Striker

by Patricia Green

  “No. I’m okay with this. Come on. Sit down.” She pulled up the edge of her skirt, and bared her legs and some sheer, lace-topped stockings. I sat on the crates again, watching her in a sort of panic. I wondered what in Sam Hill I had been thinking when I told her to partially undress. She had perfect, smooth, shapely legs. She wasn’t tall, but her legs seemed to go up to her shoulders. She wore a tiny little white thong that barely covered her. It looked so innocent there, in a very sexy way. I swallowed my nerves and hurried the process. I needed to get past this, or too many dangerous things could happen.

  “Don’t dawdle. I don’t want to be here too long.” If my voice was a little strained, it was due to the discomfort I was feeling—mostly in my trousers.

  She positioned herself over my lap. Oh, God. I nearly groaned. She had a perfect ass. And then I remembered how perfectly off-limits it was, and I got second thoughts about this whole spanking business. Her two globes radiated their invitation to me from where they cradled her thong. I kept my hands to myself and cleared my throat. “I’m not sure about this. This might be a bad idea. It’s better if you deal with the reprimand.”

  “Come on. You agreed. Do you always welsh on deals? Or are you a coward?”

  My second thoughts evaporated like rain on a hot roof. In one quick motion, I raised my hand and smacked her firmly on one ass cheek.

  “Ow!”

  “That’s just the start,” I warned, bringing my hand down again and again. The message had to be clear, or we’d be facing this situation again. I swatted her a few more times and knew I really had her attention as she started to shift around on my lap. She wasn’t exactly trying to get away, but close. Her cries of pain and embarrassment got louder with each stroke.

  Once her butt got a little pink, I spanked her harder, trying to make a firm impression that would last an hour or two. But, aside from a hot butt, I wanted her to remember how she’d gotten herself into this predicament. “You will not drive recklessly in the future.”

  “Right! Ow! Damn it.”

  I started moving my spanks down to where her butt met her thighs. That really caused a few yelps. “You will not put me in a position where I have to lie for you.”

  “I didn’t. Not exactly.” She drew out the words as though begging me to stop. But the words she’d said did nothing to make me want to ease up on her.

  “Piccolino…”

  “Okay. I’m sorry. Ouch! That hurts.”

  “You thought it would be a massage? A little tap on the rump and all would be good? Maybe some touchy-feely just for fun?” I waled on her butt for half a dozen more strokes.

  “I promise I won’t do it again. I promise!”

  I peppered her rear for a minute longer. “That’s damn right you won’t. Because I will take it out of your ass every time you do.”

  I don’t know whether it was a Pavlovian response or what, but my cock was raging. Prior experience with erotic spankings was getting in the way of this punishment. Piccolino’s earlier testing attempt at seduction hadn’t been all for naught. I had to get past it, so I kept spanking.

  “Okay! Okay! Please stop. I’ve learned my lesson!”

  “No, I don’t think you have.” I went on spanking for another minute, and her rear was getting red in spots. She was squirming on my lap, and I had to grab her hands when she tried to cover her butt. I thought I heard her sniffling, too. Oh, hell. I’d made her cry. That was about all I could stand; my anger evaporated. I felt like a heel. It took only a few seconds to flip down her skirt and help her stand up. She straightened the fabric, getting hold of herself, her jaw tight.

  “Are we done here?” The question came through gritted teeth.

  I nodded, trying not to note her reddened eyes and pink nose. I think we were both embarrassed.

  To give her credit, she was courageous. She straightened her shoulders and marched out of the alley and toward the car, where she radioed in the MVA. We’d crossed a threshold, beginning a dynamic that neither of us had anticipated or wanted. Yet, there we were. No time for regrets.

