

  Charlene called Fresno High School and was transferred to the school’s guidance counselor, who had worked for the school since 1995. When a man’s voice mail answered, Charlene identified herself. She wasn’t sure what kind of warrant she would need to get high school files.

  “This is Detective Charlene Taylor with the LAPD. I’m calling about one of your former students.”

  The detective left a short message, gave the counselor her cell number then hung up.

  ~ * ~

  The alcohol helped, but it was only a crutch. Case files were scattered on the bed and floor.

  She called Andy’s number but he didn’t pick up.

  She sat alone in the dark, lights off, TV on with the volume down. The Dodgers were at home, only two and a half games back, playing the division-leading Giants. The sky looked dark and dreary, but the game played on.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to focus on work as she fought back tears as well as unconsciousness.

  Why did she always do this? How could she make things right in her life?

  Her pathetic self-loathing was interrupted by her iPhone chime. She didn’t recognize the number.

  “Detective Taylor, this is Ben Cross, Guidance Counselor at Fresno High School. Sorry for calling so late. I played your message over a couple of times, thinking about your request, contemplating my call. That name brought back memories.”

  “You remember Sarah Crawford?” Charlene had finally gotten to her feet and was searching for a pen.

  “Yes. The name has never slipped my mind.”

  If Charlene had been worried about subpoenaing the counselor, those concerns vanished.

  “She was manipulative in every sense of the word—beautiful, mature beyond her years. She used her beauty to control the high school boys who were no match. As far as intelligence, Sarah was a head above her classmates. Could have been valedictorian if she had applied herself, but her grades were never that important to her.”

  That word manipulative had been used by two different people to describe Sarah Crawford.

  “In 2007, she had accused a boy of rape. Of course, we took the incident very seriously. I knew the boy, knew his family personally, and he was not the type. We held an internal investigation, interviewed the parties, and discovered that the story had indeed been fabricated. Sarah admitted it after weeks of inquiry. My opinion, Sarah was pushing our limits, seeing how far she could take it…seeing what she could get away with. It seemed that she took pleasure in other’s pain. I had many a conversation with her, and she was sly. She could turn it on when she wanted to.

  “I love my job, love my students, but Sarah Crawford was one of a kind. It scared me to think what she was going to turn into. I lost track of her after she left, as I do with most of my students. Life goes on, students move on, and if they don’t stay in touch, then I don’t see them again.”

  He wasn’t done. “That woman could have done anything she wanted to with her life, but I was worried about the direction she was headed. I have hand-written notes on all of our talks, including my personal and professional opinions.”

  Charlene asked, “What about her home life? Did she ever mention anything about being abused at home?”

  “She hadn’t mentioned anything in any of our talks.” The counselor sounded genuinely surprised. “She was usually quite open in our conversations, sometimes a little too much, as high school girls tend not to be. She was very open with me about things like drugs, alcohol, and sex.”

  “So she never said anything?”

  “It would have been difficult for her. She had lied once about it. She probably thought no one would believe her. Her stepfather was held in high esteem in Fresno. I certainly never noticed any evidence of physical abuse. But I did notice subtle shifts in her behavior. When I questioned her about them, she just waved it off as maturing,” he added in a defensive tone.

  Charlene asked him to send copies of his notes to the department, thanked him, and said goodbye.

  The last thing she remembered as she drifted into unconsciousness was the Dodgers’ eighth inning rain delay.

  Chapter 25

  Her eyes jerked open, a notion buffeting her awake. An idea had been teasing at the back of her mind, and now it had surfaced. She sat up on her futon.

  Outside, thunder cracked. She could hear huge raindrops pelting the roof of her building.

  Her mouth was dry, spit caked at the corners of her lips. A tiny soldier beat a steady drum in her head. She bit her tongue, trying to reclaim the dream.

  It involved baseball, the Dodgers. Dust flying as a player slid for home plate. The umpire with his arms stretched, making the ‘safe’ signal.

  It was dark, even the TV was off. Had she turned it off before falling asleep? Charlene didn’t think so, at least didn’t remember doing it. She blinked a couple of times, her eyes adjusting to the blackness.
/>   She stumbled out of bed and reached for anything to grasp, anything to steady herself. She couldn’t find it and fell hard, cracking her elbow on the hardwood. She cursed under her breath. The room was spinning. What time was it? The digital clock on the wall was blank, the power was out. Charlene searched for her iPhone. She knew it was on the floor somewhere, maybe under the heap of clothes.

