by Diane Kelly
Ewwwwww.
A dry heave caused me to involuntarily hork. I put a hand over my mouth. “Excuse me.”
Wasima looked my way, her face now a mix of fear and revulsion. “I had the exact same reaction.”
I had no idea whether Todd Conklin might be responsible for leaving this sample, or Victor Paludo, or even Dalton Livingston. Heck, for all I knew this could be Garrett Hawke’s dishonorable discharge. The only thing that was certain was that DNA evidence was irrefutable evidence. This blob could be our smoking gun.
The detective eyed Rasheed. “Were you home last night?”
“I was on patrol with the watch group from nine to one,” he said. “I don’t know if this happened during that time or after, when I was back home.”
“Neither of us heard anything,” Wasima added.
Careful not to touch the evidence, Bustamente stepped up to the window. “The blinds were closed last night? Like they are now?”
“Yes,” Wasima said. “I keep them closed all the time now.”
The detective angled his head first one way, then the other, finally turning his head to the side and putting it up close to the wall. “I suppose it’s possible a person could get a glimpse inside if he put his cheek against the wall here.”
Rasheed fumed; fury radiated off him in such strong waves it was a wonder he didn’t levitate. “I want whoever spied on my wife to pay!” He swung an index finger into the air over his head. “String him up!”
Bustamente took the man’s words in stride. “I’d feel the same way if someone had been watching my wife. I’ll get a crime scene tech out here to collect the sample. The lab will run it, see if the sample matches anyone in the system. If it does, we’ll let you know.”
“How long will that take?” Rasheed asked.
“Honestly?” Bustamente said. “At least a week or two. The lab is backed up and sexual assault cases take priority.”
Rasheed’s brown skin turned purple. “Two weeks?” he shrieked. “Are you kidding me?”
“Wish I were,” Bustamente replied. “In the meantime, Officer Luz and her dog can see if they might be able to track the guy who did this.”
I reached down to free Brigit from her leash. “We’re on it.”
I gave my partner the order to track. A fresh trail would have been easier for her, but Brigit’s nose was up for the challenge. She snuffled around the window, sniffed the sample, and put her head to the ground, moving it left to right. A moment later, she set off toward the backyard.
I followed her for a few steps, stopping behind her when she halted to sniff at a garden hose. The hose lay in a tangle of coils on the ground.
Mr. Chutani stepped up beside us. “That hose was in a neat pile yesterday.”
“The prowler must have tripped over it,” I said. “Maybe he tried to escape in a hurry.”
Brigit sniffed around the spot, making her way up and down in a line that spanned approximately six feet before turning around and trotting toward the street. The Chutanis, the detective, and I followed as she led the way, tracking a little slower than she did with a fresh trail, eventually coming to a stop three blocks down. She sat and looked up at me.
“Good girl!” I praised her, tossing her a liver treat. I was tired of holding out on her. Besides, Frankie had been taking Brigit with her as she skated around the neighborhood. Brigit’s weight was on its way down.
“When we’re done talking,” Bustamente told the couple, “I’ll come back here and talk to the residents, see if they saw a car out here last night. I’m not going to tell them why I’m asking, and I’d like you two to keep the information about the DNA sample quiet. If the peeper realizes we found the sample, he might flee the area or go into hiding.” He cast a glance my way. “Same goes for you, Officer Luz. Don’t tell anyone about the DNA.”
I pretended to zip not only my lips, but Brigit’s as well.
We returned to the Chutanis’ house, stopping on their front walkway to wrap things up.
The detective gave the couple his business card. “I’ll be back in touch as soon as I hear from the lab.”
“Thanks,” Wasima said.
Rasheed, though equally grateful, was still thirsty for vengeance. “I hope you nail the bastard.”
“You and me, both,” Bustamente replied.
The sound of a car engine caught our attention, and all five of us turned to see Garrett Hawke pulling to the curb in his Expedition. He unrolled his window. “What’s going on here?” he called, his brow furrowed. “Did the peeper strike again?”
