by Diane Kelly
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell our viewers?” Trish asked Hawke.
Hawke expanded like a pufferfish, sticking his chest out and flexing his biceps for the camera. “I can tell you that the watch will not rest until we apprehend the person responsible.” He looked directly into the camera. “If that person happens to be watching this newscast right now, be forewarned. The watch is coming for you.”
Talk about melodrama. I fought the urge to roll my eyes. But no sense making anyone think I wasn’t taking the case seriously. I was. I just thought that Garrett Hawke might be overreacting, making a mountain out of a couple of molehills.
Then again, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Who knows? There was nothing certain in law enforcement. Criminals could be unpredictable. If there truly was a peeping Tom in Berkeley Place, we had no way of knowing whether the suspect was merely a voyeur who’d remain satisfied ogling women through their windows, or whether he might become disenchanted with merely spying on women and go on to something worse. I hoped he’d stick with ogling. And, of course, there was always the chance that the broken bushes at Kirstin Rumford’s house and the cry outside the Lowrys’ bedroom window were unrelated, or that my theory about teenagers cutting through yards was correct. At this point, all we had were a bunch of theories and virtually no concrete clues.
Nora Conklin slipped between Hawke and Trish and flashed her gleaming smile at the camera. “I’m Nora Conklin, secretary for the Berkeley Place Neighborhood Watch and owner of Conklin and Associates Realtors. Now is the perfect time to buy or sell a home in Fort Worth. Just give me a call!” She rattled off her phone number for the camera.
Trish looked down at the tiny Tinkerbell and frowned, obviously not appreciating Nora’s attempt to use the newscast for free promotion. I had no doubt Nora and her impromptu commercial would end up on the cutting-room floor.
When Trish turned to Detective Bustamente, he motioned to the camera. “Would you like a statement from Fort Worth PD?”
Trish looked the detective up and down, her expression telling us just how she felt. Bustamente lacked the star quality Trish liked to feature in her broadcasts. “No, thanks,” she replied. “I’ve got what I need.” As she turned away, she spotted Brigit sitting beside me and gestured to her cameraman. “Get a shot of the dog.”
The man lowered his camera to Brigit’s level. As if realizing she was being taped, she hammed it up for the camera, wagging her tail and offering a playful growl and a bark. Grrr-woof!
When the cameraman turned his viewfinder back on her, Trish said, “Stay tuned to hear more about the Berkeley Place Peeper as details develop.”
Berkeley Place Peeper? I wasn’t sure the name fit. For one, though the suspect might have been engaging in voyeurism, it wasn’t entirely clear the prowler had been at the windows to watch the women, or whether his motives might have been robbery or something even more sinister and violent. It was possible the prowler had been Hurley, casing his next victim. I understood the reporter was going for memorable sound bites, but putting a label on the culprit could mislead the public. Of course there wasn’t anything I could do about it. It’s not like I had any concrete evidence about the prowler’s motives.
The brief interview complete, Hawke glanced at his black sports watch and said, “Let’s roll.”
Nora took a step forward and clapped her hands loudly three times to get the crowd’s attention before cupping her hands around her mouth. “Attention!” she snapped, sounding like a military drill sergeant. “Time to get started.”
The murmurs died down instantly. Nora might be little, but she had a big presence. She stepped aside, giving Hawke the floor. Or should I say “the grass”?
“As you know,” Hawke bellowed to the crowd as he paced to his left, “two women who live in Berkeley Place were violated this week.”
Though “violated” wasn’t necessarily inaccurate, it seemed a strong word choice and could be misinterpreted by the crowd as something more than mere peeping. At the same time, this was Hawke’s show. I supposed he could use poetic license when it came to word choices. And, while peeping alone might not be much of a crime, it wasn’t clear whether a mere look-see was all the suspect was going after. The situation had the potential to escalate. I could only hope we’d catch the creep before it did. My eyes scanned the audience, taking in the women, wondering if one of them might be the next victim. A sick feeling filled my gut at the thought.