  She found it, turned it on, and the light helped her find her bearings. 11:11 PM.

  She staggered to the sink. Setting the phone on the counter, leaving it on for the light, she ran the water. She splashed some on her face, drinking in the refreshing wetness.

  She speed dialed her partner.

  “Larry?”

  “Jesus Christ, Taylor. Do you know what time it is? Don’t you sleep?”

  “Larry,” she mumbled. “I have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “Meet me at the Anderson crime scene.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Just do it.”

  She hung up and called her friend Dana Davis with the Forensics Unit, giving her the same instructions.

  Charlene fumbled in the dark for some clothes. She dressed quickly, chaotically, locating her car keys after ten minutes. She grabbed a bottle of Tylenol and a bottle of water for the road.

  ~ * ~

  Charlene wasn’t sure how long she’d been or if she was late, but Larry and Dana were both waiting when she pulled the Volvo curbside. They were seated in their cars, shielded from the rain, windshield wipers up high.

  Charlene’s head pounded and her stomach rolled. She felt dizzy and thought momentarily about making herself sick. She got out of her car, pulled her jacket over her head, and sprinted to the front door.

  Dana followed, holding a large, metal case with a password protected lock. She was dressed in an LAPD sweat suit and her blonde hair was parted in the middle, the sides hanging down and curling under her jaw line. Her shirt accentuated her large breasts that had acquired Dana the nickname, “Double D.” It wasn’t just her initials.

  Larry looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, which he had. His hair was messy, his tie crooked, and his suit wrinkled.

  “I assume you guys know each other?” Charlene said hoarsely.

  Dana smile. “Yep, Larry and I go way back.” She playfully punched Larry on the arm, as he tucked his chin into a chest like an embarrassed six-year-old. His face flushed red. Dana had that effect on men.

  “You smoke, Davis?” Larry asked.

  “Sorry, Larry.” She turned to Charlene. “This better be good, Taylor. You got my ass out of bed in this weather for this. I’m graveyard shift this weekend,” Dana teased.

  “Did you make sure to leave him cash for the cab ride home?” Charlene responded with a smile.

  Dana grinned but didn’t bite at the jab. “The boss will have a heart attack if he knows I snuck this out,” Dana said, referring to the metal case.

  As Charlene unlocked the door, she noticed Larry trying not to stare at Dana’s breasts, but his attempt was pathetic.

  “So this is your famous Professor scene. Wish I could’ve been here from the start,” Dana acknowledged, looking around the house.

  “Why weren’t you on this one with me?”

  “No idea, I was working that night, but the boss sent a newbie instead. First time that’s ever happened.”

  The apartment was still blocked off. They dodged the police tape, stepped into the crime scene area and advanced to the taped body outline.

  “Don’t step on your tongue, Larry,” Charlene whispered.

  “Fuck you, Taylor.”

  The power wasn’t working, but they each had a standard, LAPD issued flashlight.

  Charlene knelt beside the body outline, turning and waving to Dana to join her. Larry stood behind the women. Finally, he gave an annoyed grunt and stooped beside them, his bones cracking as he bent.

  “Are you going to tell us why we’re out here in this shit-storm, Taylor?” Larry asked impatiently.

  Charlene stared at the white chalk dust speckled across the floor, running her fingers gently through it. At first notice, she thought it was just chalk from the chalkboard, but now she had second thoughts.

  “Taylor?” Larry asked again.

  “Dana,” Charlene said, extending her hand. “Give me something to pick this up.”

  “What the hell is all that stuff?” Larry asked, eyeing the equipment Dana had removed from the metal case and finally taking his eyes off her chest.

  “This is an adhesive specimen mount. It lifts powders from surfaces for spectroscopy analysis in lab. And this,” Dana added, “is an adhesive lifter. It lifts and preserves trace materials and deposits.”

  Dana handed Charlene a set of tools, and she used it to pick up the substance and transfer it. Dana ran the material through the process.

  “It’ll take a few minutes to analyze.”

  While the analysis was underway, Charlene removed her ball cap and studied the tiny indentations in the floor.

  “I need a smoke,” Larry complained.

  While he shoved his hands in his pockets and started to pace, Charlene had time to stand and circle the body outline, trying to position herself the way she suspected the killer had moved. She followed the marks on the floor, walking towards the body, then back to the door.

