Kiss & Tell

by Luke Murphy

  “You’re making a mistake, Detective,” Jackson mumbled between tight lips. “Who else will stop these scumbags?”

  Charlene didn’t respond. She looked down at Jackson, knowing that the pity and pain showed in her face. Jackson managed to smile again.

  “Men like Anderson need to be stopped. The victims deserve justice,” Jackson coughed out. “Who is going to do that, the legal system? Prison doesn’t change these guys, they can’t be rehabilitated. It only makes them hungrier.”

  “What about Sarah Crawford and Nelson Porter?” Charlene asked.

  Jackson looked genuinely concerned. “Crawford was a killer.” Jackson grimaced as she spoke. She coughed out a speck of blood. “Porter was collateral damage,” she said. “He got in the way.”

  Charlene felt sick to her stomach. She didn’t want to talk anymore.

  Jackson closed her eyes and never moved again.

  Charlene waited until an ambulance arrived, although by that time there was nothing they could do. Before they wheeled Jackson into the vehicle, Charlene unclipped Jackson’s cell phone. She scrolled through the incoming calls and dialed the number from the last incoming call.

  It was answered immediately.

  “Did you make it?”

  Charlene recognized the voice. “Detective Johnson?” she said, but the call was immediately disconnected.

  So it had been Jackson’s partner, Robert Johnson III, who had called to tip off the detective. She considered writing that into her report, but doubted she could prove it, as the phone conversation was never recorded and it was his word against hers.

  Charlene slumped her shoulders and put Jackson’s phone in her jacket pocket.

  By the time she got back to Jackson’s apartment building, three patrol cars were blocking the entrance and six uniforms were standing around, smoking and talking.

  She approached the group as they turned. Some nodded, others never made eye contact. She had just played a major role in the death of another cop, and there was no telling what the reaction would be.

  The adrenaline that had once coursed through her was gone. She was tired. “Make a call and have Detective Jackson’s car towed to the lab,” she said to the group.

  She took the elevator upstairs and entered Jackson’s apartment. The area was full, everyone doing their job.

  As she floated in a dream-like state through the apartment, she saw that Jackson’s old wooden chest was open and the albums were spread out on the table. It was as if Jackson had been waiting for them, or maybe reliving her nightmare.

  ~ * ~

  Charlene sat alone at the end of the bar, sipping at her third Jack and Coke, this one a double. She ached in muscles she didn’t even know she had.

  Darren had offered to join her, almost begging to have a drink together, but Charlene, although tempted and told Darren that, had declined.

  She remembered the hurt in his eyes, knew it took all the gall he had to ask her out. She had tried to let him down easy, told him she didn’t get involved with cops, but she knew that she had still wounded him.

  She took another healthy drink from her glass and tried to wash away Darren’s pitied eyes.

  Normally a drink soothed the pain, but tonight’s round hurt.

  After all was said and done recovering the evidence against Jackson, legally, enough to obtain what the DA thought would have been a guilty verdict, then the CSI team combing Jackson’s apartment, car, and locker, finding not only Anderson’s murder weapon, but also the weapon that was used to kill Nelson Porter, Charlene had left the office.

  While she was on her death bed, Jackson had never tried to deny the accusations. She was a stone. Her words wouldn’t leave Charlene’s thoughts.

  Jackson saw herself as an avenging angel.

  As the lead investigator with the Rape Special Sections, CAW—Crimes against Women—with the LAPD, Jackson had opportunity and access to all of the information on both victim and suspect. She’d already compiled a list of DSOs—Dangerous Sexual Offenders—a “hit list” of her own.

  Charlene thought about how Jackson had manipulated the Anderson case from the start, guided Charlene and Larry in the direction she needed. Dropping hints along the way, like Stanley’s name, in just an unsuspecting way, had been brilliant. And Charlene had bit on it.

  She drained what was left of her drink and ordered another.

