[Chauncey Means 01.0] A Hard Place

by Sean Lynch

  “Adjusting from wartime posture to civilian status definitely took a toll,” I agreed, “but that wasn’t the biggest problem. For me, the problem was trying to reconcile the different ways I was expected to deal with violence in the two worlds.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I let some more Boddingtons roll around my tongue before answering. “As a stateside cop, you live by rules. When you encounter murderers, or rapists, or other kinds of monsters, you’re expected to process them through this elaborate bureaucratic maze called the ‘justice system.’ Except it’s not a ‘justice system,’ it’s a ‘legal system.’ They’re two different things.”

  “Never thought of it like that,” Russ said.

  “Like all bureaucratic systems, the legal system’s primary goal is to perpetuate itself and grow; like a virus. The criminal is actually a customer; the legal system welcomes him. A single criminal creates jobs for a battalion of bureaucrats and feeds an entire industry. Everyone from the cops, like I was, trying to catch him, all the way down to the countless civilians and court employees who swing into action as a result of his crime. Not to mentions the judges, lawyers, reporters, bail bondsmen, and other parasites who profit by his crime. Don’t kid yourself, Russ; crime pays. And not only for the crooks.”

  “It wasn’t like that when you were deployed?”

  “Not even close,” I said. “Saw just as much crime in Iraq and the ‘Stan; a lot more, actually, and more horrific. But I wasn’t expected to read the Taliban, or Republican Guard, or Al Qaeda their Miranda rights and give them phone calls. They weren’t taking prisoners and neither was I.”

  “I can see how switching from ‘take no prisoners’ mode to ‘you have the right to remain silent’ mode would present a challenge,” Russ said, as he plopped the steaks on the grill with a loud hiss. The aroma of smoky bourbon and cooking meat consumed us.

  “Wasn’t too bad the first couple of deployments, or so I thought. Figured I could handle it. I came home, got back to work on my caseload, and adjusted to civilian life. But then a year later my unit would get recalled and away I’d go again. After ten or eleven months of playing in the sandbox it was back to the San Francisco Bay from Yusufiyah, or Paktika, or Helmund, or wherever the hell I was on that particular deployment.”

  “That would wear anybody down,” Russ said. “Ten years of flip-flopping between a crime-war at home and a shooting-war overseas.”

  “It didn’t bother me at first,” I went on. “Like I said, I thought I could handle it. But cracks were starting to show. My tolerance for bureaucratic bullshit was eroding.” I stared at the swirling foam on my Boddingtons. “I started blurring the lines.”

  Russ said nothing, attending to the steaks. But I knew he was listening. He’s astute like that.

  “When I got back from my last tour things got bad. It’s tough to get worked up investigating the murder of some two-bit dope dealer when you’ve seen the Taliban swoop into some poor bastard’s mud hut, strap a bomb onto one of his children, and force the poor kid to send some infidels to hell or else the entire family gets whacked.”

  “What was the final straw?”

  “I started taking things to the next level at work. I’d always had a reputation as a pretty hard-nosed cop, but I ended up in Dirty Harry territory. Lots of use-of-force complaints. Shootings. Other cops began steering clear of me.”

  “I remember reading about some of your more notorious exploits in the papers,” Russ admitted. “Was that when your friend Greg Vole stepped in?”

  “Yeah. It was only through Greg’s intervention that I wasn’t prosecuted and sent to prison. He eventually got me cleared of all the charges, but by then the damage was done. My career was over. I could have stayed on in some desk job, but the brass was never going to let me work the street again. Too much liability. So rather than straddle a chair, I decided to get out while I still had a shred of my humanity. Figured I’d work for myself for the first time in my life instead of the government.”

  I finished my beer. It was going down real smoothly today.

  “Why the private eye game?” Russ asked. “With your skills and background you could have gone to work for one of those big government contractors. They pay well, or so I hear. You could train recruits or do consulting gigs. I know some vets and retired cops who work in that field. It’s lucrative; they make all kinds of money.”

