Slice of Greed: A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery (BOL Mysteries Book 1)

by K. C. Reinstadler

  In a far-less-than-quiet voice, Randy blurted out, “Rhino, this is a bad one, maybe the worst I’ve ever seen. Whoever did this almost cut the fucking guy’s head off!”

  I grabbed Randy by the elbow and turned him away from the crowd. He could tell I was more than a little pissed…

  “Lower your voice, for Christ’s sake, Randy. We don’t want that to get out if it’s true. Use your head, dumbass.”

  He winced. “Sorry, Kev, I just wanted you to know what you’re in for. I screwed up. I’ll watch it from now on.”

  Randolph told me that he and his trainee got a check-the-welfare (CTW) call and that his boot had found the rear door slightly ajar. Carefully entering in the dark, they discovered a body in the hallway, lying in a pool of blood. His rookie partner walked into the bedroom and discovered victim number two facedown on the bed with his head lying to one side, his throat cut from ear to ear. The sight upset his young partner so badly that he literally ran out of the place, sliding and almost slipping in the dead guy’s blood along the hallway. That could have been really, really bad.

  “Your sergeant is already here. He’s down there.” Randy was pointing about twenty-five yards down the walkway, where Bob Roberts stood, looking our way. He waved his flashlight to get my attention.

  I thanked Randy and slowly sauntered down the sidewalk, using my light to check most of the shrubbery and surroundings along the way for anything out of place. I came up empty. I could see the faces of curious neighbors through slits in their front window curtains along the way. They looked like small children trying to sneak a peek at something forbidden. I could see the fear in their eyes and almost hear their thoughts: Are we safe?

  Bob Roberts stood, notebook in hand, at the front door to bungalow number six. He spoke low and soft, unlike my friend Randy.

  “Rhino, this is a double, and it isn’t pretty. Looks like both were surprised in the bedroom. We are assuming at this point that they were gay, because both seemed to be sleeping in the same bed. I don’t know about you, but I ain’t sleeping next to my naked buddy. Something else must have been in play here. There’s so much blood in there that we all need to stay out. The patrol guys already screwed the scene up, because we got bloody boot prints all around that we need to deal with. We’ve got the condo sealed right now. Let’s do this one right. Go get a Mincey.”

  I knew exactly what Sarge meant. In the “old days,” cops would stay at the murder scene and collect all the evidence without a warrant authorizing it. Old Rufus Mincey changed all of that in 1978. Sure, when cops are called to the scene of a homicide, they can do a preliminary check for other victims and the proverbial miscreant lurking in a closet. However, after a quick check, they have to leave and control access in and out of the crime scene. Mincey shot a uniformed policeman in Arizona during a drug raid at his house. So, after the cop died inside the residence, homicide dicks just came in and searched Mincey’s home for evidence relating to the murder of their compadre. They figured it was an exception to the constitutional requirement to obtain warrants for a search because they were already inside, where the murder occurred. Mincey’s attorneys objected to the introduction of this evidence because “it was the fruit of an improper search.” Mincey’s mouthpiece argued that his client had “standing” to object to a warrantless search ’cause ol’ Rufus lived there, and the police were intruding. The Arizona courts agreed with the police at first, and Mincey was convicted. However, the Supreme Court got involved and ruled that Mincey should have been protected from any warrantless search. From that point on, whenever we investigated a murder, we had to obtain a “Mincey warrant.” What a pain in the ass and so time-consuming! Complicated, I know, but suffice it to say that we always got a warrant or risked losing the evidence.

  As Bob and I stood outside talking, I heard footsteps behind me, and I saw that Detective Theodore Banner had joined us. Ted was a legend in the detective bureau. He had been an investigator for as long as I could remember, and he was the epitome of class. Always composed, well-dressed, with perfectly coiffed hair and straight, white teeth, he was the poster child for handsome homicide investigators. He smoked Cools, for Christ’s sake! Ted and his partner, “too tall” Biff Corbet, had worked every homicide case in our north county for the last ten years. Biff (whose real first name was Buford) stood about six feet, five inches tall, with weight to match. With jet-black hair and chiseled features, he looked like a tall Clark Kent. He was a behemoth. Trust me, you never called him Buford. I always figured he got into investigations because he just couldn’t stuff himself into a patrol car very well.