Hawke paced in the other direction. “Some creep has been watching women through their bedroom windows. It’s possible these incidents were committed by the same man who robbed a home in Frisco Heights earlier this week and shot a hole in the victim’s wall. We need to make sure the residents of Berkeley Place are safe, and we will. I’m as committed to this as I was to a successful mission when my paratrooper unit was deployed to Iraq.”
His comment earned generous applause, as well as whistles and whoops of appreciation.
“To that end,” Hawke continued, “I’ve invited Detective Bustamente from the Fort Worth Police Department to speak to you about their investigation.”
With that, he stepped to the side and raised a hand, inviting the detective to address the crowd. Next to me, the detective took a step forward. Several people looked him up and down. None looked as impressed as they had when Garrett Hawke had stood before them.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bustamente began, “we want to assure you that Fort Worth PD is taking these crimes seriously and will do what we can to catch the person or persons responsible. We had our crime scene specialists analyze fingerprints that were obtained at the scene. Unfortunately, the only ones that were found belonged to the residents. In the meantime, I suggest that all of you turn on your outside lights at night, double-check that all of your doors and windows are securely locked before going to bed, and keep your entry alarms set at all times.” With that, he stepped back into place beside me.
The man with the two red-haired daughters stood. “That’s it?” he called out, disdain and disbelief in his voice. “Turn on our lights and lock our doors? I don’t want some pervert setting his sights on my girls!”
The girls shrank back on the grass, embarrassed that their father was making such a scene, too young to realize how lucky they were to have a father who was looking out for them. Not every child was so lucky.
Bustamente raised a hand to calm the crowd, which had exploded in angry muttering. “We plan to beef up patrols in the area. An additional officer has been assigned to night duty and will focus on your neighborhood.”
Hawke took his place in front of the crowd again. “The neighborhood watch is also ‘beefing up patrols,’” he said, borrowing the detective’s words. “Starting tonight, we’ll have three extra volunteers assigned to each night shift.” He held up three fingers for emphasis and sent a cutting glance over at me and Bustamente.
A gray-haired woman stood from her lawn chair and called out to Bustamente. “What about the sex offenders who live around here? Are you planning on bringing any of them in for questioning?”
“If evidence leads us to suspect a registered sex offender has committed a crime,” Bustamente replied, “we will certainly look into it.”
“But only if you get further evidence?” the woman asked. “You don’t plan to question any of them now?”
Bustamente explained that voyeurism, the act of spying on someone for a lewd purpose, was considered disorderly conduct under Texas Penal Code Section 42.01. “It’s classified as a Class C misdemeanor, punishable by a fine of up to five hundred dollars but no jail time. It’s not an offense for which a convicted person has to register as a sex offender.”
“Well, it sure as hell should be!” hollered the angry dad.
The crowd broke out in buzz of outrage. Part of me couldn’t blame them. A mere fine seemed insufficient to punish a creep who ogled naked women without their consent or knowledge. But another part of me thought they were shooting the messenger.
“You’ll get no argument from me on that one,” Bustamente said loudly, raising his hands to quell the murmuring. “We realize it can be extremely upsetting to think someone might be watching you. But remember, law enforcement is on your side here. We’ll do the best we can with the resources we have available.”
He couldn’t promise these people the moon when we didn’t have the moon to offer. The force had limited budgets and manpower, and had to allocate them primarily to high-priority crimes. We couldn’t conjure up more officers from thin air.
Hawke crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s nothing to prevent us from looking into the sex offenders ourselves, is there?”
“I can’t stop you,” Bustamente conceded, “not at this point anyway. But I’ll warn you. These guys are quick to file harassment and trespassing charges. I’d rather you let the police handle this matter, but if you’re going to ignore that advice, tread very lightly.”