  “Once my dream of becoming an Olympic figure skater was dashed,” I said, “I naturally gravitated towards peering into keyholes.”

  “No bullshit Chance; why private investigation?”

  “Same reason you chose urology I suppose,” I said. “Like you, my customers come to me because they have to. They can’t get what they need from the cops, so they hire me.”

  “What’s that?” Russ asked. “Justice?”

  “Naw,” I said. “I’m not sure I believe in justice anymore.”

  “Then what do they get?”

  “Results,” I said.

  Chapter 8

  I awoke the next morning a bit later than usual. Being an ace detective, I surmised that four pints of beer and enough red meat to feed a Bengal tiger may have had something to do with it.

  I got my roadwork out of the way and added a couple of extra miles on account of the chow-fest last night. Then I hit the weights hard. I finished with some gut work and stretching, and by the time I was showered and breakfasted I should have been eating lunch.

  When I cleared what I thought was only Russ’s message from my answering machine, I was surprised to find another which came in at about the same time yesterday. This voice message was from Greg Vole, letting me know he’d arranged a meeting for today at noon with Reyna Sandoval at her home. He provided an address on Lark Street in San Leandro.

  Cursing, I checked my watch; 11:37 AM. Since San Leandro borders Castro Valley, I was only about fifteen minutes away. I grabbed a notebook, my guns, and a jacket and headed for the door.

  I parked my heap in front of Reyna Sandoval’s address at exactly 12:02 PM. Her home was a small, modest, one-level bungalow nearly identical to every other house on Lark Street except in condition. The neighborhood must have sprouted during the post-war boom when housing development exploded across the nation, and suburbs like San Leandro, Alameda, and Berkeley went from small hamlets to bustling cities. A lot of the houses I could see were pretty run down, but the Sandoval home stood out. It was freshly-painted and had a well-kept yard, in stark contrast to the ramshackle quality of most houses on the block. I pressed the doorbell.

  Reyna Sandoval opened the door a moment later. She was clad in slacks and a sweater, and wore the same dignified demeanor I’d witnessed when I first met her at Greg’s house.

  “Hello, Mrs. Sandoval,” I said. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “Please come in Mr. Chance,” she said, taking my hand in a firm shake.

  The home’s interior was like Reyna herself; composed, warm, and well kept. I could smell candles burning somewhere out-of-view. The walls of the living room were littered with framed photographs. I could see many pictures of two girls, Marisol and Belicia I presumed, as they evolved from infants to buxom teenagers. In some of the baby photos a darkly attractive young woman with elaborate hair was holding one or the other of the girls, but never both. I saw photographs of this woman in various stages of maturation as well. I also saw photographs of Reyna Sandoval and a stocky man with a broad face and a mustache. The last photo showed Reyna as she looked now, and the man with a full head of grey hair. As I guessed when I’d first met her, and as evidenced by the series of photographs, Reyna was strikingly pretty in her youth. The resemblance between Reyna, her daughter, and granddaughters was strong.

  “May I offer you some tea?” Reyna asked me.

  “Only if you would have some with me,” I said. She nodded and went towards the tiny kitchen. I followed, and when we rounded a corner I found the candles.

  On a waist-high wooden stand was a lar
ge picture of what could only be Marisol Hernandez. It was a headshot, and framed her face and shoulders. She was wearing make-up, a glittering tiara, and a fancy pink formal dress. Around her neck was a gold pendant of the Virgin of Guadalupe, standing out against her brown skin. The picture was professionally done, and whoever took it filtered the light the way they do for aging actresses to hide their wrinkles. The picture was surrounded by a ring of votive candles, which softened Marisol’s image even further.

  “When you keep the memory of those you love alive,” Reyna said, noticing my scrutiny of the shrine, “they remain with you always.”

  “She was very beautiful,” was all I could think to say. Reyna nodded again and entered the kitchen. She put a kettle of water on the stove to boil.