My mind briefly toyed with the old adage that wrongdoers always return to the scene of their crimes. Is that what Hawke is doing here? Or is he simply on his way to work?
The Chutanis, the detective, and I exchanged glances.
“Nothing to worry about,” Bustamente said. “Mr. Chutani got a call from a collection agency about a bill that’s not his. Looks like a run-of-the-mill identity-theft issue.”
Hawke ran his eyes over the group as if trying to assess whether he was being told the truth. Our expressions must have been convincing because he raised a hand in farewell and said, “All right. Y’all have a good day.”
Rasheed’s gaze followed the Expedition as it pulled away from the curb. Does he, too, think Hawke could be the peeper?
He turned back to me and the detective. “That man seems to be everywhere.”
Everywhere, huh? Had he been in the Chutanis’ yard last night?
Having done all we could here, the detective, Brigit, and I returned to our vehicles.
As my partner and I set back out on patrol, my mind pondered these recent developments. The DNA sample could put a relatively quick end to the case by positively identifying the creep responsible. Of course nailing him via his sample depended on whether he had been arrested for a serious crime and his DNA was already in the system. If not, the sample wouldn’t lead us to our man, though it could still help us convict him. If we had probable cause to arrest someone and could then obtain a DNA sample from the suspect, the new DNA could be compared to the sample from the Chutanis’ window to determine if there was a match.
If Ralph Hurley, Nathan Wilmer, Blake Looney, or Jerry Jeff Gilbreath were the culprit, we’d be able to positively identify them since they had criminal records and their DNA was on file. Though Wilmer’s MO in his earlier cases was different, it sure would make things easy if the DNA proved to be his. The guy was already in custody. All we’d have to do was slap more charges on him. If the DNA proved to be Looney’s or Gilbreath’s, we’d have to go out and make an arrest. While Looney had been nonthreatening and cooperative, I had no doubt that attempting to arrest Gilbreath would end up in a tussle. That jackass didn’t seem like the type to go down easy. If I was involved in his arrest, I’d force-feed the guy a cockroach before taking him in. It’d serve him right.
I’d run criminal background searches on Garrett Hawke, Victor Paludo, and Todd Conklin. Other than Hawke’s arrest for public intoxication, none had records. Their DNA would not be in the system. Still, if we later obtained probable cause to arrest one of them, we could check their DNA. If it matched the sample being collected this morning, bingo-bango, this case would be closed.
Though neither Bustamente nor I thought Leonard Drake was responsible for the peeping incidents, he hadn’t been ruled out conclusively yet. Of course there was a very real, perhaps even likely, possibility that none of these men was the peeper. Perverts were everywhere, new ones cropping up all the time. The guilty party could be someone who wasn’t even a blip on our radar. He was also someone who could very well get away with his crimes if he was smart enough to realize that the police could be honing in and that he should seek his jollies elsewhere before we could nab him.
Paludo’s silver hair flashed through my mind. Though I’d heard that hair and eye color could be determined by DNA, I realized that while a person’s DNA coding didn’t change over the course of their life, hair color could nonetheless chan
ge due to a loss of pigmentation. My ponderings were probably pointless, though. The police lab didn’t regularly check for hair and eye color of suspects. It would be too time-consuming and expensive to run a full battery of tests on every DNA sample. Such extensive analysis was reserved for the bigger, violent cases.
Still, while peeping might be a minor crime under the penal code, it sure could get a community riled up. The situation in Berkeley Place proved it. Not only had the watch beefed up patrols, they’d had signs printed for the residents to put in their yards. The signs read ONLY CREEPS PEEP! THE WATCH WILL GET YOU. Nearly every front lawn sported the sign on a stake. Many of the residents wore T-shirts bearing the neighborhood watch eyeball logo while they were out and about, working in their yards or walking their dogs or strolling with their babies. I briefly wondered whether someone who owned a sign-making business or a T-shirt shop had invented the peeper just to earn a few bucks.