  When all the evidence came into play—the female hair fibers found on Anderson matched a sample from Jackson, the scrap books, Jackson’s past, her involvement throughout and finally the murder weapons—not a jury in the world would have acquitted her.

  But how would they have reacted to a cop? Would they have been lenient to someone who had been loyally protecting this city? Would they have taken pity on a woman who had been abused herself and was trying to exact revenge for women across the city? Or would they see a cop, someone who was in an authoritative position, abusing her power?

  LAPD techies had gone through Jackson’s computer files and had found a short list of suspected rapists who had eluded justice. Jackson had a hidden agenda and a plan.

  Maybe Jackson thought that what she was doing was the right thing by bringing down evil. Charlene felt a pang of guilt, because Jackson, in her own, albeit illegal, way, was trying to help the women who had been affected by these individuals.

  But Jackson was dangerous. She had the trained skills, the means and the opportunity. She had everything to be the perfect weapon. A cop with ulterior motives—a personal vendetta.

  She looked around the sparsely occupied barroom. From the row of bikes parked in front, she thought she recognized her stalker’s motorcycle, but she didn’t see his face amongst the crowd.

  Charlene was beginning to feel the buzz she’d longed for when she saw Andy walk through the front entrance. He looked at her but didn’t smile, making his way over.

  She watched him cross the room and he was about halfway when Charlene’s iPhone rang. She saw an LA area code number displayed that she couldn’t place. She answered the call, still looking at Andy.

  “Good job, Charlie,” the voice said. “Detective Jackson had to be stopped.”

  Charlene gulped, bile rising in her throat. “What do you want?” Andy was now standing beside her.

  “I thought he was out of the picture?” The Celebrity Slayer paused and then added, “We’re not done yet.”

  She felt her blood rise. Charlene left the barstool, staggering before gaining her balance by grasping the rail. She walked by Andy who gave her a stunned look.

  “Where are you?” Charlene asked into the phone. She covered her bare ear with her hand, desperately attempting to discern the background noises on the phone.

  “Never very far,” answered the Slayer.

  Charlene was looking around the bar, trying to notice if anyone else was speaking into a phone. But, of course, there were numerous people—a well-dressed woman in her mid-forties by the pool table, a man by the bar who looked barely legal enough to drink, and a waitress on her break.

  Anyone on a phone in the bar could potentially be the Celebrity Slayer, but none of them fit the profile.

  Then an idea popped into her mind. Because this was the first time a number had appeared on her phone from one of the Slayer’s calls, she hung up. She knew that would irritate him.

  She immediately redialed the last incoming call and looked around the room for someone’s phone to ring. When she didn’t notice anyone reaching for a cellular device and no one answer on the other end of her call, Charlene hung up.

  The phone rang again suddenly, but instead of answering, she flipped off the ring tone and slipped it into her pocket, feeling the vibration through the thin denim. She was through playing his games. She was going to play her own.

  Book IV

  The Lone Ranger

  Chapter 31

  The department was buzzing when Charlene got to work later than usual the next morning. Her phone vibrated and, for the first time, she not
iced she had eleven missed calls.

  She didn’t dare remove her sunglasses that were now saving her pupils from the bright light of day. She and Andy had stayed up late to talk things out.

  She almost got knocked over on her way to her desk by a speed-walking Fed, as there were half a dozen FBI agents milling about the room and all of her superiors were huddled inside the captain’s office. Something was up.

  Larry was still off from the gunshot wound, so she flagged down Darren to find out what the ruckus was about.

  When Darren got to her desk, she asked, “Is this about the Jackson case?” She finally removed her glasses and squinted from the fluorescent lights. Her headache thundered.

  “You look like hell,” Darren said.

  “Darren!” Charlene let out her breath and motioned to all of the extra law enforcement scattered throughout the precinct.

  “The Celebrity Slayer struck again last night. I think they have something.”

