RCC05 - Some Degree of Murder

by Frank Zafiro

  Gina picked up her shirt from the floor. She buttoned it up quickly and ran her fingers through her hair.

  “Don’t worry, Virgil. You don’t have to see me again.”

  “I think I want to.”

  She touched my face as she walked by. “Well, you know where I work.”

  Gina opened the door and walked out into the bar. I followed her out and watched her sit back on her stool.

  Around eight in the evening, I stood on the corner of Perry and Sprague, smoking a Camel and watching the bungalows across the street. A kaleidoscope of addicts wandered in and out of the small white buildings.

  I shook my head and took a drag on my cigarette. My eyes flashed up and down the street, seeing everyone, but waiting for one special person. She rounded a corner from the east and clicked towards me with the same high heels she had on earlier. Her jeans and open flannel shirt were also the same. I sucked on my cigarette, burning it to the butt before flicking into the street.

  When Toni got close to me, I turned my head slightly and smiled at her.

  “You a cop?”

  “I keep getting asked that.”

  “That’s because you’ve got clean clothes and a new haircut.”

  “I didn’t realize that was a sin.”

  “Baby, everything down here is a sin. Looking for something special?”

  “Looking for you.”

  She grinned. “Ain’t that sweet. You got a car around here?”

  “No.”

  “We can go to a room, but you gotta cover the charge.”

  I glanced up and down the street. “How about around the corner?”

  She raised her eyebrows at me. “A dirty boy is hidden in those clean threads.”

  I shrugged and smiled at her.

  “You done this before?”

  “A few times.”

  “Good, so you know the drill. What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing fancy.”

  She slid her hand into mine. “That’ll be forty bucks then.”

  “Sounds fair,” I said and led her into an unlit portion of the alley.

  Toni spread her legs several feet apart and wriggled her hips. She ran her tongue over her lips in exaggerated sexuality that only worked on the virgins and freaks. “Okay, baby, unleash the demon and I’ll get to work.”

  I showed her two twenties. “I don’t want that. I just want to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About my daughter.” I showed her the photo.

  “Oh, man. I’m sorry.”

  “I know she was working the strip. I need to know who was pimping her.”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide.

  “I need to know. Either we do this easy, or I’ll ask harder.”

  Toni looked up and down the alley and fear entered her eyes.

  “Tell me who.”

  “The Brotherhood,” she whispered.

  “Who in the Brotherhood?”

  “Sammy G. He does their collecting.”

  “He was her pimp?”

  Toni shook her head. “Not pimp. Collector.”

  “He takes a cut of the money?”

  She nodded.

  “He’s a pimp then. Were you working for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you pay money to him?”

  ”Yes.”

  “Did he ever screw you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Did he ever hurt you?”

  She stared for a moment, but the truth was in her eyes.

  “How can I find Sammy G?”

  “Check the clubhouse.”

  “I can’t exactly go in there. What’s he look like? And don’t say long hair and beard because that doesn’t mean shit to me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I slapped her hard across the face. “Don’t play that game.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “He’s got a birthmark on his face.”

  “What else?”

  Toni’s eyes flashed to her left. I followed them to a man just entering the alley. We were in the deep shadows so I knew he couldn’t immediately see us. I leaned in and pointed my finger at her. “Don’t make a sound.”

  The man was of medium build he wore a ski jacket that was open in the front. His blonde hair was short and combed to the side. He stood there looking into the darkness of the alley, deciding what to do. He obviously was looking for Toni.

  I watched him for a moment. Then I asked Toni, “Who is it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Toni?” the guy down the street called.

  He stepped into the alley and moved to the side of the wall where it was darker. My eyes had already adjusted to the low light so I watched him as he walked. When he neared, I leaned into Toni and pretended I was kissing her. I gripped her hard by the upper arm.

  “Okay, buddy, time’s up.”

  I turned to look at him, but kept my head close to Toni’s so he couldn’t see her face. “Fuck off, man.”

  “I’m serious,” he said. “You’re done here.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Listen,” he said and stepped toward me.

  I whirled toward him and lashed out with my left fist. It caught him completely unaware. I followed with a hard right to the tip of his nose. The second punch landed with a sickening crunch. The man’s knees wavered and he took a stumbling step to the side. He raised his hands weakly in defense.

  I took a powerful step toward him and threw a roundhouse punch as hard as I could. My fist landed on his jaw with a satisfying smack, right on the button. He crumpled to the ground.

  Toni let out a small cry. I turned and pointed at her. “Shut it,” I growled at her, “or you’re fucking next.”

  I looked down at the fallen figure. His coat was splayed open. Something glinted in the weak light from the street. I leaned closer and peered at his waist.

  Shit. He had a badge on his belt. He was a cop.

  I reacted immediately, crouching down next to him and running my hands around his waist. I came across his holstered gun right where I expected. I busted open the snap and pulled it from the holster. Then I stood and turned my attention to Toni.

  “Who is he?”

  She stared at me, her lip trembling.

  I stepped closer and jammed the barrel of the gun under her chin. “Answer me.”

