MemoryMen

by Michael Binkley

  “That's great. Did the priest know if any of his parishioners have any of the general physical attributes that we've identified for the killer, so far? Are any of his congregation carpenters? Weightlifters?”

  “Hernandez was on the ball, he asked the priest all those things. The priest wasn't sure about the physical description, he felt there were a few men like that in his church but none of them stood out in his mind specifically. He had a small core congregation and lots of transient parishioners. Rosemead is pretty much of a bedroom community with everyone commuting into the city, so regulars in the church are few and far between. As for carpenters and weight lifters, he thought he had a lot of tradesmen come through the congregation from time to time, it seemed that it was a pretty blue-collar area. He didn't know about any weight-lifters, per se.”

  “If those hair samples from the robbery there, match those found at the murder scenes, then I think you've got a great link. It will also reaffirm that your killer is mirroring Dombrowski pretty closely. Having a motive will be critical when you get to court.”

  “If we get to court,” she countered hopefully.” “Besides being concerned about you, I wanted to talk to you about what you said today. While I don't think Dombrowski has risen from the grave, I think like you do that his hand is all over these murders. Things are getting too close to his mode of operation to be mere coincidence. “

  “Thanks, I needed to hear that, “Carly said softly, the sense of relief evident in his words, “particularly from you.”

  “That's why I want you to go back to Colorado and do a little digging for me? On the side so to speak. Like we had originally talked about today? I'm convinced that someone got to Dombrowski before he died and for whatever twisted reason, is using that information to commit these horrific murders. Maybe he talked to someone in the pen. Maybe he left a diary or journal. There's got to be something.”

  “Anything for you, Diane,” he sighed, happy to find ways to keep this remarkable woman in his life. “I just hope my involvement doesn't hurt you in the long run. If your chief finds out, he'll pack you in a box and send you to Denver too.”

  “As long as the box is addressed to you, I can live with it. But I have a feeling that you are going to be the savior of my career by the time it is all said and done.”

  He took the leap into why he was happy to hear from her. “What about us?” he asked, hoping against hope that there still was an 'us'.

  “I don't know, Carly. I haven't had a chance to really think about us and last night. I'm confused and that's not good for a cop on a case, so I've got to put the concept of us on the back burner. Okay? Let's play it by ear, maybe when all this craziness ends, we can sort out where we stand. It surprised me, I need some quiet time to try and figure it out.”

  Not wanting to force her into a hasty conversation that might endanger the special feelings they had developed, he let the issue drop for the sake of a more opportune time, he gave her an out with a quiet, “Goodnight, Diane.”

  “Call me after you get back to Denver,” after a short pause, she added demurely, “be careful Carly we've got a long talk due, I don't want either of us to miss it.”

  Chapter Eight

  Thick brown smog clouds obscured the cityscape, as the 747 made its approach into Denver's airport. Carly mused over the fact that the landing into Denver seemed the same as the landing into Los Angeles. Pollution had taken its toll on an otherwise beautiful city, obliterating the mountain views and sending many of its inhabitants indoors on the increasing number of bad air days in the Denver metro area.

  As he drove northwest from the airport to his home in Ft. Collins, the air cleared and the warm Colorado sun sunk into Carly's bones and spirit. He felt relief in having left the west coast behind, as the last morning of the conference had turned into one long snide remark coupled with smirks and giggles, all at his expense. As he tried to escape the cynicism of his colleagues, he inadvertently ran into prying reporters. It was one of the first times in his memory that Carly was glad to fly, he even hastened his departure and caught an early flight out, avoiding what would have been an equally obnoxious afternoon in Los Angeles.

  He hadn't talked to Diane again before he left, but he felt strongly that he would again and soon. Casting personal interests aside, he was sure he would call on her professionally, she had been convinced that the L.A. killer was tied to Dombrowski and Carly would be her best bet at unraveling the connection between the two. Aside from her request for help, his reputation needed a good deal of repairing, thus he felt driven to do a bit of detective work on his own.

