Kiss & Tell

by Luke Murphy

  “What a miserable night. You both must be freezing. Would you like some coffee? It’ll only take a minute.”

  “No, thank you, Ashley.”

  “It’s no trouble. The machine is in the bathroom.”

  “No, thank you, Ashley.” This time Charlene’s voice was sterner.

  Charlene noticed three suitcases sitting beside the door. Stanley sat on one of the side-by-side twin beds, not looking at the detective. Charlene sat on the other, across from her. Larry looked like a bouncer standing watch at the bar entrance, arms folded, lips clenched.

  “We’ve come upon some new evidence in the case.” Charlene waited for a reaction.

  Stanley stared at Charlene, but didn’t move or speak.

  “We found ball park lime and cleat marks around Ken Anderson’s dead body.”

  Ashley shrugged her shoulders. “I’m in a ball league and I walk around the house in my cleats all the time.”

  Charlene nodded. “Anderson was killed on a Friday night. Jessica told us that every Friday you have your house cleaned. That means you were in that house sometime that night.”

  Stanley didn’t respond. Charlene looked at Larry, who nodded.

  She removed the papers from the folder. “This is a report filed by the Fresno Fire Department two years ago. Two people were killed from a fire caused by faulty wiring. The daughter made it out alive and received a healthy insurance policy and inheritance.”

  Charlene showed the picture. Still no movement from Stanley. Stanley’s calm demeanor put Charlene on edge, second guessing her theory.

  “I also found police reports from the Fresno PD filed by your mother, the third one filed by you. Fresno PD has agreed to reopen the investigation into the fire, based on my theory.” This was a lie, but Stanley didn’t know that.

  Stanley looked at the ground.

  “I know what you’ve been through, Sarah.” With the mention of her real name, she looked at Charlene for the first time.

  She rose from the bed. Larry motioned to move towards her, but Charlene held him back with a finger in the air. Crawford turned her back to the detectives.

  “This is all very interesting. Are you sure you won’t have that coffee, Detective?”

  Crawford made towards the bathroom.

  “Stop right there, Sarah. Turn around.” Charlene had her hand on the butt of her gun, which was still holstered. She looked at Larry, who already had his drawn.

  “Turn around and put your hands where we can see them,” Larry said.

  There was no reply, no movement.

  “Listen to him, Sarah,” Charlene added.

  Crawford slowly reached inside her robe.

  “Hands in the air, Sarah!”

  It was too late. Crawford pulled something from her robe and turned.

  Before she saw anything else, Charlene was whiplashed by Larry’s bulk, as he tackled her to the ground. His full weight landed on Charlene’s chest, knocking the wind out of her as two deafening pops went off and bullets lodged into the drywall behind them.

  Larry raised his gun over the edge of the bed and fired a blind shot.

  It took a few seconds for Charlene to find her breath. “Drop the gun, Sarah. It’s over!”

  The detective slowly, cautiously, lifted her head and gazed overtop the bed. She heard the bathroom door slam and the lock slide into place.

  “Bathroom, Larry,” she said. Then they heard glass breaking.

  “Window,” he confirmed.

  As Charlene crept down the hall, gun ready, Larry left through the front door. No sound came from inside the bathroom. She stood beside the doorframe, took a deep breath and kicked in the door, splinting the sides of the frame. She quickly sidestepped out of range. On three, she moved, squaring her shoulders in the doorway, gun pointing in.

  The room was empty, the window wide open. Crawford’s peach colored robe lay on the floor. Charlene pulled back the shower curtain and searched the room to confirm it. When she looked out the window, she could see the back of Stanley’s shadow as the suspect fled towards her jeep parked strategically behind the motel.

  “Shit,” Charlene muttered.

  She grabbed her radio. “Larry, Stanley’s jeep is parked in the back, that’s why we missed it.”

  As she was reattaching her radio, two shots echoed outside. They weren’t from Larry’s Smith & Wesson Model 15 revolver.