  “Paul,” she stammered. “His name’s Paul.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Hiero,” she said.

  “You’re kidding me. Hiero?”

  She shook her head. “That’s his name.”

  I lowered the gun. “What kind of cop is he?”

  She stared at me, uncomprehending.

  “Is he a vice detective, or what?”

  “No. He works patrol.”

  “Then what the fuck is he doing here?”

  She didn’t answer right away, and that answered my question. “I get it,” I said. “You two got something going on, right?”

  She nodded reluctantly.

  Cops and whores, I thought.

  “Tell Hiero I’ve got his piece.” I shoved the gun into the back of my pants. “You understand that if you tell the Brotherhood that I’m looking for them, I’ll be back?”

  She nodded and rubbed the side of her face. Her eyes flicked to the still unconscious Hiero.

  I stood, combing my hair with my fingers. Then I turned away and walked deeper into the darkness of the alley, knowing full well that at that moment I was the scariest thing moving in that neighborhood.

  Friday, April 16th

  0941 hrs

  Investigative Division

  TOWER

  My desk was cleared of everything except two files. Fawn Taylor and Serena Gonzalez.

  I pulled the Taylor file toward me and opened it.

  I flipped through the medical report, looking for the tox-screen. I paged all the way through the autopsy but didn’t find one. I checked again. Still no report.


  I picked up the phone and dialed. It rang twice before someone picked up.

  “Forensics Unit. Whitaker.”

  “Cam, it’s Tower. Let me ask you something.”

  “What?” His tone was guarded.

  “Any reason why a tox-screen wasn’t done on Fawn Taylor?”

  “No. One should’ve been completed.”

  “There isn’t one in my file. Can you hunt it down for me?”

  “Sure. Listen, I’m glad you called.”

  “Good news, I hope.”

  “Not really. I sent those two hairs off to the FBI. I don’t know if they’ll end up being the same guy or not, but the Fibbies may be able to extract some DNA. The turnaround time on that is four to six weeks.”

  “Four to six weeks? Jesus, Cameron, can’t we get a little priority?”

  “Everything the Bureau gets is either a murder or kidnapping or serial rape.”

  “Yeah, but six weeks?”

  “They’re busy and backlogged, just like the rest of us.”

  “Yeah, yeah. My heart bleeds for federal agencies and their tribulations. Tell me you’ll keep on top of this.”

  Cameron said, “I will” and hung up.

  I paged through the Taylor file some more, reviewing facts that I already knew and hoping something would hit me.

  Nothing did.

  I was reaching for the Gonzalez file when the phone rang.

  “Tower,” I said and turned over a photo of Serena Gonzalez at the dump site.

  “Detective Tower? Ernie Williams, Salinas PD.”

  “That was quick.”

  “Sometimes things work out. Last night, I ran into three of the Gonzalez crew and Lucia was with them. I pulled her aside and we had a long chat.”

  “You get anything?”

  “I don’t think so. She hadn’t heard about Serena being murdered yet, so the first part of our talk was her getting a grip on things. After that, she told me everything she knew. It just wasn’t very much.”

  “Anything might help,” I said.

  “All she could really say was that Serena left to get away from her family. She didn’t have any boyfriends to speak of and definitely didn’t have any that she had problems with.”

  “Did she write to Lucia after she left town?”

  “Occasionally. She mostly got postcards from wherever Serena was staying.”

  “Which was where?”

  “L.A., first. Then Portland, Seattle and finally up there in River City.”

  “What did the postcards say?”

  “Not much. She’s in a new town, she’s got a new job, that kind of thing. No boyfriends ever mentioned.”

  “She ever mention to Lucia what kind of work she was doing?”

  “Lucia said waitressing and secretary work. And some kind of cashier up in River City. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d been lied to.”

  “Were they very religious?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It may be nothing, but I found a couple of pages book marked in the Gideon Bible in Serena’s motel room. I don’t even know if it was her that did it.”

  “Well, they’re almost all Catholic, I can tell you that,” Williams said. “I don’t know that she was particularly devout, though. But who knows? People live double lives all the time.”

  “That they do.” I moved the receiver away from my mouth and scratched my chin. I was surprised to find stubble there. I must’ve forgotten to shave again.

  “Like I said,” Williams finished. “Not a lot of help.”

  “No,” I agreed. “But you never know.”

  “Call me if I can do anything else.”

  We hung up.

  After closing the Gonzalez file, I leaned back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling.

  I considered my options. I could head out to the crime scenes and re-canvass the area. I could go re-interview witnesses. Neither one was likely to turn anything up. I could sit on my backside for four to six weeks and hope the FBI miracle workers back at Quantico could solve my cases for me.

  Or I could start over. Pretend I didn’t know anything about either case and approach both with fresh eyes.

  Which one first? Taylor came first. Gonzalez was freshest.

  I moved the Gonzalez file off the top of the Taylor file and set them side-by-side. Then I paged through both slowly until I reached the close-ups of the crime scene positioning. I looked back and forth between both.