  Before heading to his house he stopped by his office at the university campus, but as usual on a sunny Friday afternoon the campus was nearly vacant. Scanning his desk for messages and meeting notices, Joy's meticulous organization was evident everywhere. At least three files contained freshly typed drafts of journal articles he had completed before he left, while another dozen or so contained well-organized notes he had carelessly left for her to type. His email messages were printed and neatly clipped together in the order in which they were received, separated by topic, and on the whole his small and normally cluttered cubicle showed the signs of a more structured mind than his.

  Joy was as great as a secretary as she had been as a spouse. He truly regretted that he had not been her equal in either department, although as her supervisor he showed far greater skills in terms of consideration and appreciation than he had as her husband. Maybe it was guilt but he had turned into one hell of a boss.

  Arriving home to the log cabin hide-away tucked into one of the many canyons in the foothills outside Ft. Collins, he spent the evening quietly. Answering the messages, which he knew held a modicum of friendship and support, he took solace in knowing a few kindred souls who knew what he had actually said versus what was reported. He didn't call Joy right away but instead he sent her a large bouquet of flowers, balloons and a note of thanks for her help. When she called to thank him for the thank you, they spent over an hour talking and reminiscing, she didn't talk about L.A. She knew his moods. She knew when he needed a friend, and knew this was one of those times.

  Saturday he puttered around the house, going through the mail, answering a few more phone calls of his choice, while letting his phone message handle the dozens of calls from reporters and television news people. Occasionally, some crank called, laughing and joking into the message just to remind Carly about the magnitude of his error. Eventually, he turned his phone off. All the while he mulled over what his next move should be. By suppertime he had a strategy for investigating the connection between the L.A. killer and Petr Dombrowski. Feeling better with dinner and a beer in him, he fell asleep in front of a fire he had built to ward off the chill of the mountain night, as the events of the last few days having drained him completely.

  On Sunday, rested and relaxed he called his dean to let him know he was back and offered himself up to the well-intended but irritating admonishment. Dean Caldwell really didn't have a life. His wife, most likely piqued by a syrupy personality, which masked an unwavering need to be correct, had left him years earlier. As a father, he seldom saw his grown children beyond the perfunctory visits for the holidays and special events. As a dean he had relatively little class time to keep him busy. As a scholar he had little vision, relentlessly scouring the same arcane reference or minute data over and over again until his journal articles bored even the most detailed obsessed editor. For Dean Caldwell, all he had was a contingent of psychology professors to mother, bother and badger. Above all he had Carlton Thompson, Ph.D., renowned author, psychologist and detective extraordinaire. His pursuit in keeping the freewheeling professor under a tight rein was legendary among the faculty and staff. From time to time, someone with a little humor and a lot of ire, would call Carly, 'Dean Caldwell's kid’, sending the lanky professor into mock and sometime actual fits of temper.

  The incident in Los Angeles proved to be a high point in Dean Caldwell's year, perhaps in hi
s lifetime as a dean it was the zenith of his mindless meddling into Carly’s life. The gentle prodding and mental masturbation put Carly into a non-alcohol induced stupor within minutes, but he clung to the phone as it moistened against his check, fully cognizant that without Dean Caldwell's ultimate approval he would not get the tenure this year that he so desperately sought. The conclusion of the one-sided conversation, ended with an extracted promise from Carly to engage in a series of one-on-one meetings with the Dean.

  The offer of a bit of mentoring was one Carly gagged on, but he didn't dare to refuse. He had been there before knowing full well that the awkward silence the two would invariably come to when meeting face-to-face would generate enough excuses that a second session would never be scheduled. Caldwell would have the satisfaction of detailing all types of bullet points to cover, thus giving his life meaning for a few days prior to the first session.

