The Night Watchman

by Mark Mynheir

  My e-mail alarm chimed. Katie had sent a copy of the report. Her response was terse and to the point: “Here it is, jerk.” Finer words hadn't been spoken to me in a while. I guess we were now finished too. I was running out of police contacts.

  I checked the report, which compared the shell casings and ballistics of the weapon to other crimes around Florida. The FDLE expert determined that the Ruger 9mm had been used in only one other crime. The case number was an OPD case—it leapt out at me as I read it.

  The pistol that killed David and Jamie was the same weapon that murdered Trisha and crippled me. The shell casings were an exact match to those left at the scene of our shooting.

  My mind went numb. Somehow I doubted that Pastor Hendricks waited near a shrub line at Dante Hill's house to ambush Trisha and me a year ago, especially since he hadn't even met Jamie at that point. I was hitting overload.

  I massaged my hip, as I had a new ache there, one of solidarity with David Hendricks and Jamie DeAngelo. Had Katie even read the report before she forwarded it to me? This was going to rip the case from my hands. Once everyone discovered the gun link, FDLE would step in. I had to work quickly if I was going to find the killer. This investigation was getting way out of control.

  The rest of the report was about the gun's serial number. While it had been ground down, the expert was still able to lift off the number. I jotted it down. I wished I still had my computer set up to check NCIC/FCIC to see if the gun was listed as stolen. Oscar had taken care of that, though. I was locked out of any database that could help me find where that gun came from and who it was last registered to.

  How could this have slipped through? An alleged murder-suicide is swept under the rug, and the murder weapon from Trisha's death and my shooting is nearly destroyed? The connections to me and the police department were now undeniable, even for Oscar. But I didn't know if I could or would approach him yet. My mind was in full-blown chaos. I needed to relax.

  I logged off the computer and closed my eyes for a moment. I pulled out my Sudoku book and attempted to work it, to rejuvenate my scattered thoughts.

  It didn't help.

  Crevis returned with our stuff, and we caught up on the latest doings over sub sandwiches. I shared with him the knowledge about the gun, the implications still battering my brain. He was going to stop by his house to pick up more clothes. He'd been staying at my apartment since the attack. I figured I'd be hard pressed to get rid of him now.

  The sun crawled over the horizon. The day-shift guy relieved me, and I hobbled my way to the parking garage to head home. Crevis had left early to get to his house before morning rush-hour traffic got thick. As the tip of my cane striking the concrete called out my cadence throughout the garage, I didn't feel right. Since my attack there, I'd been a bit leery of the place. Now without Crevis, I felt odd. I figured it was just another casualty of my crippled psyche. Maybe Kurfis was right—I did need some meds.

  I inserted the key in the truck door when shoes shuffled near the car next to me. I let go of the keys and whipped out my 9mm, coming on target to Rick Pampas's reptilian face.

  “Settle down,” Pampas said, his hands up. “You're awfully jumpy these days, aren't you?”

  “You shouldn't be sneaking up on people. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “We need to get some things straight, Quinn, before I head into work.”

  “Well, I'm not feeling so chummy right now.” I holstered my weapon. “So you're gonna have to make it another time.”

  “Why are you stirring all this up on the murder-suicide?” He braced his hand on the bed of my pickup.

  “Murder-suicide? I'm not sure what you're talking about.” I tapped my finger on my chin. “Oh yeah, you must mean the double murder here where you blew the investigation.”

  “You're really not that funny, Ray. You never have been. You just can't get over the fact that you're not a cop anymore and you never will be one again.”

  “At least I was a cop. I'm not so sure you ever were.”

  “Well, the way everyone else sees it, including Yancey I'm the top guy in Homicide now,” he said. “That must drive you nuts, but it's the way it is, and it's not going to change—no matter how much you try to gum up the works. Keep your fingers out of my cases. You've got no business messing with what I've already closed.”