  “Larry!” She gasped, grabbing the two-way radio again from her belt and sprinting from the bathroom.

  When she stepped outside, Charlene tried to shield the rain with her hand. She rounded the corner of the building and saw her partner leaning against a post, holding his right shoulder. She went to him. “Larry, you okay?”

  “Just great, Taylor! That bitch shot me!” He winced.

  It looked like the bullet had just barely grazed the skin. His sleeve had a speck of a blood stain.

  “It’s far from the heart.”

  “Fuck you, Taylor! Go! Get that bitch!” Larry commanded, pushing her away.

  Charlene noticed the blood dripping through his shirt now. He would lose use of his arm for a while, but not fatal. For a cop, it was a routine bullet wound.

  Charlene scanned the parking lot but couldn’t locate Crawford. She was calling in Larry’s injury when she heard the squeal of tires, followed by a black jeep speeding by, jumping a concrete block and almost clipping the detectives.

  Larry grimaced as he reached into his pocket to retrieve the car keys, throwing them at Charlene. It was an unwritten rule, but understood throughout law enforcement, the police were trained never to leave their partner.

  He said something else, motioning with his hand, but Larry’s listless voice was lost in the clamor of the rain.

  It took Charlene a good ten seconds to get to the Crown Vic., fire up the engine, and wheel out of the parking lot, trying to keep Crawford’s vehicle in her sights. She grabbed the car radio.

  “Officer down, I repeat, officer down.” She gave the address and requested backup, reading off street names as she tried to keep one eye on Crawford.

  The rain started to come down harder, making visibility near zero.

  Thunder cracked as lightning split the sky.

  The rain pounded on the windshield so hard that vision blurred. Charlene was hunched over the steering wheel, peering around droplets of rain.

  Traffic was minimal. But with every car that passed, a wall of water washed up past the driver’s window. Charlene somehow managed to keep Crawford’s taillights in view.

  Crawford was handling her vehicle like someone who’d practiced this run before. And that’s what worried Charlene. If Crawford had a preconceived plan, then she had the advantage.

  Charlene checked her rear view mirror and saw three black and whites following. The black silence of night was lit up by flashing cherries and whining sirens. She looked to the sky, through the deluge, but couldn’t see any sign of the aerial surveillance she’d requested. The storm might have kept them indoors.

  Crawford seemed to be driving with a plan. She took the first exit onto the Pacific Coast Highway, maneuvering her jeep expertly around the sharp corners.

  At the last minute, Crawford swerved the jeep, leaving the highway and merging onto I-110 South. They were only on that stretch for what seemed like minutes, before Crawford merged onto CA-47 North, heading towards the Vincent Thomas Bridge, a suspension bridge that linked San Pedro with Terminal Island. Crawford busted through the toll booth onto the bridge.

  Charlene was well aware of the statistics. Because of the low, four foot railing along the VT Bridge, it’s the location to almost a thousand suicides, second behind the Golden Gate Bridge. Charlene felt panic turn to dread.

  She bit down on her lip and punched the accelerator. As she gained ground, the jeep’s brake lights flashed in front.

  Charlene picked up the radio. “Suspect slowing down, all units stay back. Suspect is armed.”

  What was Crawford doing? Once stopped on
the bridge, she would be surrounded by water. She was trapping herself.

  Suddenly the vehicle stopped, but the motor continued to run. Crawford still had a weapon and would use it, so Charlene brought the car to the side of the road and put it into park. She didn’t turn off the ignition.

  Charlene picked up the radio and ordered a blockade at the far side of the bridge, but there was no telling how long it would take. LAPD squads should already be on the way.

  The night, teaming with the rain, made it increasingly hard to make out the black jeep. Charlene saw the jeep’s interior light come on for only seconds, then she thought she saw a shadow moving away from the vehicle.

  She had to make a decision.

  She grabbed the radio again. “I’m moving in on foot. Stay in your vehicles in case Crawford takes off.”

