“In those four killings where a burglary was also involved, I feel sure non-payment for drugs was the issue. It happens rather often. It seems all were drug users. But the supplier of the drugs played a forgiving part in the last two cases. He told each victim he was a patient fellow and he’d wait a bit longer for payment. Meantime, just to show good will, here’s a shot of heroin for your arm, he possibly said.
“I suppose that because those last two victims had fresh punctures in their arms and the Medical Examiner found heroin in their blood. All four of the burglary victims also had meth in their bodies. Oddly, surprisingly little meth residue has been found in those apartments. Jay Williams was clean; no drugs involved there. The perp gave each enough heroin to at least cause super euphoria or maybe unconsciousness.
“The first two victims were treated differently; he whacked them hard with his gun barrel on the head, from behind, knocking them out; the front sight of the gun left cuts in the fronts of their heads. He may not have done that later because he worried he might break his precious little weapon. Then in all four cases, he simply put the gun muzzle right up to them and shot out each eye and a few teeth, as in ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,’ as it’s said in the Bible. Five shots; never more, never less except for Williams. Whether such a maniac supposes that would warn others to pay up as they should, I can’t guess.”
“Goddamnit Jack!” Lieutenant Dean cut in. “I never thought about that ‘eye for an eye’ thing! Do you guess he’s a biblical nut?”
“I can’t think our perp is a wonderfully gracious Christian - or anything else - to go about knocking folks off as he does, sir.”
“Okay Sergeant Leslie, continue with this,” Chief Slumberjay said.
“A particular puzzle for me is: how has he got all that loot out of those four apartments with nobody noticing? Does he park his cab out in front of the place and load it up? Or now, we suppose he could be using a big wagon. Does he have a helper? It so happens though, we know of no very large items to have been burgled; you know, that would take two to handle.
“Jewelry, money and other small items would be hardly a problem to get out. He must be a lucky devil not to have someone notice him going out and loading up a vehicle with stolen TVs, computers, DVD players and such, even if it is in the wee hours of the morning.
“But we all know that some burglars operate for many years without being caught. But the professional burglars don’t draw attention to themselves with vicious murders.
“One other thing is that no one has reported hearing shots fired. Not once. Does he have a silencer on that gun? I’ve never heard of a silencer for a weapon so small in caliber as a .22. But we do know a .22 caliber gun makes a relatively small report compared to most other guns. That may be the reason a .22 is used; because it’s much less noisy.
“Unfortunately, we have no finger prints since the perp obviously wears surgical gloves. CSI has found molecules of latex, to prove that. No blood has been discovered except from the deceased, which was splattered somewhat; but not blasted about as would be from larger weapons.
“None of the burgled loot has been discovered so I suppose it maybe has gone south to Tijuana, to pay for the drugs the perp has been peddling. Next thing is, how in the world do they get drugs north and the millions of dollars south? Well, the best brains of the Border Patrol of course constantly fight that monstrous problem.
“That’s all I have to say about the killings by that .22 caliber weapon. But Chief Slumberjay, I would like to talk to you ma’am in private about the drug problem. It’s very, very important although drug smuggling is the affair of various Federal agencies, not us Police. It doesn’t concern these others here at all. May I speak to you please, in your office?”
She stood up, obviously not happy with the request. He knew of course that he would usually be required to “go through channels” to visit with her. “As you say Sergeant, drug smuggling isn’t our affair but I’ve gotta believe you have a damn good reason for this. Okay, follow me.”
They were soon in her office and he closed the door as he came in.
“Okay Leslie, what in hell’s on your mind?” she asked.
“Ma-am, I suppose everyone thinks about their work and I sure do; all the time. Anyway, this morning I thought how those drug barons in Mexico are flooding our country with their awful stuff.
“I saw a program on TV a while ago about drilling for oil and as you know, they can drill down through solid rock for miles to bring up oil. They go down five miles and more for it, through extremely hard rock. They sometimes also drill horizontally, ma-am. There’s the point. They can drill horizontally.”