  His last sentence almost floored Charlene. She jumped from her seat and hustled over to the conference room where the special-agent-in-charge was preparing for a conference call.

  “Detective Taylor,” the AIC said. “We’ve been calling your cell phone all morning. You probably want to get in on this.” He handed Charlene a thick, stapled package of papers.

  Charlene accepted the photocopies and stepped into the ‘incident’ room, smelling fresh coffee, bagels and muffins. She poured herself a cup and grabbed the first available chair.

  Once everyone was seated and fed, the meeting got underway. There were no introductions.

  “Late last night we received a nine-one-one call from a concerned neighbor on Maple Avenue.”

  Charlene sipped gingerly at her coffee, her head spinning like a top. Her eyelids were half closed but when she’d heard the address, her eyes bulged. That was just around the corner from the bar she’d been at.

  The AIC continued. “The woman was outside with her dog and was sure she’d heard screams from one of the large estates on her street. A black and white was sent to check it out but there was no response after multiple attempts at contact.” He looked down at a report before continuing. “Officers Decker and Piper used the computer terminal in the car to look up the home owner and noticed it was a former B movie star, fitting the Celebrity Slayer’s murder victim profile. That was enough for them to enter the home without a warrant.”

  “Invitation or probable cause?” Charlene asked.

  The AIC looked at her captain, as if seeking verification. The captain nodded.

  “Officers Decker and Piper noticed a drip of blood on the door knob,” the AIC confirmed.

  Charlene highly doubted that. In her mind, there was no way that the Slayer would make such a careless mistake, after so many perfect murders.

  The AIC went on. “Our team set out like they’ve done for every scene, but this time we caught a break.”

  The AIC turned on a projector that was attached to a laptop, enlarging one of the images that were in Charlene’s handout.

  When Charlene saw the latest Celebrity Slayer victim, probably the most gruesome one yet, she felt last night’s binge drinking come up. She caught it at the top of her throat and swallowed it back down.

  “We found a partial fingerprint on the victim’s left breast.”

  Charlene covered her mouth, as if that would stop the spewing. She quickly looked away, dropped her head beneath the tabletop, and inhaled three quick breaths.

  “Are you okay, Detective Taylor?” the AIC asked without inflection. “Maybe you would like to step outside for some fresh air?”

  Charlene looked back up, all eyes on her, especially her captain, who was now burning a hole through her.

  Charlene cleared her throat loudly. “I’m fine.”

  “The print was quickly removed and brought back to the department for a run and retrieval through the AFIS database. And we hit pay dirt.”

  “Hold on,” Charlene interrupted. “So you’re telling me that this guy has been killing for months, hasn’t left a hair follicle, scale of skin, fingernail, or even a thread of fabric and now he leaves a fingerprint?”

  “That’s what we’re saying, Detective. Is there a problem?”

  “I just find it hard to believe.”

  “Maybe you should see where this is leading before jumping to your own conclusions.” He turned back to the group. “Let’s move on.”

  Every member in the situation room collectively turned the page in their booklet, so Charlene did as well.

  “The print belongs to Sean Cooney.”

  Charlene’s head shot up. Sean Cooney? She’d heard that name before.

  “I know that name,” Charlene said. But before waiting for an answer, she buried her head in Cooney’s bio, while the AIC highlighted the details out loud.

  “Cooney is former LAPD and had been fingerprinted, that’s why he already had a ten-print card in the system. He served twelve years—six as a patrol officer, four in Vice working undercover, and two in Robbery/Homicide. In fact, Detective Taylor, I believe your father and Cooney were partners for a while.”

  Charlene’s stomach rolled and her chest tightened. She didn’t look up from the paper but knew that all eyes were focused in her direction.

  But no one seemed to expect a response from Charlene.