  * * *

  Piccolino had to deal with the MVA, so I proceeded on foot down the block to the broad supermarket on the corner, where the new dead girl lay. There were a couple of black and whites parked near the backside of the large building, as well as a coroner’s wagon. That part of the parking lot was empty of the public, save for one old woman with a camera, standing just inside the crime scene tape. I turned on my Dragnet, hard-nosed cop demeanor and approached with my badge out, asking her how long she’d been there. Apparently, only an hour. I made sure she hadn’t seen anything suspicious—she was obviously nosy—but she claimed she hadn’t. I asked her to leave the area and particularly to get out from within the area that had been cordoned off. After she exclaimed that it was a public parking lot, I pointed out that it was, in fact, a private parking lot, owned by the grocery, and on top of that, it was a crime scene. Unless she wanted a ticket, she’d best be on her way.

  Grudgingly, she left.

  The officers at the scene were professional and helpful. I approached the coroner just as she was closing the body bag. CSI had already done its thing, and was off processing evidence. We were only here to get a feel for the crime and scene.

  “One second, Julia.”

  She looked up, a thick brown braid falling over her shoulder. “Oh. Hello, Striker. You working this case?”

  “Hello, Julia. Yeah, I’m the lucky guy.” I leaned over to look into the black bag. A woman’s face was all I could see. She was pale, as are most corpses, but she was stunningly gorgeous. Her hair was strawberry blonde and stylish, she wore makeup, and had a pair of gold hoop earrings on. “What do you know so far?”

  “Female, age approximately eighteen to twenty. No ID. I’d say she was a drug user, based on the old needle tracks on her left arm. There are marks on her throat,” she said, opening the body bag a little, so I could see the girl’s neck. Sure enough, faint bruises marred her skin. “Strangulation is a possibility.” She sealed the body bag.

  “Time of death?”

  “Early this morning, maybe five to seven a.m.”

  I stood. “Thanks, Julia. I’ll read the rest when the report is done.”

  A few moments later, I approached the lead officer. “Hey, Miller. Anything to identify the victim? Wallet, purse?”

  “Nothing. There was a white rose on her belly when we found her. The CSI guys got all the pics.”

  “I heard about the rose. That’s why Donati sent me.”

  “Yeah. Most people don’t crawl into a smelly dumpster to die and take their own funeral flowers with them.”

  “Nope. Somebody put her there.”

  He nodded.

  “Anybody see anything?”

  “There was a produce guy offloading lettuce and carrots from the back of a truck, over in that loading dock.” He pointed. “But he says there are always people coming and going around here. It’s a twenty-four hour market.”

  “Okay. I’ll have a chat with him. Name?”

  “Roger, Roger Tymon.”

  “Anyone else? Who found the body?”

  “Guy named Gabe Williams. Don’t know if he’ll do you any good, though.”

  “Oh, why?”

  “He doesn’t seem quite all there. Developmentally delayed, maybe.”

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  “Those were the only two.”

  “Okay. See ya later, Miller.”

  He nodded his goodbye and we parted.

  Inside the large, busy market, I asked for the manager and showed my badge. The store manager was a little guy with a semi-bald head and thick glasses. His milk-sop demeanor hid a sharp mind.

  I introduced myself and showed my badge. He said his name was Mark Dobson.

  “This is about the girl in the dumpster, right?”

  “Yeah. What can you tell me?”

  “Nothing much. No one saw her get in there. We didn’t discover her until our first t
rash dump, around nine o’clock. We would have just dumped the trash over her, without looking, but my guy is a little OCD and has to give the dumpster a look before he tosses stuff in.”

  “Ah. That was Gabe Williams? Any other employees see anything?”

  “Yes, it was Gabe. I think Roger Tymon took a look. No one else will admit to seeing anything.”

  That was astute. A lot of potential witnesses don’t want to get involved. It made everything harder for us investigators.

  “Can I talk to Mr. Williams?”

  “He’s in my office with his brother. Follow me.”

  We went into the cold area in the back of the market. It was a work zone, with black rubber mats on the floor and crates and boxes stacked around. Industrial air conditioners hummed loud enough that people had to speak up or go unheard. A couple of pallet-movers were in use, and a few employees were busy preparing stuff for the shelves. Grocery clerks were gossiping near the door marked “Employees Only,” until they saw their boss and quickly broke their klatch.