  With her gun drawn and aimed at the jeep, Charlene made her way in the blinding rain, shielding her eyes as best she could. She approached the jeep and couldn’t see movement. She moved to the driver’s side, gun aimed in place, and opened the door. Vacant.

  She looked around, but the bridge’s solar powered lights did very little against the pounding of the rain. When lightning split the sky again, providing a few seconds of bright light, Charlene spotted Crawford sprinting towards the median, hurdling the barricade.

  Charlene took off after her. She radioed her team to follow, motioning in the direction Crawford was headed.

  The rain ripped into her eyes. Puddles of water splashed around her as she ran, soaking her shoes and pant-legs up to the knees. Charlene could hear her colleagues barking out instructions and barricading the bridge. She used her hand to shield the rain.

  Charlene called out to Crawford, but the thunder and pelting rain drowned out her words.

  Crawford leaped the median and crossed the two lanes. One car skidded, swerving to avoid hitting Crawford, only to crash through the short railing, finally stopping with half the vehicle hanging over the side.

  Crawford made it safely across and then turned and tauntingly waved Charlene and the others to follow.

  The width of the bridge was fifty-two feet. Crawford had no place to go.

  Charlene was right on her now. Her regular workouts had prepared her. She was breathing heavily, not from exhaustion, but the intensity of the moment. Out of the corner of her eye, Charlene saw one of the officers throw a flare down on the highway.

  She looked for backup, and when she turned back, Crawford was gone. Charlene felt sick. There was no place to go. How could she have vanished? She looked around frantically, turning to the officers who shook their heads and shrugged.

  Some officers were down on their knees, checking under vacated cars. Another bolt of lightning briefly illuminated the night, giving off enough light for them to spot Crawford. Officers pointed towards the railing, where Crawford had perched herself. She stood on the railing, looking down into the black water of the Los Angeles Harbor.

  Now Charlene understood. She holstered her weapon and took off in a sprint as more flares were ignited.

  The LAPD had contingency plans for this kind of situation. Charlene’s job was to distract Crawford, while someone could sneak up on her. Usually they would have someone hanging out of a helicopter, with a loud speaker, but the weather had eliminated that plan and everything had happened so suddenly they didn’t have time to prepare.

  Charlene also knew that the media, who followed on police scanners, could show up at any time, which would really put a kink in the procedure.

  Charlene was now close enough to get a good look and communicate with Crawford.

  “Don’t come any closer, Detective,” Crawford said. She motioned to the officers behind Charlene. “Move them back.”

  “Okay, Sarah, just relax. Don’t do anything stupid.” Charlene turned to the officers, motioning for them to stay back. Charlene saw the gun still in Crawford’s hand.

  “Throw down the gun and come down, Sarah.”

  Crawford looked at the gun in her hand, as if seeing it for the first time.

  “I can help you, Sarah.” Charlene thought the relentless wind might blow Crawford right off the ledge.

  “My parents got what they deserved, Detective. I made sure of that. Ken did too.” Crawford showed no emotion.

  “Come down, Sarah.”

  “It’s too late, Detective.” Crawford turned towards the water.

  “Wait!” Charlene yelled. “Talk to me, Sarah.” Charlene needed to stall until they could get more men in position, maybe a boat in the water.

  Crawford looked around the bridge, as if noticing the chaos for the first time. As if she was in a trance.

  She didn’t move, but seemed to relax, ever so slightly. She turned only her head to face Charlene, the rest of her body still facing the water below.

  “I blamed my mother for my father’s death. Maybe not directly, but I could never forgive her after that.” She sighed, almost trying to find the nerve to continue. “After Dad’s murder, Mom changed. She took the money and used it for drugs. She married one of her dealers six months later.”

  “Luther Vincent was a drug dealer?” This news surprised Charlene. From the news coverage, Vincent had been a respected businessman. Crawford had no reason to lie now.

  Crawford snorted a chuckle. “Had everyone fooled. My mother wouldn’t listen. She was only interested in what Luther could provide for her.”

