"What's he say?"
"Nothing." She twisted her fingers. "If he don't quit calling and saying nothing I'm gonna go crazy."
I took a report like my two colleagues before me and suggested she get a new unlisted phone number. Other than that, I said, our hands were tied. She worked in a public place. It was a free country and the man had a right to a cup of coffee if he'd paid for it. Where he looked was his own business as long as he wasn't peeping in her window and as long as he kept his hands to himself. All things she'd heard before and didn't want to hear again. I knew what she was going through. My sister had gone through the same crap. The calls, the letters, the looming shadow. But instead of a stranger stalking Lilly, it had been her ex-husband. Lilly had gone through all the right channels. The police, the courts. Nothing helped. Least of all the restraining order that failed to keep her ex from ambushing her one night after work and shooting her five times in the head before putting the gun to his own head. Lilly's two boys, Billy and Chuck, now live with me.
Two weeks later Trudy sank down into the chair by my desk and said, "He knows where I live."
"Whatshisname? The watcher?" I asked, though not the least bit surprised. He probably knew exactly when she ate, slept, even when she took her daily vitamins.
"He's hanging around our house. I got a little girl, she's just a baby, five. Detective Winick, you've got to do something. Arrest him."
"Has he done anything illegal?"
"I'm not sure. Like what?"
"Like prowling around your house. Going through your mail. Vandalizing personal property. Laying hands on you...laying hands on your little girl." She visibly blanched at the latter.
"He's harassing me. He calls or shows up all hours of the day and night. Isn't there some law that says people got a right to peace and quiet, privacy, and the pursuit of happiness?"
"He has the same rights, Mrs. Moore. And unless he's actually doing something that's against the law, you know as well as I do that I can't do a darn thing."
"What's gotta happen before you can step in, huh? He gonna have to break into our house and hurt me, hurt my little girl? Kill us?" I repressed a shudder. Bile rose to my throat as I remembered looking upon Lilly's nearly unrecognizable face at the morgue when asked to identify her body.
"He threaten to do those things?"
"What he does is calls and tells me he loves me, can't live without me and hopes to spend eternity with me. What's that sound like to you?"
It sounded like he wasn't going to give up, but I didn't say as much to her. I knew that even in states where anti-stalker laws existed, little could be done to stop these guys. Behavior such as theirs was not normal and they went to great lengths and risks to pursue their victim. Before I could answer, she stood, dug into the wide pocket of her uniform, brought out a dozen photographs and tossed them onto my desk. I fanned them out.
Though the background view was different in each one, the man was the same. A scrawny little guy with greasy dark hair and tiny eyes like blackened steelies, dressed in army fatigues. He stared directly into the camera, grinning, obviously aware he was being photographed. "Nam vet?" I inquired.
"I didn't ask. But when I turn up missing or dead one day, you'll know what my killer looks like." She pivoted sharply and marched off. That night I drove to the quiet neighborhood where Trudy Moore lived. Her house, a little bungalow of Spanish design, surrounded by a jungle of shrubs and trees, was a prowler's paradise. The weather was mild and balmy, yet all around the small bungalow the doors and mini-blinds were shut tight. No toys in the yard, no sign of a child anywhere. And then I saw why. Parked at the curb was a beat-up Jeep Wrangler. A man in camouflage fatigues sat slumped behind the wheel with black steelie eyes fixed on the house.
I parked behind him, got out of my car, adjusted the harness holster of my colt 45 beneath my blazer and moved toward the driver's door, taking out my shield as I approached. I had to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention, so engrossed was he in his vigil. Flashing my shield, I said, "What do you think you're doing?"
The man looked me up and down. "Minding my own business."
"You live there?" I jutted my chin at the Moore house.
"No, but a friend of mine does?"
"Lemme see your license and registration."
The man sighed, shifted around and got his wallet from a deep pocket in the fatigues. He handed over the driver's license, then went for the registration papers. Martin Cole, age forty-two, it read.
"Look, Martin, I don't think the lady wants to be your friend. I think she wants you to leave her alone. Know what else I think? I think you'd better knock off this crap cause you're getting on the lady's nerves."
"Have I broken the law?"
"Maybe."
"Arrest me then."
I wished to hell I could. I hated garbage like him. Garbage who knew the law and teetered on the edge of it. Garbage who knew exactly how far he could go. Garbage that pecked away at the system, never quite breaking through the layered skin of legality. Garbage who had the power to disrupt lives and create chaos.
"Get out of here, mister. Now." I returned his papers. "And don't come back." The man stared blandly at me. I felt the muscles bunching at the back of my neck.
Was Martin Cole going to force me to take action? Without a court order Cole was legally within his rights to sit in his vehicle on a public street. I could haul him in on some trumped up charge, risking a false arrest complaint, or I could back off and walk away, giving this maggot the satisfaction of besting me. Something in me snapped. I saw my sister's ex-husband sitting there, smirking at me. Saw the man who'd made my two nephews motherless. My hand moved toward my police revolver. Maybe he sensed my rage or maybe he was just tired of the game, he started the engine and, with one last look at the house, drove off.