  We proceeded to a room jutting out from the corner of two bare, concrete block walls. The door had a plate that said, “Store Manager.” Dobson preceded me into the room and closed the door behind him. Inside, the space was spartan, but clearly belonged to Dobson. A small metal desk stood near the center, and framed pictures of Dobson, a woman, and two kids were on the steel shelving units behind the desk chair. There were filing cabinets on both sides, the locking kind.

  In front of the desk, two people sat close together on matching straight-backed chairs. They were black men in their early twenties. The resemblance between them was striking—same nose, same slightly bulging eyes, same flat eyebrows; clearly, they were the brothers Dobson mentioned. They both looked grim, and the younger one looked tearful. There were wet streaks on his cheeks and his eyes were bloodshot.

  Dobson introduced us, pointing to the younger, tear-stained one. “This is Gabe Williams. And this is his brother William.” William Williams. Someone’s parents had either a rude sense of humor or a total lack of creativity.

  I nodded and showed them my badge. “I’m Detective Striker, Glendale PD. I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Williams.”

  There was some confusion about which Mr. Williams I was referring to, but I shifted my eyes to the younger man and that seemed to clarify things.

  “Don’t want to talk to no more policemen,” the young man whined, his eyes filling with tears.

  “I know we’re a pain in the ass, Mr. Williams, but this is important.”

  “He already told what he knows, Detective,” William said, putting his arm around his brother.

  “I understand. But sometimes in the re-telling, a witness remembers something and that something could be important. A girl is dead and we need to find out why.”

  The elder Williams seemed to think about it for a few moments, and then he turned to look his brother in the eyes. “Gabe, this policeman is a boss policeman. You need to talk to him. He wants to help find the bad guys.” He was talking to Gabe as though Gabe was ten years old.

  “Mr. Williams,” I began, talking directly to the older brother, and trying to be as sensitive as I could. “Is your brother developmentally delayed?”

  Williams nodded, his eyes still on Gabe’s face.

  So I’d have to approach this carefully. I didn’t want to upset Gabe, but, like my dealings with Barry Alexander, I needed to press the capabilities of the witness. Anything he saw could be important.

  Gabe sniffled, looking at me through pools of tears. “Policemen are my friends.”

  “Yes, we are,” I agreed. “Just tell me about your morning, Mr. Williams. What time did you come to work?”

  “I’m never late,” he said, pride evident in his voice.

  Dobson spoke up. “Indeed, he’s not.” He’d moved to the chair behind his desk. I was standing, but I hunkered down a little so that I could look the seated Gabe Williams in the eye.

  “That’s great,” I said with a friendly smile. “So you were here on time. What time was that?”

  “I work from six in the morning until two-thirty in the afternoon. I get half an hour for lunch and two fifteen minute breaks. I always punch the time clock.”

  “You’re a good worker. What do you do around the store?”

  “I clean up spills so nobody slips. I have a mop. Do you wanna see?”

  “I’m sure it’s a very nice mop, but I can’t look at it right now.” He looked a little disappointed at my response, but I went on. “You also take out the trash, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you take out the trash this morning?”

  He nodded again, and this time a big tear rolled down his face. He didn’t attempt to wipe it away, and it landed on his uniform apron silently.

  “What happened with the trash?”

  “I got the big trash cart and gathered up all the garbage. There’s a lot in the mornings. I don’t think the night customer service person cares as much as me.”

  “Too bad. So you got the garbage?”

  “Yeah. And I took it outside. The dumpster has high walls, but I’m strong, so I pulled myself up to look inside.” He leaned forward to tell me conspiratorially, “Sometimes you find stuff in the trash. People throw out some neat things.”

  “What did you find when you looked inside?”

  “There was that girl!” With that, he sobbed and put his hands over his face. “She was asleep in the trash. Someone told me she was dead. She had a flower on her T-shirt.”

  “A real flower, or a painted-on flower?”

  “A real one. A rose. The floral department has lots of roses. They smell pretty, but not in the trash can.” He sniffled and dropped his hands.

  “I agree,” I answered. “What did you do when you saw her?”