  Dana observed Charlene. “Uh-oh, Larry, your partner has that lip in her mouth again.”

  Larry nodded and opened his mouth to say something but a buzzer sounded. They all stared at Dana’s machine as she pulled on the read-out, removed the paper and handed it to Charlene.

  Charlene looked at it but she wasn’t trained in this field. “What does this mean?”

  “Well, this machine isn’t one hundred percent accurate. It would be more enhanced if we could take the specimen back to the lab. But I know you detectives always want everything done yesterday. So, from the initial reading, that powder,” she said, pointing to the floor, “is calcium oxide, containing traces of…” she looked back at the sheet, “magnesium oxide, silicon oxide, aluminum oxide, and iron oxide.”

  “I get it, lots of oxides. So what does that mean?” Larry was all the way in now.

  “So it’s not chalk dust?” Charlene asked.

  “Not the kind you find in school,” Dana answered.

  “Are you two going to tell me what’s going on?” Larry crossed his arms.

  “It’s lime, Larry,” Charlene said. “Baseball lime. You see those dents beside the lime? Like little scratches on the hardwood.” Charlene got down on her knees and used the flashlight beam to follow the trail. “I believe those dents were made by metal baseball cleats.”

  Larry bent to the floor, then snorted and nodded, giving his trademark grunt of approval. He suppressed a smile.

  “I went back to our initial interview with Jessica Philips. She said that every Friday the cleaning lady came. If the cleaning lady had done her job, then Ashley Stanley was in the house that night, after her ball game.”

  Larry smiled. “You know, Stanley has moved out of town, and might be getting ready to run for good.”

  “Let’s go now.”

  ~ * ~

  They’d stopped by the department to pick up a car to make it more official.

  Larry drove, wipers on full speed, as the drops came down like pellets. Charlene gripped the door handle as Larry steered recklessly through the deluge. He squinted, making Charlene even more nervous. The pellets hammered down, making the road slick.

  Charlene was sweating profusely. She wasn’t sure if it was the booze oozing from her pores or the intensity of the moment.

  The rain had slowed them, but Larry pulled into the motel parking lot in forty-eight minutes and killed the engine. They sat looking out the windshield at the L-shaped motel, barely visible through the rain.

  Last confirmed, the girls had moved out of the Hilton and were staying in a motel outside of LA, in Harbor City—the Philips sisters sharing one room and Stanley in anothe
r. They’d already called the night manager on the way over.

  “You up for this?” he asked.

  Charlene looked at her partner. “Yeah. Motel manager said there’s only one door, plus a window in the back.”

  “I don’t see Stanley’s jeep,” said Larry, a look of concern etched on his face.

  “Manager confirmed she hasn’t left the room.”

  “I’d like to wait a few days, find more concrete evidence and be able to arrest her. Why do we have to do this now?”

  “I’m afraid she’ll run. I just want to spook her a bit to see how she’ll react.”

  “Okay,” Larry said. “If Stanley is our killer, she might be armed. We don’t know if she still has the murder weapon or if she tossed it.”

  Charlene nodded.

  “Take one of these.” Larry handed Charlene a pack of breath mints. “You reek of booze. I don’t want any red tape bureaucracy bullshit getting in the way of this arrest.”

  She accepted the package and popped one.

  They got out of the car, walking slowly in the rain, the drops hitting them like BBs. Adrenaline spurred Charlene on, her heart frantically beating.

  She tried to peer inside the window, but the lights were off and the curtains were drawn.

  “The emergency generators are powered so Stanley must have the lights off,” Charlene warned.

  “She could be asleep. It’s past midnight,” Larry said.

  “Or she could be playing possum.”

  Charlene flicked her holster button open as a precaution.

  She pressed the file under her arm and rapped on the door. She thought she saw the curtain move, but didn’t see a face. Charlene put her ear to the door and heard footsteps drawing near.

  The door was slowly opened. Stanley was in a housecoat, hair a mess and her eyes barely squinting open. Charlene noticed the suspect had bare legs with running shoes and short white socks.

  “Miss Stanley, may we come in?”

  “Has there been a break in the case?” Stanley asked hoarsely.

  “Actually, yes, there has been.”

  Stanley let them in. Charlene followed her closely, while Larry stood in front of the door, blocking passage.