Deserving of Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 1)

by James Paddock

  Suddenly there came a red glow at the southwest corner of the restaurant. It lasted no more than a second. CJ watched the area, expecting lights from a vehicle, thinking that the red glow came from taillights as someone applied the brake just before starting their car or shifting it into drive. Because his eyes were focused on the southwest corner, and because he had little night vision in the brightly lighted store parking lot, CJ almost missed the movement at the southeast corner, where the restaurant parking lot spilled out onto the side street. A dark colored vehicle without lights, large enough to be a van or SUV, pulled onto the street and turned south, virtually becoming invisible within seconds.

  CJ considered what he'd seen for far too long, he'd later conclude, before starting his car and maneuvering across the four lanes to the side street. He drove for five or six blocks, checking cross streets before turning back. He pulled in behind the restaurant, his suspicions running hackles up and down his arms, and parked with his headlights pointed at the dumpster. With flashlight in hand he approached the dumpster, pushed the lid open and pointed his flashlight down into it. A quilt with a flowered pattern glowed back at him.

  "Shit!" he said, shoved the flashlight into his pocket and, after pushing the lid all the way open, hefted himself up and into the container. The smell of leftover lasagna, vinegar and oil, wine, rotten vegetables and rancid something rose up around him. He pulled the flashlight from his pocket and immediately dropped it. In the thirty seconds it took him to find and recover it he managed to catch a foot and topple across the quilt bundle.

  "Son of a bitch!"

  He straightened up, wiped a hand on his T-shirt and, while attempting to breathe only through his mouth, searched for an edge to the quilt. Almost to the point of frantic, he finally located a corner, yanked it aside and found exactly what he'd feared; the partially nude body of a young woman. He checked her pulse in several places to ascertain she was dead and then, as he turned around to climb out without contaminating any more evidence, he slipped and fell on his back. Something smelling of cheap wine filled one ear. As quickly and carefully as he could, he righted himself again and climbed out of the container. As he walked away from the stench, wiping the sweat from around his eyes so he could see, he dialed 911 on his cell phone.

  While CJ waited for the first responders he dialed Detective Payne. Just when he thought it was going to go to voicemail, the detective's growly voice broke in. "Payne."

  "Good morning, Dan. Thought I'd return the favor with an early morning wakeup call."

  "What the hell, CJ? It's three fu... Hold on."

  There were a lot of muffled noises and voices, Dan's wife, CJ hoped, and then silence for a time.

  "Okay," Dan finally said. "What the hell is with a call at 3:17 in the morning?"

  "I thought you'd like to hear that I found your third victim, the one that will raise your case to that of a serial killer."

  "You what? Where?"

  CJ told him and Dan said he'd be there in a half hour.

  As he holstered his phone, a silent, fully lit patrol car screamed into the lot from the main street, followed within seconds by another from the side street. CJ remained where he stood, illuminated by all the headlights, hands where the officers could see them as they approached.

  CJ knew the drill. He also knew that he looked like hell after rolling around in the dumpster, and he felt like hell.

  Chapter 10

  Satisfied that he wasn't a threat, or the perp–Officer Bentley knew CJ from when CJ was a cop, knew he was a private investigator–the officers took CJ's description of the vehicle and then directed him to move his car and to not go anywhere until the detective arrived. And so he sat against the trunk with what was left of his soda. He'd lost his appetite for any more cookies. He was sure he'd smell like cheap wine and rotten lettuce for the next week.

  Detective Payne pulled in with his blue lights flashing, got out and went straight to the dumpster to confirm what everyone knew and then to confer with the officers, of which there were now a half dozen. A few minutes later the coroner arrived followed by a news truck.

  And the circus begins, CJ thought, glad and sad that he was not in the middle of it, relegated into the category of witness.

  He sipped at his soda and considered going across the street for coffee. He looked toward the convenience store where a number of very early morning commuters rubber-necked the activity around the restaurant. If he waited much longer it would be a crowd over there. He pushed off the car and started in that direction.

  "CJ!"

  CJ turned to his name being called.

  "Where the hell you going?" Detective Payne said.

  CJ considered the tone of voice, then brushed it off and pointed. "Coffee. Want one?"

  Dan appeared to think about that for a moment before saying, “Black."

  CJ ignored the stares as he drew coffee into two large cups. Two men parted for him when he approached the counter.

  "What's going on over there?" one of them said.

  "Is that the coroner?" the clerk said.

  CJ handed over a five dollar bill. "Sorry. Can't say anything."

  "Weren't you here earlier?" the clerk said. "You sat in the parking lot for a long time. Are you undercover?"

  CJ accepted his change and shook his head. "Sorry." He pointed to the news truck on the street. "You'll have to watch it on the news." With that he picked up the coffees and walked out. He took a wide birth around the blond with a camera pointed at her face. He could tell she was watching for someone to talk to and that she was sizing him up. He ducked under the crime scene tape and nodded to Officer Bowers.