“Yes, yes. So what?”
“I’m suggesting to you Chief, so you can inform the appropriate Feds, that those Mexican drug lords have drilled horizontal pipe lines under the border and use a pneumatic system to send their heroin, cocaine and meth north and their enormous profits south.”
Over the next half hour, Leslie informed the Chief just how it could be done, drilling horizontally below the surface from the basement of a warehouse or a hangar in Tijuana through miles of sand or clay or soft sandstone instead of hard rock, to far beyond the border; perhaps up north ten miles into Chula Vista or further. In oil drilling, he thought they used five or six inch diameter pipes and which they might also use for pneumatic carriers.
He speculated they could easily drill from Mexico’s Tijuana airport, which was right up against the border, through the mere mile and a half north to Brown Air Field – a San Diego Municipal Airport - on the U.S. side. Many private planes were based and flew in and out of Brown Field. They could fly in their drugs to Tijuana and pipe them cheaply into various hangars at Brown Field and load planes to fly their stuff all over the United States.
Obviously, because of Mexico’s great oil industry, there could be endless sophisticated equipments on hand and thousands of experienced drillers who could easily install such piping – many, many miles of it.
The pipes could terminate in any sort of buildings on the U.S. side, including even the garages attached to houses. And such systems could be installed in many places on the hundreds of miles along the border, from the Pacific Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico; dozens and dozens of places. Mexico’s drug gangs constantly murder and even decapitate each other’s members in their fight for control for smuggling routes – smuggling routes that could simply end in underground pipes.
Big cities used to have many miles of such pneumatic piping systems and the Costco Warehouse stores still used such pneumatic tubes to zip money from their cashiers safely to a central, armored station.
Leslie guessed that much of the smuggled drugs that had been detected might be only diversions, concocted by the drug lords, to make it seem our Border Patrol had some effectiveness. But it was obvious tons of that life-devastating material was peddled all over the United States as well as the rest of the world. Leslie was sure the real smuggling could be going on right there under the Fed’s feet, through exquisitely simple and cheap pneumatic tubes.
“It’s worth noting ma-am,” Leslie told the Chief, “that every so often we hear an American has his vehicle inspected at the border because ‘he was acting nervous’ and of course they found a load of drugs. I believe they report that to the media rather than admit they had a tip; a round-about tip of course from a drug lord who set the greedy American up with a bribe and the promise of much more at the delivery of the ultra-profitable stuff.
“The inspectors get the credit, the drug lord makes an extremely tiny sacrifice and the poor greedy American sap will spend years in prison for his foolishness. That way, the Feds seem to be more or less effective.”
She finally spoke, “Sergeant Leslie, I’ve gotta think you’re a friggin brainy genius. But I must be careful here. You know, those men administrating the anti-drug programs should have thought of this themselves. They’re not going to want some outsider telling them what they should’ve thought of all along. I�
�m not going to go stupidly barging into their little empires and straighten them out.
“I’ve gotta think this through. For one thing, I’m going to learn everything I reasonably can about such drilling and the pneumatic tube systems. I’m certain you’re right that it could be done. But aha. Is it actually going on down there?”
“Well Chief, it seems a mystery to those who should know, how it is that every part of our country is so overwhelmed with plentiful supplies of that mind-destroying stuff. This idea might answer at least part of the question. Also, I know our city departments find piping under the streets with magnetometers or some such electronic devices, so the illicit drug piping might be found that way. Or maybe super-sensitive sound devices could hear their carriages zipping back and forth hauling drugs and dollars.”
“You’re one very smart officer, Sergeant. Maybe you ought to be a Lieutenant or even a Captain?”
“Ma’am, I’m altogether happy with the work I have now. I find great satisfaction in plucking off a rotten apple from the human tree, once in a while.”