  Charlene took a step closer while LAPD maintained a perimeter around Crawford. “When did the abuse start, Sarah?”

  Sarah shot her head up, a look of surprise registered on her face. Then she smiled.

  “After the wedding. My mother sided with Luther. So I took matters into my own hands.”

  “The fire?” It wasn’t a question, rather a conclusion.

  Crawford nodded. “That was the easy part. Getting away with it was the challenge. I was surprised at how easy it was to eliminate all traces of Sarah Crawford, as long as you know the right computer guy. School records and internet sites aren’t very well protected.”

  Charlene tried to step closer but Crawford shook her head and waved the gun.

  “What about Ken Anderson?” Charlene asked.

  “I thought I’d seen the last of him when I left USC. But I was wrong. He brought back a lot of bad memories.”

  “And then Sandra…” Charlene said, reading it in Crawford’s eyes.

  “Then Sandra,” she said and nodded.

  “So you took care of that problem too?” Charlene asked.

  Crawford didn’t look at Charlene. She had her eyes trained on the cops that had now surrounded her.

  Without looking at Charlene, Crawford said, “Ken got what he deserved.”

  “Look at me, Sarah,” Charlene said.

  When she did, Charlene saw that Sarah was crying. It wasn’t the rain, but genuine tears.

  “I’m finished talking, Detective.”

  Crawford turned, threw the gun on the ground, and without another word, flung her limp body over the side of the bridge.

  “No!” Charlene yelled, reaching helplessly over the edge. Sarah’s body spiraled down, disappearing into the dark rain, and Charlene could barely hear it splash in the black water.

  Charlene leaned over the edge as officers joined her. She waited for minutes, waiting for the body to float back to the surface. But it didn’t.

  Chapter 26

  Charlene sat at her bureau desk six hours after Sarah Crawford’s suicide. When she’d returned to the precinct immediately following the event, she had explained it all to her captain—the evidence from the scene, the real Sarah Crawford, the Fresno fire and then her subsequent confession to the killings.

  Case closed.

  She’d gone home for a shower and four hour nap, before returning to file the paper work. A suspect had died, so Internal Affairs would be brought in to investigate.

  Charlene’s blood/alcohol level hadn’t been tested, but she was confident that she was of sound mind. She was aware,
alert, and had made accurate decisions. The alcohol she’d consumed had been hours before the confrontation, before her nap, so the booze had had time to wear off.

  She would be questioned, interrogated, but Charlene knew she had done all she could and had handled it the right way.

  She tried to relive the moment. She had received the confession for the murder, or had she?

  Charlene tried to replay Crawford’s words, but with the craziness of it all—the confrontation, the storm, the gun shots, the car chase, and the ultimate suicide—Charlene wasn’t sure what exactly she’d heard.

  It was still a blur.

  Crawford admitted killing her parents. But had she confessed to killing Anderson? She’d said the professor got what he deserved. Did that mean she’d given it to him?

  Why confess to one murder and not another, especially if you planned to commit suicide?

  “Think,” Charlene said, a little too loud.

  “What?” an officer passing by asked.

  “Nothing.”

  The captain, basking in the glow of Carl Minor’s praise, received his accolades. His team had successfully solved a high profile case.

  Charlene had all of the case notes in front of her, trying to put it all together. But something was eating at her.

  The image of the motel shootout was still clear in her mind. How had Crawford missed?

  She jumped to her feet, took all of the files from the Anderson case, and grabbed the coat from the back of her chair, flinging it on as she ran from the office. She got into her car and headed back to the motel.

  She parked in the same spot where they had last night and got out of the car. The scene had already been processed so the room was empty. She dodged the police tape and entered the tiny, single room.

  She walked across the shaggy carpet and stood in the exact location where she had been standing when Crawford had turned and fired. Charlene had been less than fifteen feet away from the shooter.

  Charlene turned around and looked at the wall behind her. The bullets had already been dislodged and taken back to the department for analysis, but the holes were still there, high and to the right of where Charlene had stood. The bullets nowhere near the intended target.