by Jerold Last
Suzanne seemed to be lost in thought for about 30 seconds before asking Vincent, “Can you run the same computer program you used, backwards, so to speak? I’d be curious to find out whether any other judges show the same kind of bias a significant percentage of the time.”
It was Vincent’s turn to stop and think a moment before answering. “Claro. That’s an enormous amount of data to crunch, Suzanne. It would require a huge amount of computer time and raise a lot of questions about the proper statistical handling of multiple comparisons within the same data set. I think we can get the same information more quickly by running all of the judges sequentially, by name. If we limit the data search by choosing only those individuals who have judged more than, say half a dozen shows, I think we can get through that problem in a weekend or two of computation time. It should take me about ten minutes to make a slight modification in the software programming and we could begin this task. If I set a criterion of significance to be more stringent than the 5% probability of an observation occurring by pure chance, I think we can get a reasonably small number of false positives. Claro, we can re-run all of the apparent positives another time or two and eliminate random chance as a cause of false positives. By that time we should have a small enough data set to just look at the results. We should be able to see if anything jumps out at us as egregiously as Krause and Guerrero did the first time.”
Suzanne nodded her assent before she stood up abruptly and got a card and a fancy calligraphy pen from a desk in the study. She returned to the table and wrote carefully for a moment on the card. "Vincent, can I ask you for a favor, please?"
Vincent looked up at Suzanne and smiled. "Sure, Suzanne. What can I do for you?"
She looked the card over one more time before handing it to Vincent. "Tomorrow can you send a floral arrangement, completely anonymously, to Hunter Lodge at the AKC and include this card?"
Vincent took the card from Suzanne, read it, and chuckled. "Claro. It will be my pleasure!"
Suzanne leaned over and gently kissed his cheek. "Thank you."
Vincent read the card to us.
"Smart phones are handy,
Computers are good.
Thanks for the flowers
But you sent more than you should."
We all shared a good laugh.
The next few steps for our investigation seemed obvious. "It sounds to me like I'm finally ready to send my first report to the AKC. I suspect Carswell will feel he's gotten his money's worth, based on our finding a rotten apple in the corporate barrel for him. But we still have only theories, so I'll also make sure to emphasize that the job isn't completed yet. There are two murders to solve, and a heavy-duty drug scene to do eliminate, before the feeling something is wrong at the dog shows will go away for most of the regulars there.”
I asked the big question. “What do you all think? Was Lodge involved in that part too or do we have two different sets of crimes and criminals doing parallel play here?"
Suzanne looked very thoughtful. "I'd guess the answer to that question is going to be two groups doing parallel play, Roger. The difference in the level of violence between Lodge fixing a couple of dog shows and stalking me versus the two brutal murders of the judges makes me think that different people are involved.”
After a pause to let the significance of that comment sink in, she continued a lot more forcefully. “The apparent overlap between Lodge fixing shows with the two corrupt judges and both of the judges being murdered at dog shows may be pure coincidence, no matter how improbable. But a corrupt judge is a corrupt judge, whoever paid them to pick certain dogs as winners. Lodge may have had more judges in his pocket, or the drug dealers may have had their own set of crooked judges. The second set of criminals seems to prefer solving its problems by killing them, which sounds more like the drug cartels' modus operandi to me. They may still be hypothetical from a standpoint of the kind of proof that would hold up in a court of law, but I’m convinced they really exist.”
She paused again to let us absorb her logic, then continued earnestly. “Lodge acted like a typical white-collar criminal, with his tools being non-violent intimidation and trying to scare you off, not murder. He certainly has the financial capacity to hire some serious muscle to slow you down, but he didn't try that route. If my theory is right, he'll still pay a very high price for seriously underestimating Vincent's and your capabilities.
“On the other hand, he could be in a lot worse trouble than he already is if my theory that there are two different groups working independently here is wrong, and we find a link between Lodge, the murder victims, and the killer we haven’t identified yet."
We switched to dessert and a lot more discussion while we rehashed what we knew, making little progress. We had to learn a lot more about the murdered judges and their connections with the Schaefers, before we could move this part of the investigation forward. It was a sticky situation, because there was a pretty good chance we might run afoul of the DEA and whatever undercover operation they were running when we tried to do that.
Later that evening, I was lounging on a couch in front of the TV. Suzanne and Bruce relaxed in nearby chairs, reading or watching the show with me. It was one of my favorites, “The Glades”, a mystery series set in southern Florida starring the Australian actor Matt Passmore as the unconventional police detective hero. As our hero was busily solving crime on the screen, Juliet slipped over to the couch and crawled up to share my space. After a particularly slurpy kiss or two, she made a typical GSP move to maximize body contact with one of her humans. Her head was draped over my leg, while her body was gently pressed against mine for pretty much the entire length of the dog. She pretended to watch the show, but I could hear her snoring contentedly during several of the shoot-‘em-up scenes. It was a one-hour show with commercials and she barely moved the entire time. I scratched her ears and tummy off and on and was rewarded with a series of gentle purrs from a contented dog when I did. This particular bonding behavior was pretty typical of Juliet. Whichever one of us had the couch, Suzanne or I, generally also had Juliet as a couch mate. It was tough duty, but one of us had to do it.