I was just about to head over to Hurley’s sister’s apartment complex for the umpteenth time when I spotted Derek Mackey’s cruiser pulled up alongside Hawke’s Expedition in the road ahead, blocking the way. The two men were engaged in conversation through their open windows. What they were discussing was anyone’s guess. Maybe Hawke was hitting Derek up for information, seeking verification that the Chutanis had, in fact, been victims of identity theft. Was he panicking? Wondering if his sample had been found on the window? Of course Derek didn’t know about the DNA waiting to be collected. No doubt Bustamente would request that the crime scene tech come in an unmarked vehicle and keep a low profile so as not to alert anyone to the situation. Derek would be in the dark. I felt special and privileged to have the inside scoop.
Rather than wait for the two to get out of the way, I hooked a right down a side street. Might as well make a run by Hurley’s sister’s place. The guy hadn’t struck in several days and could be long gone by now, but it couldn’t hurt to make sure his big sis wasn’t enabling his life of crime by giving him a place to crash.
Speaking of crashes, a small SUV had T-boned a city bus up ahead, motorists in need of an authority figure to sort things out. I flipped on my lights and rolled to a stop behind them. If Hurley was at his sister’s this morning, he’d been granted a temporary reprieve.
* * *
I was cruising through Berkeley Place that afternoon when I came up on Nora Conklin using a rubber mallet to hammer one of her realty company’s FOR SALE signs into the yard of a white brick saltbox-style house. When she spotted my squad car, she raised a hand to stop me.
I pulled my car to the curb and unrolled the passenger window. She tiptoed over in her heels, trying to avoid getting them dirty in the soft grass and soil. “Garrett Hawke’s been telling everyone the news. We’re all so relieved.”
News? “What news?”
“That Officer Mackey arrested the peeper. He said it was some guy on the sex offender list who lives close to here.”
Ugh. Telling people the peeper had been jailed was a bad move on Hawke’s part. The peeper’s MO was different than Wilmer’s and there was no direct evidence linking Wilmer to the crimes. If Hawke gave the impression that the peeper had been apprehended when, in fact, he had not, the people of Berkeley Place might let down their guard and make it easier for the BP Peeper to strike again. Hawke could end up looking like a fool instead of a hero.
Admittedly I also felt frustrated by the fact that Derek had claimed accolades that should have been mine. I was the one who’d followed up on sex offenders in the area. I was the one who’d learned that Nathan Wilmer was at risk of eviction. I was the one who’d caught him trying to slip away without giving proper notification and I was the one who’d arrested and handcuffed him. All the Big Dick had done was provide taxi service for Wilmer. Even though I didn’t do this job for the glory, it nonetheless rankled.
“Please tell everyone to remain vigilant,” I told Nora, knowing she was well connected and could quickly spread the word. “Wilmer might not be the peeper. There’s no direct evidence to prove it was him. The bad guy could still be out there.”
Nora frowned. “Well, darn. I’d hoped this whole thing was over. It’s really been putting a dent in my business. Nobody wants to buy a house in peeperland.”
Sheesh.
“Have a good day,” I called as Nora returned to the sign to give it a final whack with her mallet.
I rolled up the window and resumed my patrol, mulling over this latest development. Hawke seemed sure that Wilmer had been the peeper and that his arrest would put an end to the reign of terror he’d caused to residents of Berkeley Place. It seemed very odd to me that Hawke would be so sure of himself. Was he merely taking advantage of the situation to build himself up again, to claim some type of hero status for having confronted Wilmer prior to his arrest? Doing so seemed risky. After all, the people he was trying to impress could very well turn on him if he were later proven wrong. Or did Hawke know, for sure, that Wilmer’s arrest would put an end to the peeping? Of course, the only way he could be certain that the peeping would now stop was if he, himself, were the peeper.
Once again, I had too many suspects and too few concrete clues.
FIFTY-FOUR
QUEEN OF THE JUNGLE
Brigit
Brigit loved going to any park, but she especially loved Forest Park since that’s where the city zoo was located. Megan had brought her to the park for lunch today, and Brigit couldn’t be happier. While Megan sat at a picnic table eating her lunch, Brigit roamed around the immediate area, putting her ears and nose in the air, the sounds and scents telling her everything that was going on across the parking lot inside the zoo’s walls.