  Ted and Biff had just finished a notorious case involving contract killings and diamond smuggling. Yes, diamonds—I shit you not! A Santa Barbara businessman, along with his girlfriend, had been murdered over an illegal Sierra Leone diamond deal gone wrong—a real “blood diamond” case. Both had been executed on our mountain pass near Lake Cachuma by a contract killer. They were shot in the back of the head at close range while on their knees.

  Ted and Biff had tracked the trigger man all the way to Israel. Ted even had to testify at the Israeli killer’s trial in his own country, where he had fled to avoid prosecution. Israel did not extradite its own citizens, so they were tried at home for international crimes. Ted was there during Desert Shield, when Scud missiles were whizzing into the Holy Land. Talk about a story for your grandkids!

  That killer couldn’t avoid Ted, and neither could I while I was standing in front of bungalow number six. I just knew Bob was going to hand Ted the lead in this case, and all I could hope for was second chair. I turned out to be dead wrong (sorry about the pun).

  Bob turned to us and said, “Rhino, you got this one. Ted is tied up on a robbery trial in Santa Maria. You up for it?”

  “You know I am, Boss” was my reply. I sensed that queasy feeling, like right before going skydiving or bungee jumping for the first time. I was excited but scared to death. But I decided to do what they say—never let them see you sweat.

  Bob made Ted the second chair for the case. As we walked toward the car, Biff and Luis Ocampo arrived. Luis was what we called our designated Mexican detective. I used that word affectionately, because “Louie” had a reputation for being the best interviewer of Hispanics in our agency—ever. That guy had a way of jamming up Mexicans like no one I had ever seen. We never knew where a case would lead us, so having him on board was a very good thing.

  Louie said, “So, Rhino, I hear you got this one. If you need me, bro, I got your back.”

  I smiled nervously and thanked him. Ted and I drove off to get the Mincey. It would be a snap, because it wouldn’t be hard to establish probable cause to search a place where two people were slaughtered. It took me thirty minutes to wrap up the telephonic search warrant. I just farted it out.

  “Your Honor, two guys were butchered in a town house. Can we please search the place for evidence?” Piece of cake.

  By the time we got back, the Village Commons was a zoo. It was about an hour after sunrise, and the bystanders looked like a crowd waiting to get into a Rolling Stones concert. About forty looky-loo citizens and two news crews, complete with lights, boom microphones, and fidgety reporters, stood poised at the tape. One of the crews was busy erecting a pop-up shade—and the sun wasn’t even out, for God’s sake. As soon as Ted and I put a foot on the pavement outside our car, one of the newsies ran up to me and almost smacked me in the teeth with the microphone she held out in front with her shaky hand. Wow, she was gorgeous, and she looked like she had just finished a Chanel perfume commercial—smelled like it, too.

  “Detective, Rachael Storm of Channel Three news. Can you tell our viewers what has happened here?”

  Stoically, I replied, “I have no comment.”

  “But Detective, our sources tell us that you have two dead bodies in the town house, and our viewers need to know what has happened here.”

  “Miss, I told you that I have no comment at this time.”

  She
wouldn’t let it go. “Officer, don’t you want our viewers to feel safe sleeping in their homes and know that there isn’t a serial killer out there?”

  I had enough of this shit by then, and turning toward her, with the blinding camera lights in my eyes, I said in my deepest authoritative voice, “Lady, listen to me. Your viewers want us to do our jobs and get to the bottom of this. You need to step aside and let us do just that. Contact our PIO later today. No further comment!”

  Nice punt to the public information officer, Kev. Ted and I turned and confidently strode off. It was always nice to make the newsies drool, especially good-looking ones. It was much better to do that than to step on one’s dick and say something regretful. My crotch felt intact at that point.

