There was a distinct bloody smear on deck near the mast validating his story.
The photographer made note of it.
Jeff took off his shoes and showed them to him.
The photographer took a blood sample from the deck and Jeff’s shoe, using a swab and put the evidence back into the sealed test tube. When they reconstructed the scene, it would be good evidence whether or not this was an accident or not.
He documented everything, circled back and re-questioned the remaining three. He then went back to his boat, fireplug Sherriff in tow. They were there on the deck of the police boat speaking in hushed tones only a few minutes comparing notes.
Everything seemed to point to the fact it was an accident, but because of the nature of the possible crime, they had to be sure. None of those on Arachne was innocent in their minds until they could sort through the evidence.
The paramedics went below end examined Todd, spilling more gore out onto the deck. When they were done, they put Todd’s remains in a body bag and took him to shore.
The stout sheriff reboarded.
“Okay, you four. It looks like your story checks out, but we have to go over it with our superiors before we can clear you. How long are you going to be at the Isthmus in case we need any further statements?”
Jeff answered. “We only plan to be here tonight. We’re going to head back to the mainland tomorrow morning around 10 AM.”
The sheriff nodded. “Oh, one last thing.” He hesitated, and then continued.
Jeff, aka Sane Brain, was starting to panic. He was paranoid by nature, and now schizophrenic.
The snake slithered into the foreground and took over. He hated and loved situations like these when he had to do this for his weaker alter ego. It gave him a sense of satisfaction and control that he was the smarter of the two.
Fireplug spoke. “Where did you get that awesome knife? I noticed it in a gym bag in the guest cabin.”
Snake Brain answered. He wasn’t quite ready for this. He had hidden the gym bag in the clothes locker under several life vests. How in the hell did this pudgy police officer find it?
He couldn’t have been in the cabin more than five minutes.
Snake Brain knew the cop was good.
But he also knew he was better.
He acted nonchalant and glibly answered. “It was a gift from my father. He gave it to me before he passed of cancer three years ago. We used to go hunting a lot. I think you can order them on-line.”
He was cool.
He was convincing.
He was lying through his pointed fangs.
He knew he had told the other detective who interviewed him at their place in Malibu a different story, but that wouldn’t come out—not in a million years.
The sheriff had lost a brother to cancer two years earlier and still missed him. Snake brain’s comments struck a chord with him.
Jeff’s story made Snakey’s diversion believable.
Snake Brain didn’t know this at the time, but he knew if he kept the story convincing he might catch the sheriff off balance.
It worked.
Funny how the quicker you talk, and throw out unconnected facts, that those caught in your web of deceit will bite. The human mind wants to connect facts, and if those facts are intriguing enough or have enough emotional content, the easier it is to create a diversion.
Snakey knew it and was a magician at deception.
When cornered, Snakey would create a scenario that only somewhat related to the issue at hand, but he would weave an elaborate, disconnected web that would capture his victim, disarming the inquisitor, sending him off balance and shifting the story to one that he could control. He had done this several times before and was doing it again.
It worked perfectly this time: not by design, but by happenstance.
Fireplug was caught up remembering his brother and was disconnected from what was occurring around him. He wanted to believe Snakey. It brought up so many disconnected memories.
“OK. I wrote the model of the knife down.” Fireplug said.
“My brother and I were big deer hunters. We’d go up to Colorado and hunt Elk every other year with our uncle who owned a ranch in Denver. It was some of the best times I had in my life.”
Snakey saw that Fireplug was getting maudlin, a side benefit of his story. He had hit the jackpot with it.
Sometimes it worked out even though it was unplanned.
This was one of those times.
Fireplug continued still caught in the memory of his dead brother.
“Sorry about your loss. If we need anything further, we’ll contact you.” He had already taken the boat’s registration number, searched it in the DMV files and knew where Arachne’s homeport was.
Slither brain acknowledged while smiling, knowing his story sidestepped the real issue.
“OK. We’ll keep to our schedule then. We can leave in the morning?”
He wanted confirmation.
“Sure. We will take it from here. We know how to get you. Again, I’m sorry for the loss. We’ll contact the deceased’s next of kin. You don’t need to worry about that.”
With that, still thinking about his dead brother, he got back aboard the patrol boat, gunned the engine, and left. He’d order the knife off the internet tomorrow.
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky and the wind had finally stopped having blown constantly since noon when the thermal difference between the Island and the ocean set up a micro high-pressure system bringing in the wind from the ocean and funneling it through the Isthmus.
The outline of the mainland was hazy, but it was clear enough to see the moored refection of some of downtown LA’s individual large buildings silhouetted against the clear blue afternoon sky.
Although it was only 26 miles to the coast, the mainland could be seen clearly. In the distance, the details were blurred, but those who left LA for Catalina knew they were leaving the concrete and highway congestion behind for a step back in time that the Isthmus provided.
It hadn’t changed in over thirty years.