  “Why did you remove Jamie's phone records from the report?” I was tired, but I doubted I'd ever get the chance to ask Pampas these questions again. “Why didn't you send off the gun to be tested? And why didn't you spend more than ten minutes assessing the crime scene? You dropped the ball on this or intentionally fouled it up. Either way you're gonna eat it now. You're going down.”

  “In your dreams. I didn't take anything from the report. It's a murder-suicide and it'll stay that way. You're still a basket case about losing your girlfriend, Trisha.”

  I straightened and struggled not to give away too much body language that he'd struck a nerve. I didn't know how to answer him.

  “You didn't think I knew about that, did you?” Pampas laughed and closed the distance between us. “See, that's your problem. You think you're so much smarter than everyone else. You worked in a room full of detectives, for Pete's sake. Didn't you think we'd notice you two taking long lunches together? How you looked at each other? Always disappearing together? C'mon. I knew you two were dating months before the shooting.”

  “What's your point?”

  “Stay out of my way, rent-a-cop. I've put a lot of time into Homicide and have worked hard to be in this position. I don't need you going behind my back to tear me down.”

  “Just what do you plan on doing if I don't?” I said.

  “Your tough talk might have worked at one time,” he said. “I can't remember why I was ever intimidated by you. You don't seem so tough now.” He reached up and grabbed the plastic badge off my chest, snapping it between his fingers.

  My Glock appeared in my hand in a second, acquiring my target on his forehead—again. He stepped back and feigned a smile, but he couldn't hide the fear in his eyes. He was wondering if I'd really shoot him or not. I wondered the same thing.

  “Don't push me too far, Pampas. I have nothing left to lose.”

  “It's against the law to point guns at real cops.” He shuffled back.

  “I know. But I'm not worried. No jury in the world would consider you a real cop.”

  “Stay out of my business.” Pampas turned and walked away. “Or you'll get broken again.”

  47

  PAMPAS'S THREAT WAS WAY DOWN on my list of concerns, although I couldn't write it off altogether. He was squirrelly enough to protect his own interests, like his job and position. But was there something more sinister to his threat than his fragile ego and a poor performance review? Did he remove the phone records or never put them in to begin with? And why didn't he send the gun off for testing? We did that with most firearms used in violent crimes, even if we thought it was a murder-suicide. If Pampas were stupid, I would actually cut him some slack. He wasn't, so he was on the suspect short list.

  Since no respectable law enforcement officer in Orange County would talk with me anymore, I waited until 9:00 a.m. and reached out to Tim Porter again to beg for more favors—to send subpoenas to the phone company for all the cell phones registered to the Relk Corporation and their subsidiaries and to run an ATF serial number check on the pistol that had caused so much devastation.

  The Lion's Den, J & M, and its plethora of side companies were inexorably entangled. If I had all the phone numbers listed to them, I could check off the ones I knew and find a way to use the others, should the opportunity present itself. I wasn't quite sure what I would do with them yet, but at some point Tim Porter would stop taking my calls too. I needed to get the information while I still could.

  “You're sure about the link between your shooting and the murders at the condo?” Tim said.

  “FDLE's ballistics unit made the match. It's confirmed.”

/>   “You need to let Oscar know,” Tim said.

  “The lab is going to send a copy of their findings to Pampas, so they're all going to find out soon enough.” I'd chosen not to reveal that fact during my little talk with Pampas. I didn't want to ruin the surprise when he got the report, or to tip off that I'd got a copy before he did. “I just don't know when he'll get it and what he'll do with it after that.”

  “This is the last stuff I'm sending off for you. It's Wednesday, and I can hold off telling my people over the weekend, but you're gonna have to find some way to let Oscar know or else turn this over to the Orlando FDLE office.”

  “I'm just trying to stay ahead of everything here. I can't believe where this case is going. They've got a bad cop close to the unit, Tim.”

  “Just keep your head down. We've got to forward this information to the right folks to do this right. I'm praying for you, Ray.”