A tiger was eating his dinner of beef shank.
An elephant was taking a poop.
Two chimps chittered in their trees.
She pitied the poor creatures, trapped as they were in their enclosures. She, on the other hand, was free to roam as she pleased. Well, mostly as she pleased. When on duty she had to defer to Megan, but off duty Brigit had the entire house and backyard as her domain. To heck with lions. This shepherd mix wasn’t just prom queen, she was the queen of the jungle, too.
FIFTY-FIVE
EVADING ARREST
Tom, aka Todd Conklin
When the group showed up for watch duty that night, Garrett Hawke gave them some unexpected news.
“I spoke with Officer Mackey earlier today,” he told the three men gathered about him. “He arrested Nathan Wilmer yesterday. The guy was packing up a truck and preparing to flee.”
“So…?” Todd asked, raising a seemingly innocent palm in question. He thought he knew where the big lunk was going with this, but wanted to be absolutely certain they were on the same page.
“So?” Hawke scoffed in that condescending way of his that made Todd want to beat him to death with one of his wife’s FOR SALE signs. “So Wilmer must be the peeper. Why else would he be trying to sneak off without providing a forwarding address to the sex offender registry?”
“It’s about time he was caught,” Paludo said.
Damn hypocrite. A woman couldn’t get within a hundred feet of Victor Paludo without the old man staring at her boobs. He’d even ogled Nora’s 32As on more than one occasion. The coot didn’t have the sense or self-control to be subtle.
“I’m glad to hear this,” Westmoreland said. “We needed some good news.”
This news wasn’t good. It was fucking fantastic! Wilmer would take the blame, the heat would be off, and Tom could peep to his heart’s—and a certain other organ’s—content.
“The troops are getting battle fatigue,” Hawke continued. “I’m sure Wilmer’s our man, but since he hasn’t yet been charged for any of the peeping incidents it won’t look good if we stop the extra patrols immediately. We’ll cut back to three volunteers per shift for the next few days, and if things look good we’ll drop that down to two in the next week or so. If there have been no further incidents a month from now, we’ll go back to one patrol per s
hift.”
Having issued his orders, Hawke dismissed his platoon.
“See you guys!” Todd raised a friendly hand in good-bye and headed to his car to set out on watch duty, laughing to himself because these stupid, stupid people had no idea he—the BP Peeper—had been right there under their noses for weeks. He’d been a late bloomer and had never managed to break five feet six no matter how many vitamin-fortified protein shakes he’d forced down. He hadn’t liked being overlooked by the girls in high school. He’d had the same experience in college before meeting Nora, whom he suspected was attracted to him for that very quality, his virtual invisibility. She wanted to be the star of her one-woman show and would never have chosen a man who might draw attention from her. She’d needed a man only to escort her to events, take out the garbage, and satisfy her rare sexual urges. She tended to save her energy for her real estate business. Those big commissions seemed to please her more than anything Todd could do.
But while he’d been annoyed to be so easily overlooked before, it definitely worked to his benefit now. Nobody suspected the small, unassuming guy could do something so risky and reckless and brazen as peeping on women.
What a bunch of naïve dumb-asses.
FIFTY-SIX
HOSED
Megan
Seth and I saw a late movie Friday night, a light romantic comedy, the perfect thing to take my mind off the BP Peeper case and the icky sex offenders I’d had to deal with lately. When we arrived home I checked in with the dispatcher to see if there’d been any reports of peeping in Berkeley Place tonight. There’d been none.
“That’s good, right?” Seth asked.
“Honestly,” I said, “I don’t know.” I liked it much better when we knew without a doubt that we’d arrested the right persons for the right crimes. But in the dirty business of law enforcement, things were rarely so neat and tidy.
On Saturday night, Seth and I left the dogs at my house and went on a second double date with Frankie and Zach. Tonight, we opted for bowling.