“Okay Leslie, you keep right on plucking off those goddamn rotten apples. That’s a very, very good expression. Just don’t say anything about this piping thing to anyone. I’m gonna give it some thought – damn, a whole lot of thought and learn what I can so I don’t make a fool of myself with this. Thanks my friend; it’s a truly noble cause to stifle the drug business. Thanks a million.
“Oh, and I’ll call Pat right now so’s he won’t get sore at you for seeming to go over his head. See you, Sergeant Handsome Jack,” she said with a smile.
As Leslie returned to his desk, Lieutenant Dean came over to him. “The Chief just told me not to go getting upset because of your private interview. It’s got nothing to do with me or the force. Okay Jack, what’ve you got in mind for the rest of the day?”
“Sir, I was hoping you’d allow me to go out there to the range and get a bit more practice with my new shootin’ iron. It still feels sort of strange in my hand.”
“Okay,” Dean smiled, “go take the rest of the day and the weekend off. But friend, don’t you go out there and shoot nobody; hear me boy?”
“Darn it Lieutenant,” Leslie said with a serious look, “you sure do impose awful restrictions on your staff.”
Leslie zipped over to Perry’s Breakfast Place for lunch and then to the See’s Chocolate shop where he bought a pound of candy and a mailing box for it. He slipped two twenties into the box and stopped at the Midway Post Office to mail it off to Jimmy James with a note of thanks.
He avoided dealing with the downtown Post Office at 9th and C Streets where Donna Elsie Leslie had been crushed in her car against the big mail truck by the flying-through-the-red-light drunk driver.
Before pistol practice at the firing range, he called the “girl of his dreams.”
“How did Little Anne enjoy the slumber party?” he asked.
“Oh, she had a grand time but of course, she got very little sleep. I asked what they had to talk about and she told me, ‘Certainly not boys.’ So of course, they talked about boys. How’s everything with you today, darling?”
“Ronica, I love you so very, very much. What a time we had last night. I found out I have a whole lot of freckles yet to admire and count and kiss.”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“Anyway, I got the news today that I can take the next three days off. I don’t need to report until Monday. How about you? I mean, do you have anything planned?”
“Well, not really. But I finally called my sister. You know, ‘Big Anne’ in Chicago. I spent half an hour on the phone with her; maybe more. I told her about Jay and I told her about Winnie breaking my Mustang window. Most importantly, I told her that I’m absolutely head over heels in love with the most handsome, manly man in the world!”
“Flattery my dear, will get you absolutely everywhere with me.”
“Seems to me we both got everywhere with each other last night. I told Little Anne also about us being in love and she’s wonderfully happy for that.”
“You know what? Sweetheart, you’ve got the weekend off and so do I, so why don’t we just drive over to Las Vegas for a bit of ‘R and R’ and get better acquainted?”
“Wow! I haven’t been there in ages. And come to think of it, I’ve never been there with such a wonderful man. Let’s do it!”
EIGHT
As quick as their conversation was over, Leslie called Jessop Jewelers, a many-generations-old business on C Street, in the Emerald Plaza building. He had confidence in them since he’d done business with them before. Leslie wished to spend no more than about five grand for an engagement and two wedding rings and would the expert owner please choose what he thought best for that money?
“I’ll pay by check Mr. Jessop,” Leslie said, “so as to save you the credit card charges.”
After target practice Leslie stopped at the jewelers and paid for and picked up the engagement ring with a large center diamond flanked by two smaller stones each side. Her yellow gold wedding ring had five small diamonds along one side and his was the plainest of plain bands. All three were ensconced in a pretty heart-shaped presentation box. He was assured the total weight of all ten finest quality stones was three point two carats.
He packed for the trip, including the ring box in his suitcase. For once, he dressed with and packed casual clothes; even his Costco sneakers. He wore no armor nor his pistol; Nevada was way out of his jurisdiction.
Ronica pulled up in front of his building at 5 o’clock, he got behind the wheel and they drove the three hundred thirty miles to Las Vegas in five hours, including a “pit stop” at Peggy Sue’s 1950’s Diner in Yermo, off Highway 15, in the California desert.