Chapter21.More detective work
For security reasons, we sent the first formal report by U.S. Postal Service Priority Mail to Harold Carswell's home address. It was on our new agency letterhead from the recently renamed Bowman-Romero Detective Agency. The report was several pages long and contained a moderate amount of dynamite, at least as far as Hunter Lodge was concerned. Vincent and I decided to delay Suzanne's floral gift for a couple of days, until Carswell received this report some time the following evening. I suggested Vincent might want to frame a copy of the report for the wall at the entrance to the office to prove he was a full partner. He settled for the privilege of designing and printing our new letterhead on his computer. We celebrated his promotion with a strategy meeting over lunch to plan our next few moves.
Picking a restaurant for lunch within walking distance of our office wasn’t a trivial decision. We’re in Century City, the heart of the financial component of the Hollywood entertainment industry, a place where people did power lunches and A-list appearances. Nobody walks to a destination here. They rent limos to show off their status. Finding a restaurant that served good food at a reasonable price, where we wouldn’t have to kill for a table, or pay the maitre d’ a large ransom to seat us, was the challenge. Fortunately, such a place not only existed right around the corner from our office but hadn’t been discovered yet by the in-crowd. We were regulars there. Over cheeseburgers and beer at our local yuppie restaurant, we strategized.
Between bites of burger and gulps of brew, I got to the point. "We have to learn a lot more about the Schaefers. The obvious distribution of labor is you on the computer, and me in person at the next dog show with Juliet. Is that OK with you?"
The junior partner nodded agreement with his mouth full of burger and roll. A little bit of beer and a big swallow preceded his next suggestion. "How abo
ut me flying to El Paso, renting a car, driving to San Francisco de Texas, and discretely asking around about the Schaefers and Krause? Claro. I can't pass as a Mexican when I speak Spanish with my Chilean accent, except with some dumb gringos. But I'm as fluent as any native Spanish speaker and nobody will question me if I claim to be Colombian. I could also check out the drug dudes across the border."
This suggestion came as a surprise to me. My partner had obviously been thinking, and he obviously could think out of the box. I nodded that I heard him and understood, then thought through Vincent’s idea. "That could be dangerous. Somebody has already killed twice. I'd stay out of Mexico and be very, very careful in Texas, if I were you. Do you really think it's worth the risk to ask direct questions in Texas?"
Vincent snorted in derision. "What risk? Claro. With all of my CIA training, I should be able to take any two guys with bare hands or knives, and I'll take a pistol with me. I have a California carry permit. It’s legal for me to take a gun in my luggage when I fly, and I can carry a concealed weapon in Texas. I'm not expecting to run into any pros. If I do, I trust my instincts to recognize them before I get into any trouble."
Uh-oh. I had to slow Vincent down before he got himself into a kill or be killed situation. And I had to do it without insulting his machismo. “I know you can take care of yourself, Vincent, but private detecting isn’t a macho career track in real life. If you shot anyone in Texas, you’d rot in jail there and I couldn’t help you. The agency rules for both of us are no guns on airplanes or in other states.”
I motioned to the waitress for fresh beers, made an elaborate production of finishing mine just in time to refill my glass with the new beer arriving at the table, and sat back to savor the fresh brew.
I got back to the conversation with Vincent, looking directly at him and trying to look decisive. "OK, then, you have my blessings and full access to the AKC expense account to take a trip to West Texas. How about your old CIA connections? Can they hack into the DEA computer and get us a copy of the Schaefers file? Or do you think you could do that on your own?"
He looked right back at me and answered pretty quickly. "No to both. My gut is telling me to stay as far away from the DEA as we can. If we can avoid it, we shouldn’t leave either of our footprints anywhere near this mess. Claro. I don't think this investigation is going to have a happy ending for the Schaefers. I also don't think the DEA is going to be at all pleased to lose a couple of their long-term assets. We'll both be a whole lot happier if we stay way down under the DEA's radar on this investigation."
We finished lunch, I paid the check, and we walked back to the office.
The next morning Vincent was on a Southwest Airlines plane to El Paso, with a stop to change flights in Las Vegas. Then he rented a car to drive down I-10 to San Francisco de Texas, across the border from the Mexican state of Chihuahua. He arrived at his destination in mid-afternoon and checked into a motel that was part of a well-known chain. He quickly found a restaurant to grab a Tex-Mex lunch and practice his Spanish. After a couple of chiles rellenos, baked pasilla chiles stuffed with cheese and covered with a flavorful sauce, he visited the local high school library. The library was dusty and had an unoccupied feeling, as if it hadn’t seen a student for months. All the books were on the shelves, with the ubiquitous local dust accumulating along their spines and tops. A gray-haired matron was puttering around behind the counter, looking quite bored, with a sign displaying the name Saundra Clyde. She looked like she might be in her early 60s, about the perfect age to have been a classmate of our targets.