  “The picture was taken at her Quinceanera, last November,” she said.

  “That was her fifteenth birthday?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Marisol very much wanted her grandfather to be there, but it was not to be so. His death was very hard on the girls.”

  “I’m sure it was.”

  “Mr. Greg told me you wanted to meet with me here at my home,” she said, “so I agreed. Is this part of your investigation?”

  “Yes. I must learn as much as I can about Marisol.”

  “What do you hope to find?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I answered truthfully. “You never know what’s going to be important until it is.”

  “Have you hunted many killers, Mr. Chance?”

  “My share.”

  “Do you always catch them?”

  “No. Not always.”

  “Then why are you so certain you will catch Marisol’s killer?” she said. “You told me at Mr. Greg’s home you would catch him.” Her eyes challenged me. “You spoke with great certainty. You gave me your word.”

  “And I’ll keep it.”

  “But you just said you don’t always catch the killers,” she said.

  “I was a police officer when I hunted murderers before,” I told her. “I’m no longer a policeman.”

  “What’s the difference?” she said.

  “Rules,” I said. She accepted this.

  “You may ask me what you will,” she said.

  “Thank you. If you don’t mind, may I see Marisol’s room?”

  I had no intention of questioning Reyna Sandoval about Marisol; at least not yet. It was clear she only permitted me to come to her home at Greg Vole’s request. I didn’t want to do anything to cause her anymore suffering than I had to, and grilling her about her granddaughter was likely to do just that. Besides, I could find out a lot of the information I needed through other sources. I would likely have to question Reyna for clarification later on, but for now, I wanted to spare her any anguish I could.

  Reyna led me down a narrow hallway into one of the two other rooms in the small house. I assumed the door opposite Marisol’s room was the bedroom Reyna had once shared with her deceased husband.

  “Marisol and Belicia share a room,” she told me, confirming my assertion. “They always have.”

  “Will it be possible for me to speak with Belicia?” I asked her.

  “Belicia is troubled,” Reyna said. “She may not wish to meet with you.”

  “I realize Belicia must be quite distraught over the death of her sister, but I was hoping I could-”

  “Belicia was troubled before Marisol’s death,” Reyna cut me off. “Since Marisol’s death it has only become worse. She is finished with school at three o’clock, but sometimes does not come home until much later.” Reyna pressed her hands together. “Belicia is more like her mother, I fear. She has always been rebellious; difficult to control. Twice, she has run away and stayed out all night. We called the police, but each time she returned home the following day, so nothing was done.”

  “It must be very hard for you,” I said.

  She smiled weakly. “I’ve done my best,” Reyna said. “It was easier when my husband was alive. When Donaldo was here Belicia was more obedient, like Marisol. Marisol was always such a good girl. But since his death, many things have changed.”

  “I am sorry,” I said.

  “I will leave you to examine Marisol’s room. When the tea is ready, I will bring it to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Reyna went back to the kitchen. I entered Marisol and Belicia Hernandez’s room, closing the door behind me.

  The room was cluttered. Two beds sat against opposite walls. The small closet was stuffed with clothes and shoes. A multi-drawer dresser was adjacent to the closet. A desk and chair sat between them; no computer was on it. One wall held a full length mirror. On the other wall was a large bulletin board, littered with papers and photographs. I saw no indication anyone else, such as a detective from the Oakland Police Department’s Major Crimes Section 1, had been there before me. I began my search.

  About ten minutes into my search there was a knock on the door. When I opened it, I found Reyna Sandoval at the threshold with a mug of tea. I thanked her, took the tea, and closed the door on her as diplomatically as I could. If I were to find anything that would soil Marisol’s memory, I didn’t want her to see it.

  As I’d already told Reyna, I didn’t really know what I was looking for. But I’ve learned in homicide cases, going through personal effects can sometimes give you a sense of who the victim was, how they lived, and what they valued. These things aren’t always critically useful in the initial stages of an investigation, but later on, as more information trickles in, something which may have originally appeared innocuous or trivial can end up being of crucial significance.