  “During his twelve years,” the AIC said, “he had multiple encounters with Internal Affairs. IA investigated him on counts of suspect beatings, illegal evidence removal, questionable interactions with criminals, and monetary income discrepancies. After so many accounts, the LAPD slowly pushed him out, starting with suspension for CUBO, until Cooney eventually transferred his pension and moved on. For the last twenty years, using the skills he learned on the force, Cooney has been head of security at the Armand Hammer Museum of Art and Culture Center at UCLA. When Cooney was still LAPD, rumor around the precinct had it that he was secretly dating a B-list movie star. It was never confirmed, and we don’t know who she was, but she apparently broke his heart. This is his stressor and direct link to the Celebrity Slayer victims.”

  Charlene was thumbing through Cooney’s LAPD stats and noticed that he had been her father’s partner for eight months in 1998. Charlene couldn’t ever remember her father talking about Cooney, so then how did she know the name?

  “We know that ten years ago Cooney sold his home in Burbank and bought a hunt camp just outside the Santa Monica Mountains, known for its variety of wildlife. We don’t have a current photo, just the one from his LAPD days.”

  Charlene looked at Cooney’s head shot, in his LAPD blues. He had angular features, cords of muscle in his neck, and he’d been bald since the age of thirty.

  The AIC went on to detail Cooney’s last twelve hours, but Charlene was too focused on the material in her hand.

  This just didn’t feel like the guy, to Charlene. It was true, he fit the profile. And it was true her father had thought that a cop was involved in these murders. But the information she read wasn’t what she was expecting. But what was she expecting?

  “The tactical team has worked through the night to put a plan together for a crash raid on Cooney. We will move in when it’s all set up.”

  Charlene had so many questions that she couldn’t sort through them all in time to fire them at the group.

  Was anyone else surprised that after all of these murders, the Slayer finally left a print? There was nothing else on this guy. What is his motive? Did he have opportunity?

  It was as if this case was so huge, had a life of its own, that all of the standard questions that came up in a case were disregarded because the cops, media, and whole city had a hard-on to catch this guy. They finally had a lead.

  Just then the AIC and captain’s phones rang simultaneously. They both answered.

  The AIC listened for less than a minute, hung up, and addressed the audience around the conference table.

  “We’re ready.”

  ~ * ~

  Darren was
sitting on the edge of her desk when Charlene left the conference.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “It’s about to go down.”

  “I want to come,” Darren insisted.

  She knew she owed Darren from his work on the Jackson case and she was still too sore from her brawl with Jackson to drive. She threw him the keys.

  “You drive.”

  Chapter 32

  The Santa Monica Mountains, one of a group of mountain ranges in Southern California, was located along the coast of the Pacific Ocean and was just under an hour’s drive from the LAPD Headquarters, which meant that Charlene would have enough time to bounce ideas off Darren.

  “I just don’t buy it,” Charlene started. It was only she and Darren in the car and they were following a row of law enforcement officials trying to remain inconspicuous in regular morning traffic. “How could he mess up like this? He hasn’t left a shred of evidence, and now he leaves a partial print? That’s sloppy. Not his style.”

  Darren smirked. “You sound like a fan.”

  “I’m serious, Darren.”

  “You know as well as I do that even the greatest criminals mess up eventually. You’ve been to enough crime scenes to know that eventually luck runs out. Mistakes happen and it’s our job to find them when they do.”

  Charlene shook her head, still not buying it. “Does this guy seem right to you?”

  Darren shrugged. “He’s a former cop, trained to kill. From his record, he has obvious anger issues, been known to become abusive. Never married, no kids. His former lovers have come forward and said that at times he could turn violent. He hates the LAPD. He has a high-status position of authority at work. Lives in a remote location, secluded from neighbors. Sounds like a hand-picked, Taylor-made candidate for the FBI profile. They must be gloating their asses off.”

  “I know, you’re right. But I spoke to this guy on the phone. I have a feel for him.”

  “Geez, Charlene, it sounds like you have a thing for this guy. Like you almost hope he’s not the guy.”