  I hung up without thanking him, though I should have for kindness’ sake alone. Tim was my only friend in law enforcement now, and I couldn't afford to be impolite. But if I wanted prayers, I could call Pam and get them ad nauseam. What I needed was information.

  I had no idea how I was going to make the final connection between the Lion's Den, the murders, and the police department. At least the Lion's Den made sense. It was about money, pure and simple. But where did the police connection come in? Was there an aspect of this I was missing?

  About ten minutes later, my cell phone rang, and I checked the number. Tim Porter, FDLE. “You miss me already?”

  “No, just thought I'd tell you what I found,” he said. “Are you sitting down?”

  I didn't like the sound of that. “Go ahead.”

  “I ran the serial number through NCIC/FCIC and found out some surprising things about your gun. Then I called a friend at ATF to confirm what I had.”

  “Good deal,” I said.

  “We'll see about that. It was last sold four years ago to a Clarence Stowe out of Orlando.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “He should be easy to track down.”

  “He should be real easy. Clarence committed suicide with that gun fourteen months ago.”

  “Okay… now for the punch line.”

  “The gun was placed into OPD's evidence for destruction. It should have been destroyed or still be in the evidence section at OPD. It shouldn't be out on the streets killing people.”

  “I'm so over my head right now.”

  “That's not the half of it. FDLE has already sent their report to OPD. Oscar and everyone in Orlando is gonna know the murder weapon came from the evidence room. This thing is blowing wide open.”

  I hung up on Porter again.

  I didn't have a lot of options left, so I might have to meet with Oscar and try a new tactic—telling him the truth.

  48

  SINCE MY SHOOTING, I've been trapped in a peculiar world of disconnect between my body and my psyche. When I want to run, no matter how much I desire, struggle, or will it with all my might, I can still only hobble. When I desperately need my balance, I sway at the will of a breeze and gravity.

  This case mimicked my personal dilemmas. As a homicide cop, I had the power and resources to make things happen, get information, or turn up the pressure to get that information. Now, I was at the mercy of circumstances and limitations I felt powerless against. All my resources were cut off, just as I was so close to breaking the case wide open. The case was as hamstrung as I was.

  I had re-created my murder collage as best I could. Pictures of suspects dotted the wall with lines crossing from the Fab Four of the Lion's Den to Chance Thompson to a large question mark that represented the unknown at Orlando PD. David Hendricks's driver's license picture was smack in the middle of the wall, with Jamie's and Ashley's on either side of him. David's smile appeared warm and genuine, one of the people in my life I've regretted not meeting. He was gaining my respect.

  Pam passed by my living room window, and I met her at the door. I told her about the gun being used in both my shooting and David's murder, a morbid twist of fate I couldn't shake.

  “Now they'll have to reopen the case,” Pam said.

  “When this comes to light, OPD won't open anything. FDLE will take it over. But until then, I'm running out of ideas, contacts, and steam. I don't have a lot left.”

  “You've done more than I could have ever asked for.” She rested her hand on my shoulder. “You proved David's not a murderer and that he was just trying to help Jamie. You've linked your shooting to David's case.”

  “And I all but killed Ashley with my own hand. I was sloppy and stupid, just like I was with Trisha.” I was dancing in that gloomy place again and was powerless to stop myself; the veil of that awful darkness shrouded me. “You might not want to hang around me too long. I'm hard on the women in my life.”

  “I'm not going anywhere until we're finished.” Pam walked into the living room and sat on the couch. “I don't know why all this has happened, but you're fighting evil, and the devil does not fight fair.”

  I didn't want to argue with her about devils or evil, mainly because I was sure she was at least right about evil. Pam was earning some serious respect as well. I guess I thought she'd crumble at the first sign of trouble or violence. I felt her religion would make her weak and vulnerable to such things. Not this lady. She was tough as they came. Trisha would have liked her a lot.