Hawke grunted. Clearly he had every intention of ignoring the detective’s advice to leave the investigation to the police and absolutely no intention of treading lightly. He’d probably lace up his army boots and stomp all over the place. Of course part of me couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t in my nature to sit by and do nothing when I saw a danger or injustice, either.
“Help us help you,” Bustamente said, wrapping up his spiel to the crowd. “If you see anything suspicious, call nine-one-one immediately to report it. But be careful. Don’t try to apprehend anyone on your own. We don’t want anyone getting hurt. Okay?”
Hawke reminded residents to call the watch, too, if they saw anything suspicious. “We can be there in seconds. The police might take longer.” He cast a meaningful glance my way.
Ugh. Way to undermine the people who are trying to help.
Nora stepped up next to Hawke. “Everyone be careful out there!” She clapped her hands a final time to signal that the meeting had been wrapped up. After giving the crowd a good-bye wave, she reached down into her tote bag, withdrew a stack of stapled documents, and held them out to Hawke. “Here are the new patrol schedules and updated rosters.”
Bustamente angled his head to indicate the woman. “Let’s get ourselves a copy.”
We stepped over.
“Got copies you can spare?” the detective asked.
“Sure do. I made extras.” The woman riffled through the documents, which were now in Hawke’s hands. She handed two documents to Bustamente, and a second set of the same two documents to me.
My eyes took in the top pages. The first was entitled NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH SCHEDULE and contained a calendar. While there was only one last name listed per shift on the dates preceding today, starting with tonight there were eight last names listed for each day, four of which were assigned to the earlier 9 P.M.—1 A.M. shift, the other four of which were assigned to the 1 A.M.—5A.M. shift. Each member’s cell phone number was listed next to his or her name.
The second document was entitled BERKELEY PLACE ROSTER. It was a lengthy document with names and contact information organized both alphabetically and by street. Under each address, the name of the homeowner and all residents of the house were listed, along with e-mail addresses and phone numbers. Someone had gone to a lot of work to pull this information together. I had to give these people credit for being so organized and neighborly. Heck, I hadn’t exchanged more than a word or two with my new neighbors, let alone names and contact information. The only thing I knew was that the rat terrier who lived to our left was named Speedy. I’d heard the neighbors call his name a few times when he’d been out in the backyard.
The silver-headed ogler in the front row had folded his chair and set out across the grass. I gestured to him. “Do you know that man’s name?”
“Sure do,” Nora said. “That’s Victor Paludo. He’s one of our most reliable volunteers. Why?”
Why? Because he gave off a pervy vibe, that’s why. But I couldn’t very well accuse him with no other evidence than the fact that his gaze had been locked on Trish’s chest during her entire report. Heck, for all I knew he was nearsighted and hadn’t even realized where he’d been looking. “He looked familiar is all.”
“Got one of those faces, I suppose,” she said, unconcerned. “Anyway, it was nice meeting you, Officer Luz. Bye, now.” With that, Nora turned and traipsed back across the grass in her heels, making her way over to a brown-haired man who stood in the shade of the trees. He looked to be around my height. Five feet five wasn’t short for a woman, but was definitely on the smaller side for a guy. Still, with his shorter stature, he seemed perfectly sized for Nora. The two made a cute couple, like little dollhouse people.
Another woman stepped up then, one who was taller than average and had long, black hair. She put a hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “The kids asked if we can order pizza. Is that okay with you?”
“Go ahead,” Hawke said, “but tell the kids I expect to find their rooms clean when I get home.”
“All right.” The woman slid her hand down Hawke’s back and gave him a circular rub. “See you back at the house, hon.”
As she stepped away, he called, “Get me some garlic knots!”
I might not have made detective yet, but I could put these obvious clues together and determine that the woman was Hawke’s wife. It was the only clue I’d managed to decipher in this investigation so far.
Bustamente and I turned and headed back to our cars.
Once we were out of earshot, Bustamente glanced back at Hawke. “There’s something off about that guy.”