  Back at the town house, armed with our warrant, we let the forensics crew take over, led by Detective Ron O’Hara. Ron ran the North County ID Bureau, and he was an interesting fellow. Seldom smiling and always serious, he had a wry sense of humor. With combed-back silver hair, his rather large, bulbous red nose led this trained investigator to believe he liked demon rum in his off-duty time. On duty, he was the most professional and thorough crime-scene investigator I ever met.

  O’Hara videotaped the entire town house initially before letting anyone else in. It was always a good idea to make a permanent record of the first encounter with any scene of a violent crime. After about an hour of cautious filming, Ron came out and played the video for everyone on the team. As he watched the images, Louie mouthed “Holy shit!” This would be the closest most of the others would get to what they were actually investigating. Ted and I then went in, gloved-up with our shoes covered. I brought along my digital camera.

  Nice town house, I thought. Fine art on the walls, a sixty-inch HD flat-screen TV mounted in the living room, Henckel knives and Spode fine china in the kitchen cabinets. The residents here knew fine living and didn’t skimp on the nicer things. A three-foot-high marble statue of a slightly built nude female—or was it a guy?—sat just inside the entryway. Authentic Oriental carpets lay periodically across the hardwood flooring—a classy place. Too bad somebody had to screw it up by turning it into a slaughterhouse.

  We got to the hallway. Lying facedown, completely nude, was a male of Hispanic descent. A substantial pool of blood surrounded his torso underneath his frame as he lay atop the wood floor. He looked like a damn popsicle melting on a hot desert sidewalk. I saw what appeared to be an entry wound to the right center of his back along the centerline between his shoulder blades. Blood had flowed from this wound like an open faucet, but the majority of the crimson fluid surrounding his body seemed to have come from his underside. I knew people thought blood is red, and I agreed—until it comes in contact with air outside the body. The blood at this crime scene had quickly morphed to a very dark, almost-black color as it dried. This blood was now gelling—coagulating into very thick, maroon syrup. The air was heavy with its scent.

  Next to his body, right in the middle of the puddle, was a sliding boot impression, which had obviously been walked (more like run) through the syrup while traveling toward the living room. The shoe impression elongated as it slid in the blood for about two feet. The same ever-fading wet boot print could be seen over and over, heading out toward the front door as it became lighter in color. The distance was well over two feet in between steps, indicating the wearer was running. By the time the rookie deputy had reached the front door, the marks were almost imperceptible. The young lad had run out of this death house. We later found a small pool of vomit outside the place, too, about ten feet away from the front door. The deputy fessed up to being the donor. I hoped this kid got used to handling scenes like this, or he would seriously need to consider a career in fast food. The kid almost fucked up the entire crime scene. His next evaluation would make for interesting reading.

  As Ron O’Hara clicked away with his camera, Ted and I slowly turned the prostrate victim over. Rigor mortis and postmortem lividity, the processes of the human body after death, were evident. I knew rigor mortis began within about two hours after death, starting on the extremities and face. The stiffness in the body would move to the larger extremities as time progressed, lasting for about a dozen hours, before the tension in the muscles relaxed. So that was why folks referred to dead bodies as “stiffs.” And I knew postmortem lividity was the flow of blood and fluid to the lowest part of the body after death because of gravity. It looked like heavy bruising, and we used it to determine the final position of a body after death. This guy was stiff throughout his frame, indicating death had occurred only several hours earlier; his forehead, lips, cheeks, chest, stomach, and the inside tops of his thighs were darkly bruised. He hadn’t been moved after death, and he had died in the position in which we found him.

  “Now that’s a helluva gash!” Ted exclaimed when we saw a five-inch incised wound in his left upper abdomen. We could actually separate the cut with our gloved fingers. The incision was deep.

  Turning to Ted, I said, “Whoever cut this dude wasn’t using a pocket knife. Maybe we ought to be looking for Jack the Ripper with his scalpel.” The killer wasn’t messing around here. He wanted it done fast and right the first time.