  By Monday, Carly felt as if a return to real life was in order and went into the office. Having garnered a certain amount of respect from those in his college who still hadn't been published, and those whose actual hands-on psychological work didn't extend beyond experimental rodents, Carly found a wellspring of support in the faculty lounge. Seeing Joy face to face was even more encouraging, so that by Tuesday he decided to pursue a bit of investigative work as he had planned.

  Carly's first call was to Dave Ramirez, his old partner and friend in the Denver police department. Like all cops, his old buddy had far less reverence for the good doctor's credentials than did his college associates and dished out a good deal of ribbing about Carly's skills in handling the press. Dave had watched the botched interview and felt a painful reminder of the times in his career when he hadn't been treated kindly by the media himself, so the teasing wasn't the caustic and raucous type Carly had been subjected to at the conference, but gentle quips and laughs. Dave and Carly had a long history together on the force, so they knew how to not push the other’s buttons. Like most cops Dave particularly wanted to help his old partner out of a jam, so the two former comrades set up a dinner and beer date for the next night.

  The next day crawled by for Carly. He managed to keep himself busy doing routine tasks but the excitement at seeing Dave again kept him gazing at the clock far too often. He would not admit it to himself but he knew the excitement of doing a bit of investigating was just as thrilling. By the time he slid into the car and headed south towards the city, he was feeling almost giddy.

  As soon as he saw his friend, Carly thought Dave looked great as the two shook hands and gave each other a bear hug and a few hearty thumps on the back. New flecks of gray decorated the shorter man's wavy black hair, accented a salt and pepper mustache, an addition that Carly hadn't noticed the last time the two of them got together a couple of years ago. Dave had stayed lean and fit despite the lack of daily activity his promotion to Captain had thrust upon him.

  Carly gave his old friend a, “Howdy, partner,” that reflected the warmth the two men had maintained over the years.

  “Amigo,” Dave laughed, equally glad to see his old comrade in arms. “I swear you're getting taller as you get older, or I'm getting shorter. Anyway a person sees it, they'd still call us 'Mutt and Jeff', eh buddy. You are a sight for sore eyes. I told Annie yesterday after you called, it had been nearly three years since we got together.”

  “Three years?” Carly sighed incredulously as he slid into a booth at the restaurant. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely, it was Davey's third birthday party and he'll be six in a couple of weeks. He starts first grade this fall.”

  “That's great. How is he? How's Annie? I'd love to see them. We're going to have to get together.”

  “They’re great. Annie keeps me in line and Davey keeps me in shape. Kid's got an arm, Carly. No police work for him, no sir. A zillion dollars a year as a starting pitcher for the Rockies is his ticket. “

  “Man, I hope so, Dave. Cop work is getting harder every day. Hell, I try it for a few minutes in L.A. and look at what happened to me...run out of town on a rail!”

  “Yeah, compadre, I saw it. Those reporters can be brutal. They make two plus two look like five pretty quick...anything for ratings and blog hits. Speaking of which, you didn't mention a whole lot about this get together on the phone, but I've got a sneaking suspicion that although you got your nose bloodied out there, you didn't exactly quit the fight. Besides if you just wanted to be social you would have come by the house. Am I right?”

  The waitress interrupted Carly's response with a few good-natured wisecracks while she took their order. The scent of her perfume lingered long after she left as Carly drew his long frame up from the back of the booth. He stared his old friend in the eyes feeling sure that like Joy, Dave was indeed someone else to count in his corner. “Look Dave, as soon as you start thinking I'm a crack pot, interrupt me and we'll forget about all this, have a few beers, and swap old war stories, okay?”

  “Hell, Carly I always thought you were a crack pot, so why should things change now. Trust me, I'm not a story hungry reporter.”

  “This case in L.A. has me spooked. Really, spooked me. It's got Dombrowski's methods all over it. “

  The waitress came and went several times making sure they had everything they needed, as Carly went over the details of the Los Angeles murders. Dave leaned back in the booth, sipping beers, engulfed by his friend's story. As Carly went over the details Diane had last given him about the Rosemead robbery, Dave let out a long low whistle.