It still had dirt roads, clapboard houses, real people who only wanted to get along with life and who made their modest incomes on the backs of the rich yachters who frequented during the prime boating months from March through November when the rainy season began.
The contrast between the megalopolis that loomed on the horizon and the modest Island’s houses dull, dusty homes strewn along the one or two roads that meandered along the beach was startling. The quaintness of the Isthmus and the friendly people who worked there is what drew hundreds of boaters there every weekend except in the winter.
Gray billowy clouds were creeping towards the top of the golden hills on either side of the Isthmus.
Several boats had their generators going, making a low frequency hum and breaking the stillness and tranquility, which is the Isthmus in the evening.
Every so often, a dinghy would drive by Arachne, loaded with partiers carrying beers or their other favorite libations. The occupants waved to the crewmembers, and each gave a half-hearted wave back, pretending to have a wonderful time, each locked in their own vision of the horror, which they had endured earlier that day.
The band, which played on the patio bar during the weekends, could be heard tuning their instruments, playing a few chords from “Stairway to Heaven.”
They would start at 6 PM and go well into the night.
It was 5:30 when the paramedics and sheriff left Arachne. Randy, John and Jeff were seated in the cockpit enjoying their second cocktail. Charlene and Stephanie were in the cabin alone, both still shaken by what had happened.
No one was talking.
There was nothing more to say.
They were emotionally drained.
Snake Brain and Sane Brain were having an internal argument as to which one of the two women they would do first.
Sane Brain wanted Stephanie.
Snake Brain was arguing for taking Charlene first, bec
ause she was already blonde, and bore a better resemblance to their stepmother.
None of the other three was the wiser of this internal conflict.
The decision was made who would be first, when John, Charlene and Randy announced they were going ashore to the bar to continue drinking before happy hour ended.
They needed to chill and lose themselves in happier surroundings after what they had been through earlier.
Stephanie told John she wasn’t in the mood to go and preferred to stay on Arachne and forego the bar.
Both Snake Brain and Sane Brain were happy for her decision. They were now one and could go about their business planning what and how to deal with her.
Jeff watched the dingy wind its way through the moorings and around several yachts and small sailboats lined up in the moorings. He waited until he saw they were at the shore before he went below.
He quietly crept into the stateroom where Stephanie had gone to lie down, rest and calm her nerves.
He had the Clairol box behind his back.
He sat on the bed next to her and began stroking her hair. She was lying on her side under the satin covers, but awoke at his touch.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said, showing her the Clairol box.
Stephanie smiled and extended her arms, luring Jeff to lie next to her. She kissed him passionately. He got under the sheets and joined her. He used his hands to explore her neck, the outside of her thighs and both sides of her ribcage.
He steered clear of her erogenous zones, wanting to heighten the intensity of their foreplay and prolong the experience.
She was a willing participant in his passion play.
After five minutes of petting, he stood up, took her by the hand and led her into the shower.
He took off his clothes and dropped them on the floor.
She undressed slowly, teasingly, leaving her pants and blouse in a pile next to his. Before getting into the shower, he mixed the coloring agent with into the bottle of developer.
He was aroused and came at her from behind, moving himself gently in between the gap between her thighs.
He didn’t penetrate her, choosing to let her know he was there and needed her simply by his touch.
He wasn’t going to force himself on her.
She responded to the tenderness of his approach by backing into him, reaching around and encircling her hand around him.
The warm water felt good as it cascaded over their naked bodies and they soaped each other, hands exploring, tenderly kissing.
Snake Brain and Sane Brain were ecstatic.
They both wanted her, but they didn’t want her as a brunette.
It just wouldn’t be right.
She had to be blonde.
Jeff left the shower and reentered, brought the bottle of Clairol and began to gently apply it to her hair while she let the warm water envelope her.
“Keep your eyes shut, my love,” he whispered. “You don’t want to get any of this in them.”
Within 45 minutes and after applying the conditioner, her dark brunette locks were a golden blonde color. He could hardly control himself when he rinsed her hair under the shower.
With her haircut, she looked just like the model on the box and was now a perfect match to his stepmother, much more so than Charlene.
He couldn’t believe his luck. He almost, but not quite, felt a tinge of guilt for what he had done to the CVS clerk. She had given him good advice about the color. It was perfect.
But then he recalled her squeaky—like nails on a blackboard—voice and the guilt faded away.
He picked Stephanie up in his arms, took her to the bedroom and began his games.
Chapter 38
Allan Wasson, a 42-year-old gaunt devout bachelor, engineer and homebody sat at his computer terminal in one of the 15 Network Operations Centers for Global Telecom.
He was lucky that he now worked the day shift. But that’s only because he did 15 years working swing and midnight shift earlier in his career, totally foregoing any personal life he might have had, which, on a good day, was nil, and on a bad day was zero.