Her daughter was with her father for that time.
As they each began to unpack in their hotel, Leslie spoke up. “Well, well, Ronica, look what I found,” he said as he showed her the ring box.
Then he bent down one knee, flipped open the lid for her to see the rings and said, “Ronica, I love you! I know this is sudden but will you please marry me?”
Her astonishment was obvious as she gasped and assented and burst into tears of happiness.
They took in first rate shows, ate to the point of bursting, they gambled – and lost a bit of money of course – and both “walked the strip” back and forth and drove it, top down, in her uncommonly pretty Mustang.
Arriving back in San Diego late Sunday night, fully satiated and happy, she dropped him off at his condo and drove on home.
When Leslie reported in at Police Headquarters Monday morning, September 15th, he was amazed to learn that McCoy’s taxi had been pulled from Mission Bay, right next to Fiesta Island. It was a fairly common practice by crooks, meanly disposing of stolen cars into the drink. They were sure it had been in that salty water two or three days before a slow-moving boater had noticed the orange color of the cab well below the surface.
“Jack, I went there yesterday to see them pull the damn thing out,” Lieutenant Dean told Leslie. “Looks to me as though he got up a goddamned good speed before he hit the water and it sort of plowed out quite a distance before it went under. It was in pretty deep water. Nobody thought anything of the tire tracks on the beach since guys back up their trailers there to launch boats a lot. There was nothing in it except in the trunk, a pair of – guess what? – just a pair of those Costco Court Classic shoes. Size 8 ½. What do you make of it, Jack?”
“The TV people were there too?”
“Oh hell yes. They were of course sure there’d be cab full of dead bodies to make a big deal of. I sent divers down to search for one or more bodies, but they found nothing at all – especially, they didn’t find that damn McCoy.”
“So it’s obvious he found out we were looking for his cab; therefore he disposed of it,” Leslie said. “Was his taxi license inside?”
“First thing I looked for. Nope, that cab was empty except for those shoes in the trunk. I supposed from that he wasn’t even
pretending to be a suicide; you know, because he’d taken out his license.”
“Probably burned his license knowing if we found it we’d try to trace its origin. Lieutenant, when he talked to the McCarty girl on the bus bench last week, he undoubtedly got the idea we were very interested in him. But now there’s no cab to find. What about the Ford Freestyle? He wouldn’t know we have knowledge of that. Has Brian found out anything yet?”
“Couple things about that Jack, so’s you’ll know. We checked to see if the cab was reported stolen; hell no, of course it wasn’t. All of us have been looking at the lists of Freestyle owners that Alan got up. Computers are sure a big help these days except we got no goddamn place at all.
“There aren’t any owners of gray ‘05’s or ‘06’s named McCoy. Alan also tried just plain Coy and then looked for even the first name of Donald. Nothing. Zilch. That is, of the gray ones. Next, he’s going to check with dealers who might have rented them out. We’re at a dead end with it, Jack. You’re the hot-shot puzzle solver hereabouts so I’ll be mighty interested to see what you do with this.”
“I’ll take a look at his list of owners, Lieutenant.”
Detective Brian Alan soon had the list up on his computer screen. “All of ‘em are women, Sergeant,” Alan said. “That is, of those in San Diego city that own either an ’05 or ’06 Ford Freestyle in what Ford calls ‘Dark Shadow Grey Metallic’ color, all are oddly female. You sure your cabbie contact could be certain of the make and year?”
“Brian, for all his working years and hours, a cab driver is either in traffic or parked where cars are buzzing by. He has little to do but notice automobiles and trucks so they should all be familiar with everything out there. Also, his cousin owns one, he said, like the one he told me about; only his cousin’s is black. Let me study this list awhile, okay?”
The .22 Caliber Homicides: Book 1 of the San Diego Police Homicide Detail featuring Jack Leslie Page 12