  “Regardless of what we've uncovered so far,” I said, “all we've really done is raise more questions. With everything we've found, we still don't know who shot Trisha and me, who killed David and Jamie, and who murdered Ashley. We know a lot about the Lion's Den and how they're somehow linked to the adult entertainment ordinance, but we still can't prove that theory. We're still missing something—the critical piece of evidence that will tie all these things together.”

  Crevis emerged from the bathroom all fresh. “Ray, I'm gonna run by my house and get more of my stuff. Do we need anything while I'm out?” He punched the heavy bag with a solid right.

  I stopped it with my hand as it swung toward me. I'd coached Crevis through a workout earlier. He had some sharp punches and kicks. I showed him how to lean in just a bit more to maximize his power. He caught on quickly. He had good potential.

  “We don't need anything. Be back in time to pick me up for our shift.”

  Beaming, Crevis looked at Pam. “Ray and I are roomies now.” He jabbed the bag again and headed out the door.

  I shrugged. “I was feeling sorry for him, so I let him move in here for a while.”

  “Be careful what you say to him,” she said. “He's young and impressionable, and he idolizes you. Don't abuse that.”

  Pam's warning was fair. I didn't let her know that Crevis was growing on me. He made the cave seem not so dark. Besides, he was becoming more of a John Wayne junkie than me—and that was hard to do.

  As I walked into the living room to sit with Pam, I caught my foot on the edge of the couch, unleashing a raging inferno up my leg. The dizzying pain stopped me as I didn't want to scream out in front of her. I held it to a growl.

  I took the cane and whipped it around in a baseball swing, smacking the handle into the dry wall—knocking a hole right in the middle of the murder collage. I jerked back on my cane, but it was stuck. I yanked hard and a chunk of dry wall flew out and skipped off the coffee table and onto the floor.

  “I'm so sick of this!” Leg spasms wreaked havoc on my balance. I buoyed myself on the back of the couch. “I had everything going for me—I was strong and healthy; I had a great job… and a woman I loved. My life had never been as good as it was a year ago. Then just when I had everything I'd ever wanted—bam—in three seconds it was all stolen from me.”

  Pam was quiet, letting me finish my temper tantrum. I hadn't vented any of those emotions since the shooting. I'm not like that; the Duke's not like that. But it wasn't fair. My life was supposed to be totally different. I'd had a plan.

  “But you're still alive for a reason,
Ray. God has a new direction for you… if you'll listen.”

  “I don't want a new direction. I want my life back. I want Trisha back!”

  “Can I pray for you?” she said.

  “Pray to whom? If your God exists, He did this to me. Or He sat back and just let Trisha die. Either way, He's responsible. Doesn't your God know what's going on down here? Doesn't He know that people are suffering and dying? Or doesn't He care?”

  “His own Son was tortured, nailed to a cross, and stabbed with a spear. And Jesus died there… for us,” she said, her voice soft. “God knows all about suffering. He's experienced all that and more. He cares more than you can imagine.”

  “I don't see it.” I squeezed the top of the couch as the agony ricocheted throughout my body. “I don't see it at all. I only see pain and misery.”

  Pam got up and walked around the couch to where I was standing. “Please let me pray for you.”

  I wanted to scream out but didn't. I wanted to tell her, “No way!” But I couldn't. I was physically, emotionally, and spiritually at my end. I had nothing left to resist with. A feeble nod was all I was capable of.

  She rested her hand on my shoulder. Her touch was gentle. “Heavenly Father, Ray needs You now. Please heal him and be with him. Let him see You in this. In Jesus' name, amen.”

  I didn't say anything when she finished. I needed to get ready for my shift.

  49

  AFTER PAM'S IMPROMPTU PRAYER MEETING, she reluctantly headed home, and I got ready for work. I left early so I could drive out toward Ashley's apartment on my way I couldn't believe I had a meltdown in front of Pam. The good part was, I knew Pam wouldn't bring it up again or use it against me—like I'd probably do if it were someone else.