  “I screamed and screamed, then ran inside and called 911. You’re supposed to call 911 when something bad happens.”

  “That’s right. Did anyone else look into the trash can?”

  “I think Roger did. I dunno exactly.”

  “Okay. Did you see anyone near the dumpster when you went out to empty the trash? Someone in a car, maybe, or standing nearby?”

  Gabe shook his head. “No.”

  I patted him on the knee and stood, addressing his brother with my next remarks. “We may need to talk to him again, but I think that’s all for now. I’ll need his street address and phone number.”

  “He lives with me and our aunt.” He gave me the address and phone number and I wrote them down in my book along with a few other notes.

  “Thanks.” I looked at Gabe and gave him a small smile. “I’m sorry you were upset.”

  He sniffled and wiped his cheeks. “That’s okay. Policemen are my friends.”

  “That’s right.” I turned to Dobson. “I need to speak to Tymon.”

  We walked out onto the loading dock and found Tymon having a smoke. I introduced myself and Dobson left us alone. Tymon was a heavy-set man with the face of a brute, thick eyebrows, ruddy, pockmarked cheeks, and a full day’s growth of beard. He wore a store uniform—black apron over a forest green T-shirt and black jeans. His arms were thick with muscle, even while his belly bulged his apron. He smoked with thumb and forefinger, aggressively drawing smoke in and blowing it out.

  “So tell me about seeing the dead girl.”

  “I ain’t got much to say. Gabe came running in like his tail was on fire, and I slowed him down enough to find out he’d seen something in the dumpster. He was dead-set on calling the cops, so I figured it was some crazy shit. I went out and looked.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Duh. A dead girl and a lot of garbage.”

  I was a little irritated at the “duh” remark, but I let it go. “That’s it? No one loitering about? No purse or wallet nearby?”

  He looked uncomfortable for a moment, then his face cleared. I was onto something. “No. I didn’t see nothing else.”

  “Are you sure?”
/>   His eyes went shifty. “Of course I’m sure.”

  “You realize that withholding information or evidence is a crime.”

  He began to sweat, and he took a last long puff on his cigarette before he tossed it on the ground with all the other used butts, and ground it out with a booted foot. “Well… now that you mention it, I might have found a purse. But I figured it was just part of the trash.”

  I thought as much, and I was glad I didn’t have to strong-arm him. “Do you still have it?”

  He looked down at his boots, then back up at me. “I looked to see if anyone had left an ID in it, so that I could return it to the right person.” I gave him a skeptical look. “But there was no ID, just a card for some skin joint, some tissues, and a few bucks.”

  “Do you still have the purse?”

  “No. I put it in the other dumpster.”

  “After taking out the money. Why let it go to waste, right?” The derision in my voice was clear, and I didn’t care. This guy could have seriously messed up the case.

  “Well, yeah! It’s not like I live on Easy Street.”

  “How much was in there?”

  “Eighty bucks.”

  “I’ll want that as evidence.” I held out my hand.

  “Why? It’s just money. Ain’t got no value to that dead girl no more.”

  “Turn it over, Tymon.”

  He gave me a long-suffering sigh and reached for the wallet in his back pocket.

  After I’d received the money, I carefully put it in one of the two evidence bags I had rolled up in my jacket pocket, and made sure that was all the information Tymon had to give. I pointed out that if he “remembered” anything else, he had better call me, and I gave him my card. He agreed, and shuffled off, irritation in his voice as he grumbled to himself.

  I had the unenviable task of digging through the second dumpster for the purse, but the evidence was right on top. I gloved up my hands and grabbed it. It was a smallish, blue leather purse, a little beat up, but still serviceable. I looked inside, saw the tissues and a business card. The card was for a massage parlor just off Highland Avenue—a parlor that guaranteed “happy endings,” a sly term for prostitution. I jotted the name and address of the massage parlor in my notebook, then bagged the evidence. Piccolino sat in the dented cruiser not far from the black and whites. I paused long enough to ask one of the officers to call CSI and tell them the second dumpster needed to be gone over carefully.