  I’d picked up a few tricks from the burglars I’d dealt with over the years. I rummaged systematically, starting from a fixed point in the room and going from bottom to top in a clockwise direction. I paused now and again to scribble observations in my notebook.

  I learned that Marisol and her younger sister Belicia wore the same sizes, even in shoes, despite the age difference of one year. I couldn’t tell whose clothes or shoes belonged to whom. This made sense for both economic and fashion reasons in a lower-income family with two teenaged girls.

  I learned, after examining enough photographs, that despite my earlier observation, Marisol and Belicia did not look that much alike. Though they appeared to possess the same general characteristics, such as hair color and style, approximate height, weight, and build, Belicia seemed a bit more buxom. Belicia’s face was a little rounder than Marisol’s, and her nose and lips, not to mention bosom, seemed fuller.

  I learned that Marisol was a good student, getting A’s and B’s, while Belicia was only average at best. I learned that Belicia was a standout soccer player, while Marisol’s interests fell more along academic lines. Belicia had several trophies, in volleyball and soccer, and Marisol had won a student award for an essay on Mark Twain. Marisol’s highest grades appeared to be in literature and creative writing. None of Belicia’s grades were high.

  I learned both girls liked boy bands, and had apparently begun their menstrual cycles. I found no evidence of a boyfriend for either girl. I also didn’t find a diary, a laptop computer, or a purloined letter.

  I did, however, find $291.00 in cash, half a pack of Marlboro Lights, along with a disposable butane lighter, and a charging cord for a cellular phone. Inside the cigarette package was a small brass marijuana pipe. These items were tucked deep inside the toe of a well-worn suede boot. In the companion boot I found seven condoms. Last I checked, nobody sells rubbers in packages of seven.

  That was all. My search was neat, so there was no need to put the room back together; I’d replaced the items I displaced as I went. With any luck Belicia wouldn’t know I had scoured the room she once shared with her deceased sister.

  When I emerged from Marisol and Belicia Hernandez’s room, I found Reyna Sandoval sitting at the kitchen table starting out the window. She didn’t hear me approach; her eyes were far away. When I set my empty tea mug on the table she looked up.
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  “Thank you for allowing me to examine Marisol’s room,” I said.

  “Is there anything else you require?”

  “Would you permit me to have your daughter’s address and phone number?”

  “Carmela? Why do require this? She has not been a part of the girl’s lives for a very long time,” Reyna said. “Carmela didn’t even attend her daughter’s funeral.”

  “It’s routine,” I said as convincingly as I could. “Part of the investigation.”

  I could tell Reyna was displeased at the request, but wrote down an address on a scrap of paper and handed it to me.

  “Is this all you require?”

  “Only one more thing,” I said, feeling like a jerk for pressing her. “Does Marisol or Belicia have a cellular telephone? A computer?”

  “We do not have a computer; the girls have always used the computers at school or the library for their homework. And I do not allow them to have the cell-phones. These things cause many distractions for young girls.”

  “I’m not a big fan of cellular phones myself,” I told her truthfully.

  “May I ask you,” Reyna began, her eyes steadily focused on me, “about your investigation?”

  “Ask me anything you want,” I answered. She nodded to herself slightly before speaking again.

  “This man you are looking for; the man who killed Marisol; have you dealt with such men before?”

  “Too many times to count.”

  “How will you find him?” Reyna’s eyes were hardening. This was more than curiosity.

  “I poke around. I ask a lot of questions. I annoy people.”

  “How does annoying people help you find a killer?”

  “You make the killer annoyed with you by drawing attention to him. Attention he doesn’t want. Then he has to come up from where he’s gone to ground.”

  “Won’t that make him angry?”

  “If I’m lucky.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would you wish to anger such a man? A man who thinks nothing of killing children would think nothing of killing you, is that not so?”