That’s why he spent his spare time growing, trimming and selling bonsai trees to the local flower shops. He was really quite good at it, and it took his mind off his pathetic lonely lifestyle. It also put over $500 a month; tax free, into his pocket.
His job at Global was to take requests from the local authorities and gather phone records during ongoing police investigations.
A flash message came up on his screen from Los Angeles.
He was in Spokane.
But because the phone system was connected to everything and everyone, it was all one web of data woven together by thousands of computers, and he was the master spider.
He could reach into anyone’s account. He had that super sys-admin privileges which were only granted to him because he was squeaky clean. The background investigation he went through even included an interview with his seventh grade teacher, Ms. Stevens, who actually remembered him.
Yep, the government was thorough in whom they entrusted the ability to access such privacy data. There was only two hundred of his ilk who had such access. He was privileged among the privileged. He knew it and he was happy about it. It paid for his hobbies and an occasional trip to Seattle to enjoy the nightlife, where he would cruise the red light district and satisfy his needs. He rationalized it was certainly cheaper than a girlfriend or wife, neither of which he would ever have to worry about.
He was a pathetic specimen of a human being.
He had male-pattern baldness, only weighed ninety-three pounds, and had such bad breath from very poor oral hygiene, that even when using the strongest mouthwash the odor could not be entirely eliminated.
With only a few keystrokes, he was able to bring up Jeff Dawson’s 30-day history of his phone locations.
Because every phone has a GPS chip in it, if activated, the data is stored and available to law enforcement, but only through court orders.
Had Jeff not left his location services on his Galaxy 6s, this would have been a little bit more difficult, but not impossible, for Allan to process the request he just received.
He went back to his screen and saved the map locations for the past 30 days. He sent it in an email to the Los Angeles Police Department.
He went back to reading the latest Clive Cussler novel, put his feet up on his desk and waited for another request.
He was making $240,000 a year for what he did for Global. What a great job. And he was on day shift!
The Network Operations Center at LAPD immediately routed Allan’s message to Capt. Palmer and to the lead investigator on the blonde murderer’s case, Fred McCallister.
Fred was on the 110 freeway, which runs north and south connecting San Pedro to Pasadena. It’s one of the oldest freeways in LA. The part he was on passed by the LA Harbor. Off to his left he could see the massive cranes used to lift the cargo from the freighters that came in and out of the harbor like clockwork.
He was heading towards the departure point for the Catalina express. He heard the distinctive “Bing” of his iPhone and, disobeying corporate policy, he grabbed the phone and looked at the message.
He didn’t want to risk an accident, so he pulled off at the next exit, parking his cruiser on the side of the road and read it.
He found what he was looking for.
Just 24 hours earlier, Jeff’s phone was located at his home. A day before that, his phone was located at the CVS store where the murdered clerk had worked. Two hours later, the location clearly showed Jeff was at Gladstone’s in Malibu.
Although, the data he had was circumstantial, he knew he had him. He got on the phone and relayed his findings to Palmer.
“We got him boss. I have Jeff Dawson’s cell phone records and locations for the last 30 days.”
Thanks for putting through the paperwork so I could get access. With all of these privacy laws, I know it wasn’t easy. Hell, this is my last case, bu
t I’m going to close it thanks to you.”
Captain Palmer didn’t understand what Fred was saying. He hadn’t signed any paperwork, and there wasn’t a court order.
Captain Dawson came on. “So you have his cellphone records and his locations?”
“Yes, times and locations clearly tie him to the murder of the CVS clerk and his wife. I talked to the boys in forensics and they downloaded his latest texts. The guy was so stupid, he texted from his own home saying he was going to Catalina within minutes of his wife’s death.”
I have all I need.”
Palmer cringed.
“Alert the Sheriff’s Department at the Isthmus. It should only take me an hour and a half to get there.” Fred got back on the freeway.
“I’m almost to the Catalina Express terminal. The trip will take an hour so I’ll grab him when I get to the island.
What a good way to end a career.
I put in a request to do a search on his phone records for the last six month when all this started. I’ll guarantee you he will show up as having been near or at the actual murder locations.
We have this bastard!
Guaranteed.”
Fred parked his car at the terminal, purchased his ticket and continued talking to Palmer while he boarded. “The son of a bitch is so stupid he still has his location services on so I know exactly where he is. I don’t know what boat he’s on, but the accuracy is within 15 meters. I think I can figure it out.”
Captain Palmer went to the DA and issued an arrest warrant on Jeffrey Dawson. The evidence was overwhelming. He also tried to explain how Fred got the data without a court order.
Because of the seriousness of the case, the DA ignored the fact that there was no court order. He and Palmer would confer on this later.
They had him!
But could they keep him?
It all depended on the judge who would sign the next search warrant of his cellphone records, which Palmer was rushing through right now.
“By the time you get there, the warrant will be issued. I’ll call the Isthmus.
God’s speed.
Good way to end a career.
Be careful, Fred.”
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