  “Whew. I see why you're spooked. The whole thing looks like just a copycat up until you threw in the robbery. The physical description is a little eerie, too, right down to the point that this creep in L.A. is bald or balding too. Other than a friendly ear, what do you need from me?”

  As he plied the questions he had rehearsed the past day, Carly almost bubbled with enthusiasm. “I need some access to old files, and an update on the who's who from the Crucifixion case. What I'm interested in seeing is who had total access to all the forensic evidence and all the reports. I need to find out whom Dombrowski might have talked to. Where's his attorney? Did he have anybody to talk with in the penitentiary? On Death Row? Other inmates? Guards? Staff? Somebody who knew virtually everything about Dombrowski is using that information to kill women in Los Angeles. He's killed six times so far and he's got seven 'Stations' to go.”

  Dave's face was tense, the muscles and tendons along his cheeks flexed tightly as if he was chewing leather. Carly knew the look, he had seen it a thousand times before, his old partner was a thoughtful man and when the facial muscles strained like that, Dave was in for a pound. Slowly the shorter man drained a full glass a beer and motioned for the waitress for a refill.

  The dark eyes blazed back at Carly, as Dave talked quickly, “I can help. Being a Captain gets to be a real pain in the butt sometimes, but it's got its advantage. I can get things done. I can get information, and I can make people talk. You'll get whatever you need, my friend. I wouldn't be a Captain if it hadn't been for you. There was an advantage to being your partner besides the lingering smell of that cheap aftershave you always wore. After you cracked the big one and went off to school full time, I made Sargent almost right away. After that, whenever a plum assignment came up or a promotion was up between a couple of guys, if all things were equal, those of us who helped put Dombrowski in the chair were well remembered.”

  Carly shook his head in disagreement. “Dave, you worked on that case just as hard as anyone. How many interviews did you do down in LoDo? How many nights did you call Annie to tell her you'd be missing supper? No man, anything you got, you earned buddy. I got the lucky shot, the one that put all of us in the spotlight. So if you're passing out kudos, get in line my friend.”

  “Thanks man, but no matter what, you were the one who went through that neighborhood a second time. You found the nun and bought that bastard Dombrowski a fast track to Hades. I'll tell you what. I'll start making some phone calls tomorrow trying to get the w
hereabouts on all the players from back then. Then I'll schedule us for an appointment with archives on Friday afternoon. We can go through them at our leisure,” or he said with a smirk, “maybe do a download or two? Being a Captain I can pull a few strings and we can stay after hours if we need. But you got to promise me one thing.”

  “Name it.”

  “Friday when we're through, you come to the house for dinner. Annie and Davey will kill me if I get you in the city limits again without having you over. Deal?”

  Carly laughed, almost choking on his beer. “Deal,” he gasped out the words, as he stretched his hand across the table to accept the handshake of his friend.

  The rest of the week went by slowly. Joy kept Carly focused on the mundane tasks of his professorial duties. The news out of L.A. had slowed considerably on the national front and was all but forgotten by the Denver media. Carly thought he might have heard from Diane, but was only mildly disappointed when he hadn't. He knew her hands were full and further communication with him was risky at best.

  By Friday he was on pins and needles waiting to leave for Denver. He had thought about leaving early in the morning and making a day of it, but he had his first one-on-one conference with Dean Caldwell that morning. Though it proved to be as fruitless as he had expected, to have missed it would have been the guarantee of a second lecture of indeterminate length and he would have still had to meet with the Dean anyway. By going, Carly fulfilled his obligation, Dean Caldwell found some meaning to an otherwise dreary existence, and the chance of a second meeting was long forgotten in the sullen discomfort of the first, just as Carly had expected.

  Shortly after noon he found himself on the interstate driving south. The air was clear from a light wind, the mountains spectacular, and the warm Colorado sun enlivened his face and spirit on the short trip. Surprised with his buoyant mood as he actually caught himself singing along with the radio, a practice he found mildly amusing when watching others do it.