  We moved slowly toward the bedroom, following the blood trail leading to the man on the floor. I must say that the hair on the back of my neck was standing straight up as we crept along. I took pictures as we walked. Ted and I shot cautious looks at each other because we had seen on video what we now would see in the flesh. I would never get used to this. I suppose I never wanted to. Glancing toward the bed, we saw that blood had literally soaked the top right half of the mattress underneath the form we saw lying facedown there. The man was wearing white briefs. I whispered to Ted, “tighty-whities,” as we walked around to his side of the bed.

  We were surprised that we didn’t see much blood on the floor. No sloppy shoe prints were evident either. No obvious telltale bits of evidence to collect. No trail of bloody bread crumbs left by the retreating suspect. Most of the blood evidence had soaked into the sheets. The memory-foam mattress had sucked it up like a sponge. Looking down at the corpse on the bed, we were both struck by the viciousness of the cut to his throat. My God, I thought. Whoever did this garroted this man fast and hard. We could see the loose flesh of his neck spread out on both sides of his throat, like he was wearing a cheap latex Halloween mask. The guy died with his eyes wide open and his tongue protruding from his mouth. I snapped a picture of that for the file. He didn’t die quickly, and he died in agony. This was the epitome of overkill. A simple stab wound or a gunshot would have sufficed. This killer didn’t just want him dead; he wanted him to suffer. The dead man had undoubtedly jerked and flopped a bit on the bed, which accounted for the soaking of the bedsheets. I didn’t envy Ron and his crew having to collect this bloody evidence. It was nice to be able to leave that work for someone else.

  Ted and I never lifted the dead man’s head. However, we did take a shitload of pictures of it to reflect the true viciousness of the crime and to show the other guys. We did a cursory check of the rest of the interior and then cautiously backed out of the house. By now, it was after 10:00 a.m. Apart from our fatigue, we didn’t need anything else to interfere with breakfast. After all, a man’s gotta eat, you know.

  Chapter Three

  A Queer Kind of Feeling

  I attended the autopsies of both our dead victims the afternoon following the discovery of the slaughter. I had a good working relationship with Dr. Gregory Schilling. Although I hadn’t handled a homicide as the lead investigator on many cases thus far, I had been the designated autopsy detective for quite a few murders. Greg had been our county pathologist for more than ten years and was well-respected in his field throughout California, having testified as an expert for many outside agencies. He was also a bit of a freak, like most doctors who cut up dead people for a living. You never knew what he would do or say while doing an autopsy on a body. He made a disgusting duty very entertaining, and today was no exception.<
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  We started with the postmortem exam on Marvin Redbone. All processes were photo documented. After about a half hour of examination, Dr. Schilling described the fatal wound.

  “Subject Marvin Redbone has a gaping, oblique, and very penetrating incision wound across the anterior upper neck, caused by a thin, sharp object. It measures eight point four by two and a half inches, with the lower edge being within two point eight inches inferior to the left external auditory meatus, and three inches inferior to the left external auditory meatus, with transaction-perforation of the entire airway, strap muscles, left jugular vein, and left carotid artery. Death was not instantaneous, but short-coming. The deep incision is left to right across the throat, and the incision reached the spine at the deepest point. Cause of death was a deep incised wound of the upper neck, with transection of the airway and the right jugular vein and carotid artery. Death is ruled a homicide.”

  Helluva mouthful, Greg! Dr. Schilling’s professional opinion was that Redbone died of his throat being slit. Ya think?

  The doc snapped off the audio recording. Turning to me, he said, “Somebody really fucked this guy up, Kevin. Whoever did this had to be athletic, with some upper-body strength. This dude was pulled off the bed about a foot and a half by the hair, and the killer then quickly and decidedly slit his throat. He is probably right-handed, because the wound is higher on the left side, ending lower on the right side. This fellow died knowing his throat was cut. Gnarly and one of the worst cases I’ve ever seen. You’ve got your job cut out for you on this one, my friend.”

  Schilling then did his best detective imitation by saying that if he were me, he would be looking for a right-handed, athletic man who was very angry at the victim and smart enough to cover his tracks. Greg was always weighing in on our investigations even though we never told him how to cut up his corpses. Of course he was right—as usual.