I agreed that there was something off about him. He was off-putting. A show-off. Maybe even a bit of a jerk-off.
As I was pondering the detective’s comment, Derek Mackey stormed up, his face nearly as red as his flaming hair. “Why wasn’t I told about this meeting?”
He was probably angry he’d missed out on a chance to play hotshot in front of the crowd. Mackey had played both football and baseball in his high school days, and still lived for glory. Sometimes I think he’d become a cop more for the accolades and attention than because he had any real desire to serve the community or make the world a better, safer place.
Bustamente looked up at Derek. “There was no need to call you,” the detective said dully. “Officer Luz and I had it covered.”
Derek wasn’t just unpopular with his fellow street officers, he was disliked by those up the chain as well. At least as far up the chain as the assistant chief. The police chief, on the other hand, considered Derek his golden boy. The two were also hunting buddies, joined at the grip.
Derek looked from the detective to me. “Next time there’s something big going on, you need to let all of the officers in W1 know. I’d hate to have to tell the chief about your lousy communication.”
I didn’t appreciate his insinuation that Bustamente and I had purposely kept our coworkers in the dark, or his implied threat to tattle to the chief. I was doing my job the best I could and so was Detective Bustamente. The detective and Captain Leone had put sufficient resources into what at this point was technically only a trespassing/peeping Tom case. If things escalated, more would certainly be done. But for now, we all had followed both common sense and established protocols.
I decided to try some reverse psychology with Derek. “Wouldn’t a big guy like you rather be out on the streets busting skulls than picnicking in the park with a bunch of nervous nellies?”
He narrowed his eyes at me as if trying to assess whether I was being sincere or was full of crap. I was both. Sincerely full of crap.
Bustamente turned his back on Derek and asked, “Ready to pay Leonard Drake a visit?”
“Sure am,” I replied.
Was it too much to ask that Drake would confess to ogling the women right off the bat, that we could announce the crime had been solved, and that Garrett Hawke and I would never cross paths again?
Evidently it was, indeed, too much to ask.
Three times we rang the bell at Drake’s apartment. Three times
we followed up with a lengthy knock. Three times the only response we got was from a lazy beagle inside. He pushed back the curtain at the bottom of the window and issued a halfhearted bark. Wooh. Deciding that he’d fulfilled his watchdog duties, he left the window, presumably to go lie on the couch.
Bustamente heaved a sigh. “Looks like we’ll have to check back later.”
We’d driven separate cars to Drake’s place, so we parted ways in the parking lot.
Bustamente raised his hand in parting as he plopped into the driver’s seat of his unmarked cruiser. “Have a safe patrol, Officer Luz.”
“Will do.”
Once again I cruised by Hurley’s sister’s apartment, and once again I saw nothing to give me pause. Had Hurley stashed his car somewhere out of sight nearby? Was he hiding out at his sister’s place? Time would tell. Eventually, Hurley’s luck had to run out again. I only hoped luck would stay on the side of his potential victims.
It was nearing nine o’clock and twilight settled in as Brigit and I drove back to the Berkeley Place neighborhood. I rolled down the windows on the squad car, partially to enjoy the cool evening air, but even more so to listen for telltale sounds of a prowler. Footsteps. Feet scrabbling on fence boards. Dogs growling or barking.
I drove slowly and deliberately up and down the streets, occasionally shining my spotlight into the dark areas between houses, determined to show the residents that we were being true to our promise to amp up patrols. The streets seemed better lit than usual, the residents having heeded our advice to turn on their outside lights. If there was anything criminals didn’t like, it was lights shining on them, exposing them, giving them fewer places to hide.
A police cruiser came up the street from the opposite direction. Before I could see who was driving it, I raised my fingers off my steering wheel in my standard friendly greeting. In return I was greeted by a blast of high beams. Despite being temporarily blinded, I could identify the nasty cackle my fellow officer emitted from his open window as he drove past.