Like any successful salesman, Vincent knew the first step in getting what he wanted was finding someone to help and making them want to assist him. “Hello there. I’m new in town and wondered if you could help me out.”
Saundra Clyde looked at him sternly. “Good afternoon, Sir. It’s a hot one today, isn’t it?”
Vincent got the hint. Small talk first. After the social amenities had been attended to, he could ask for help. “Yes indeed it is. I’ll bet you could fry eggs on the sidewalk if you wanted to. This seems to be a nice little library and a pretty comfortable spot, even if it is hot outside.”
Saundra patted her hair. “Are you visiting us here in San Francisco today for business or pleasure, Sir?”
Vincent leaned towards her, body language for, ‘I come in peace, friend.’ “Some of each, but mostly business today. I was hoping you might be able to help me with some of that business.”
Saundra smiled, signaling the rules of behavior had been followed and they could get down to business now. “What can I do to help you today, Sir?”
Vincent introduced himself to her. Well, one of his many selves. “My name is Vincent Romero. I’m a party planner who’s been hired to organize a mini class reunion for a small subgroup of classmates from the late 1960s and early 1970s. My client has lost track of a few former students he knew back then and he’s eager to reconnect. I’ve got to confirm their attendance at the school and copy the relevant yearbook pages to select old images we can use for our program. I need your help finding years of attendance and a picture or two for each of the names on my list. Then I’d like to do some Xeroxing for each student we can find.”
Saundra looked at him for a moment, without saying anything. Then she disappeared through a small door behind the desk, returning 5-10 minutes later with a cart piled high with stacks of old and dusty yearbooks spanning from 1960-1980. A moment later, she was helping him find the yearbooks he was looking for while she chattered away about the good old days in her hometown, where she had spent her entire life. Her hair was tied up in a tight bun and she wore an old-fashioned dress, complimenting her strict school-marm image. Her posture still said no-nonsense, but her eyes had a twinkle they hadn’t had when Vincent first introduced himself. He sensed that she might not really believe his cover story, but had decided to help him for some reasons of her own.
"That's a few years ahead of me, but ah have an older sister and brother, so ah'd know whoever y’all are looking for. Can y’all tell me what names they went by back then?"
His first selection was good old Orval Krause. She pulled the book for 1969-1970 from the pile and they started looking. There were no indexes, so the easiest way to find what he wanted was to page through the book. It could have been much worse. The high school was small in those days, with a graduating class of only about 50 students. At least the pictures of the graduating classes were in alphabetical order. Sure enough, there was Krause in a cap and gown smiling out of a photo on page 35 of the book.
"Orval wasn't born here as ah remember, but he went all the way through school from first grade to graduation here in San Francisco. He wasn't much of a student and he wasn't a jock. Y’all might want to check out the school band. If mem’ry serves, he played some kind of horn. Not a bad choice. As ah recall he was pretty horny in those days." And she grinned an evil smile.
Vincent asked Saundra about making copies. She led him to an old Xerox machine with a counter attached. "Just go ahead and make all the copies y’all need. But be sure to be real careful with these books. They're all kinda stiff, so y’all make sure to treat 'em real gentle. When y’all are done we'll settle up. It's a nickel a page, so let's just write down where the counter's at now afore y’all start. Are y’all a-gonna need more pictures of Orval, or are y’all ready for the next one from the class?"
Pulling a notebook from his pocket, Vincent replied, "This will be just fine for Orval. Let's see who's next on the list." Vincent made a big production of looking up the name. "Claro. How about Jorge Guerrero?"
She happily bounced back to the yearbooks. Vincent made copies of the yearbook cover, the copyright page with the date shown, Orval's graduation mug shot and a photo of him playing the saxophone in the full marching band uniform. He also copied a couple of pages of text, one about Awful Krause's band activities and the other by his graduation photo, about his future plans (to be a world traveler and make a ton of money selling new ca
rs).
Saundra still had the entire stack of yearbooks on the cart, with none of them pulled out, when she got back to where Vincent waited. "It's probably 'cause of all the cattle ranching we do locally, but we've got an expression 'round here that y’all should never try to bullshit an old bullshitter. Are y’all about ready to tell me what y’all are really doing here at the school so ah can help? Y’all just asked me to find out about two men who were here 40 years ago and both just got murdered in California in the past month. Are y’all some kinda cop?"
Vincent thought about things for a bit and opted to tell her the truth. He already had what he’d come for and now saw a chance to get a whole lot more.
"Thanks," replied Saundra. "That sounds a whole lot better. I’m just an old lady who doesn’t mean much of anything to anybody ‘round here, but Ah’d like to help y’all nail them-there bastards. One of the men who got killed by those drug runners a long time ago was my Pa. Ah’ll help anybody who wants to see ‘em in jail or dead. The next name up is Jorge Guerrero. He never went to high school here in town. They moved a few towns over when he hit his teens. But he had a pickup truck and was part of the social life, so ah knew him. Average student, played some football, did a bit of bird and deer hunting, and was into raising dogs he hunted with."