  That’s when I noticed something. Something subtle that I couldn’t put a finger on before. Maybe it was nothing. But it was there. Fawn was lying on her back. Serena was lying on her back. In both photos, the chin jutted upward, as if both women were staring up at the sky.

  Or their killer.

  A signature pose?

  I’d rejected any thought of a single killer from the very first moment I went to Serena Gonzalez’s dump site. Why? Because it was too fashionable in today’s serial killer obsessed world to connect those dots? Stupid. Trends and politics should never outweigh logic in an investigation. Just stupid.

  “Okay,” I mumbled. “We’ll run it from the top. See how stupid I really am.”

  Victimology. Always start with victimology.

  Both females. Check.

  Both under twenty. Check.

  But Fawn was White and Serena Hispanic. So there’s a minus.

  I looked down at both pictures, side by side. Sure, Serena was Hispanic. There could be no mistaking that. But her skin was fair for a Latina. And she was beautiful. So was Fawn. So maybe, if it’s the same guy, maybe he doesn’t care about race.

  Okay. So that’s not a check or a minus. It’s a neutral.

  Both worked in the East Sprague corridor. Check.

  Both worked in the sex trade. Loosely, anyway. Stripping was a long way from being a prostitute but it was a lot closer than working a cash register. Check.

  Both bodies were dumped. Check.

  Both dump jobs were ignoble and degrading. Check.

  Both died of strangulation. Check.

  I double-checked a page in both files and leaned back again. Check. Both had bruising on the wrist, probably from being tied up for some period of time.

  Both women were sexually assaulted. Check.

  Little or no transfer evidence on the body. Check.

  That bothered me. From the day I made detective, I’d been taught that Locard’s Law was supreme. It was the law of transfer. When a suspect commits a murder or a rape or any crime, transfer exists. He brings something to the scene. He changes the scene. He leaves something at the scene. He takes something from the scene with him when he leaves. Any or all of these things happen, according to modern police science, even if they only occur in microscopic or trace amounts.

  So, if this is the same guy, how come no transfer evidence is showing up? One pubic hair and one head hair. And the head hair was questionable. It could belong to anyone. Hell, so could the pubic hair. How many other men rubbed up against Fawn Taylor in the last few days of her life?

  How does he avoid transfer?

  Condoms. Gloves. Plastic coated trunk for transport. I suppose that was a start.

  What else? What other checks or minuses?

  Serena was stabbed. Fawn wasn’t. Was that a minus? Or, if it were the same guy, was he escalating?

  I gathered up both files. The walk down the hallway was a short one. The Crime Analysis wing consisted of one large room with several cubicles. I weaved through the maze until I reached Renee’s desk.

  She was mid-bite when I rounded the corner. A powdered donut jutted out from her mouth and when she saw me, she jumped. The donut broke off and she cupped her hands, catching it.

  “Ugh,” she grunted at me and laid the donut on a napkin on her desk. A cup of steaming coffee sat next to it. She pointed to her cup and then across the room where a full pot was brewing. I set my files down on her desk and quickly poured myself some coffee into a Styrofoam cup. When I returned, she was washi
ng her bite down with her own coffee.

  “Busted,” I told her.

  She shrugged and adjusted her thin glasses. “You want something?”

  “Yeah. I need some fresh eyes.”

  “Run it for me.”

  I gave her all the details I thought mattered and some I wasn’t sure about. She listened carefully, interrupted seldom and then only to clarify. When I finished, she stared at the wall and absently handed me her empty coffee cup. I refilled it and put it in front of her and waited patiently.

  After a few minutes, she reached for the cup and took a sip. She nodded and muttered her thanks, then began thumbing through the files. I refilled my own coffee and sipped it from the Styrofoam cup and read the cartoons she’d cut out from Foxtrot and The Far Side and pinned to her cubicle wall.

  “Interesting,” she mumbled, then looked up at me. “Sexually motivated murder doesn’t just pop up in a vacuum, you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If this is the same perpetrator, then he did not begin his career with Miss Taylor.”

  “You think it’s the same guy?”

  She nodded slowly. “I would say so. Almost identical victimology, similar crime scenes, same cause of death. Both sexual assaults. Even this little pose here. Do you see that?” She pointed to photos of both Fawn and Serena. “See how he’s tilted their chins unnaturally? It’s almost like they’re looking up at something. If he were to stand at their head, this tilt would make it appear that they were looking right up at him.”

  “If it is the same guy, then you’re saying he’s killed before?”

  “No, not necessarily. The perpetrator may have stopped short of murder. But I’d be willing to bet that he has committed assaults before. And rapes.”

  Renee turned to her computer and started typing. A couple minutes later, she said, “Okay, here it is.”

  I leaned over her shoulder and looked at the screen. She pointed at data with the mouse pointer.

  “I went back twelve months and put in criteria. Basically, we’re looking for rapes or assaults with some of the elements of your homicides. Within the last year, there have been two rapes that somewhat fit. Both are unsolved.”

  She hit a button on her keyboard. “I’m printing off both reports for you. In both cases, white male perpetrator, manual strangulation involved, and sexual assault.”