I knocked at the door. I saw the blinds split, fingertips and an eye. A moment later a visibly shaken Trudy Moore invited me in. A little blonde girl, the same age as my youngest nephew, sat on the floor watching cartoons on a large screen TV.
"Karen, honey, turn off the TV and go play in your room while I talk to the nice policewoman, okay?"
"He do that every day?" I asked when the girl left the room. "Sit out there?"
"Most every day, yeah."
"Well, I had a talk with him. I don't think he'll be bothering you anymore."
Her response was a short, sharp laugh. "See that?" she said, pointing to an entertainment system covering one entire wall. "I just bought it. Might as well have the best, it's all Karen and I get to do anymore. If we try to take in a movie or get an ice cream, he's right there. She can't play outside and I just work and come straight home. He's got us prisoners in our own home." Then she broke down and cried.
The following week was spent at home sick with the latest flu bug and two rowdy boys. On my first day back at the station, still feeling rotten, Trudy dropped in. She looked a zillion times worse than I felt. What little defiance she'd exhibited on her last visit was gone. She crossed the room as if each step were an effort and collapsed into the chair, wringing thin fingers with nails bitten down to the quick. I reached out and gently squeezed her thin arm.
"Trudy?"
"He's making threats. Now can you arrest him?"
"What kind of threats?"
"'I can't live without you. My life is meaningless.' Garbage like that. He had a representative from a funeral home contact me asking for confirmation on a joint plot at the cemetery. And last night he called and said we had to do it."
"Do what?"
"End it. Double suicide. 'It's the only way, Trudy.' That's what he said."
I had run a check on him. No priors. He was single, lived with his Bingo playing mother in a trailer park west of town.
"He's been bugging me for eight months now. He gets bolder each passin' day. Karen's scared to death. She wakes up screaming with night terrors. Anymore her time is split between watching him out the window and watching TV. She can't go o
utside like a normal kid unless I take her to my mom's. And it's probably only a matter of time before he starts hanging around there."
"Have you considered moving?" I asked quietly.
She couldn't move, she told me. Her husband had child visitation rights and he'd raise a stink. If she made too much of it, he'd try again to get custody of Karen. Besides, she was raised here, all her friends and family were here. She had a house and financial obligations.
"It isn't fair he should be able to chase me off." She scratched at the back of her hands, which were raw and chafed. "Anyway, he'd probably follow me like he did the last time."
"Last time?"
"Karen and I went three hundred miles last weekend to visit my grandmother. I watched him drive by her house."
"You correspond with your grandmother?"
"Yeah, sure."
I figured Cole had gone through her garbage and found the discarded letters. I told her to be careful what she tossed in the trash.
"Mrs. Moore, do you own a gun?"
The next day I went to see Cole's mother. I caught her between bingo games. She invited me into her mobile home, listened patiently, then shrugged helplessly and said Martin was a grown man and though he had his problems, he stayed out of trouble.
"Problems?" I asked.
"Well, he don't like to work. And he has this fascination with war stuff and firearms. I don't care for all those firearms under my roof."
"Your son served in Vietnam?"
"No. He was in the service, but they let him out on a medical discharge."
"May I see his firearms?"
She took me to a room in the back, Cole's bedroom. A virtual arsenal. Firearms in a wide range of makes and models. Handguns, rifles, shotguns and the ammo to go with them, all legal and proper. No uzis or MPs. Cole was simply exercising his right to bear arms. Tacked to the walls and scattered among black and white pictures of war scenes were candid shots of Trudy Moore. Trudy getting into her car. Trudy getting the mail. Trudy and her daughter at a school playground. Trudy wasn't the only one snapping pictures, it seemed.
"Who's this?" I pointed to her photograph.
"Oh, that's Marty's girlfriend. He's been seeing her for a long time. First time I saw her picture I thought how much she looks like a teacher Marty had in eighth grade. He had the wildest crush on that teacher. He was so googlie-eyed over her he couldn't concentrate in class. Sad part was she flunked him, got married and left town. He was real despondent over that." She paused, turned to the pictures and asked, "Is she the one he's been pestering?"
Soon after that Cole began to get careless. He stepped up his crusade, calling day and night and even approaching Trudy on the street and at her home. Once he brandished a revolver, but Trudy was the only witness so it was her word against his. She tried to hide out, still he found her in record time. Pushed to the limit, Trudy's brother dragged Cole from the Jeep and pounded him good. Cole pressed charges for assault and battery and got the brother thrown in jail overnight. The threats increased. The situation grew more volatile and the fuse got shorter. Although Cole was losing a measure of control, he still managed to stay within the boundaries of the law.
Trudy Moore lost her job, her health, and became a psychological wreak. Her ex-husband went to court to gain custody of Karen, stating his ex was emotionally unable to care for their daughter. He was granted temporary custody.
Through all this I shared the poor woman's anger, frustration and sense of helplessness. I lay awake at night trying to figure out ways to stop him. Short of blowing him away myself, I saw no solution. And then it happened. It was near noon on a mild winter day when I pulled up to the Moore house to find a half dozen police cars, lights flashing, and officers with guns drawn taking positions around the house. Martin Cole's Jeep was parked in the driveway. Bold little bastard, I thought. I spotted the sergeant and hurried to him.
"This one's yours, isn't it?" Sergeant Lopez said.
"Yes. Fill me in."
"At 11:28 we got the 10-57; the neighbor on the left heard the first shot. A few minutes later comes the 10-67. It was a 911, a woman, at this address, calling for help. Dispatch hears a shot and hears her screaming: 'he's gonna kill me!' Then the line goes dead. That was ten minutes ago. Nothing more since."
"Anyone see anything inside?"
"Blinds shut tight all around."
"Contact by phone?"
"Dead."
"Damn." Poor Trudy. An innocent victim who had the bad luck to look like some nut's eighth grade teacher. Cole had ruined her life. Up to this point the law was on his side and he'd taken full advantage of it. Lot of good that did her now. I could only pray that Mrs. Moore was still alive and that she'd make it out of this in one piece, both physically and mentally unimpaired.
"She's got a kid, doesn't she?"
"Husband's got custody," I said.
The bullhorn barked. Sergeant Lopez was saying, "...c'mon Cole, let the lady go. You don't want to hurt her. Just open the front door and come out real slow with your hands up."
Suddenly there was a commotion inside the house. A scream, then a chair came crashing through the window, spraying glass everywhere, and through a clattering of mini-blinds a body vaulted onto the front porch. A shot rang out inside the house. The woman rolled off the porch and into a patch of iceplant. Within seconds several uniforms were there, giving Trudy Moore cover and hustling her to safety.
She was bleeding in a dozen places from the shards of glass, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. Cole had shot at her, but missed. She and I sat in the back of an emergency vehicle while a paramedic tended her wounds.
"How much artillery does he have?" I asked.
"Just the...the one gun. A handgun."
"Ammo?"
She shook her head and shrugged, then went into a fit of shakes. I heard Lopez give the directive to fire tear gas through the front window.
From inside the house another shot rang out and Trudy screamed.
"We're going to rush the house," the sarge said to me moments later. "It's possible he's down. One of the sharpshooters, scoping through a crack in the blinds, says he can see someone lying on the living room floor. No movement." It was all over in a less than a minute. The police rushed the house, found Martin Cole down with a bullet to the head, a revolver at his side.
The coroner pronounced him dead at the scene. He was taken to the morgue. Trudy Moore was treated at Valley Hospital and released. It had been a long, trying ordeal for Trudy, an act comparable to terrorism, but at last it was over.
I brushed the cornflakes crumbs aside and lifted my nephew's cassette player from the table. I removed the cassette and turned it over in my hands. A good brand. Top of the line. Pitch so true the right notes could shatter crystal.
An hour later I knocked on Trudy Moore's door. I was surprised by the change in her. In just two weeks she was less gaunt, had regained some color and her darting, frightened eyes now mirrored a gentle softness. She invited me in. I saw suitcases in the entry.
"Going on a trip?" She nodded.
"Karen and I. We want to celebrate our freedom--freedom from him--by taking a little vacation to Mexico."
"You got custody of Karen again?"
"Oh, yes." Her eyes shone with exhilaration. "I'm picking her up at her father's on the way to the airport."
In the door frame to her right I saw a bullet hole. The day of the shooting I had watched SCI dig that slug out. I put my finger to the hole.
"Four bullets were fired from Cole's gun," I said. "One was found here in the door frame and one in Cole's head. There's no trace of the other two."
"Does it matter one way or another?" she asked, her gaze unflinching.
"Maybe. Maybe not. It's just that I'm one of those people who likes to have everything sorted out, if possible. Got a minute?"
She nodded, led the way into the kitchen. Without asking, she poured two cups of coffee.
We sat, silently staring at each other. Finally, in a s
oft voice she said, "You have reservations about that man's death?"
"Yes. Yes, I do. The way I see it he didn't pull that trigger."
She stiffened. "You think I did? I wasn't anywhere near him when he died. You know that."
"I know I was with you when we heard the final, and presumably, fatal shot. Now that's where those reservations come in."
"The medical examiner found something?"
"Oh no, everything points to suicide. Couldn't be neater. The autopsy report states the victim's death occurred well within the time restraints. Gun powder residue on his hand. Four shots were heard and there were four empty shell casings in the chamber of the weapon. The weapon was registered to the victim. Everyone knew the man had been harassing you for months, documented by myself and a number of police dispatches. Everyone also knew there was no way you or your family could stop him unless he broke into your house and tried to assault you. No, everything falls into place...except for one thing." I reached into my purse and brought out the cassette. The color drained from Trudy Moore's already pale face. "Four reported gun shots and only two recovered slugs."
"The missing bullets could be buried in the carpeting or the furniture. The police really didn't search very hard. If you'd like to look for yoursel--"
I shook my head. "It'd be a waste of time. Because I know where they are." I tapped the cassette. "They're right here on this tape. The tape I took from your cassette player the afternoon of the shootout."
Night Hunter Page 39