  "You get around CJ," she said, a lot more friendly than the morning before. "The detective's going to start liking you for these."

  "Funny, Lisa. How's your old man doing?"

  "Quite well. He's getting tired of retirement, thinking about going back to work doing something easy and less mentally taxing than being a cop, like becoming a private dick."

  CJ laughed. "That's two in a row. You should get a standup gig. Tell him it's not all it's cracked up to be."

  "I will, though it might be too late." She turned away to wave a rubbernecker along.

  Detective Payne saw CJ approaching and broke away from a conversation with the coroner. He took one of the coffees. "The uniforms put out a BOLO based on what you told them. Wasn't much there. Tell me what you saw."

  CJ described the van that drove by, or more like drifted by, and what he saw maybe ten minutes later, pointing out that he had no idea if the two were the same vehicle.

  "And in between you fell asleep," the detective scoffed.

  "I'm not on the force anymore, Dan. I'm a private citizen doing what private citizens do."

  "And what were you doing here at 3:00 in the morning?"

  "If you'll notice, this convenience store is near my apartment. I couldn't sleep, decided to come out for a soda."

  "Really! Just soda, CJ?"

  "What do you mean by that, Detective?"

  "I don't know. You tell me. Kind of convenient, wouldn't you say? I'm picking up an odor that's anything but carbonated beverages."

  CJ stepped back. "What you're smelling is garbage from when I climbed into the dumpster to find out if she was alive. Am I a suspect?"

  "I smell alcohol." The detective's nostrils flared. "Not beer. More like whisky. This restaurant doesn't serve Jack Daniels?"

  "Oh, hell, Dan. You know I drink Jack Daniels."

  "That I do. What's that on your hand?"

  CJ glanced at his hand. He'd seen the dried blood when he was getting coffee. "Cut myself on something in the dumpster, I guess."

  Dan waved over a uniformed officer. "Officer Bentley, do a breath analysis on Mr. Washburn. Even if his BAC isn't over point-o-eight, take him into custody. Take his clothing for testing and order up a tox screen. Don't let him clean up until swabs have been taken from him. Also, impound his car."

  Officer Bentley put his hand
on CJ's bicep and CJ jerked away, knocking the officer back a step.

  "What the hell are you doing, Dan? I..." Before he could say anything else he was on the ground, his face dancing against the pavement, a knee in his groin.

  Dan squatted down next to him and said, "Sorry, CJ. It's for your own good."

  "Fuck you, Detective!"

  "Yep," Detective Payne said, then straightened up and spoke to the officer sitting on CJ's back. "Cuff him then send someone to his apartment for a change of clothes and to lock it down until a team can go over it. He's a PI, Desert Investigative Services. His office is going to have to be gone through as well. Also, he's an ex-cop, so don't rough him up too badly." With that he returned to his crime scene.

  Chapter 11

  The lights hurt CJ's eyes and all he wanted to do was turn them off and go back to sleep until he remembered the events of the night before, or actually earlier in the morning. He groaned and put his arm over his eyes. All he could think about was his headache and about getting his once good friend, Dan Payne, out in the desert on a dark night.

  He was on his back, on the floor in an interview room, a pair of hiking boots for a pillow because that was what some idiot chose to bring him from his apartment; that and an old shirt and blue jeans. That was it; not even clean underwear or socks, and he had to give up everything he'd been wearing. The entire thing was insane and humiliating. But they hadn't locked him up. After they took his blood and saliva, dug under his finger nails, and scraped samples from a variety of blood and food particles, and a few non-food particles, adhering to his skin, they gave him the interview room and closed the door. Probably to contain the smell, he figured.

  After a time he rolled off the boots and sat with his back against the wall. He wondered what happened to his coffee. He remembered holding it with one hand and then trying to fend off Officer Bentley with the other, and then he was on his face. He touched his face. It hurt like hell, was starting to scab in some places, still raw in others.

  When his butt started hurting he struggled to his feet and walked over to sit in the chair, carrying his boots with him. He'd no sooner placed his head on his arms when the door opened and Detective Payne entered.

  "About time you woke up, CJ."

  CJ wanted to glare at him but his head and face hurt too much. It was either two separate pains or one big pain. Or one big Payne! CJ thought.

  "I think I've got a concussion," CJ said.

  "Fine," the detective said. "You could try suing us but we could prove resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer."

  This time CJ managed a good glare.

  "I called Stella. She's on her way to pick you up."

  "You don't have to do me any favors."

  "You can be pissed if you like, CJ, but I did what I had to do considering you trampled all over my crime scene, compromised evidence, spread your own blood all over the victim, and who knows what all else. And your alcohol level tested in at 0.12. I had to come down hard and fast before someone decided to accuse me of favoritism. The press was already on this and asking questions, you were seen hanging around before the body was dropped and there was only your word that there was a suspicious dark color vehicle."

  CJ only blinked at him.

  "I know you didn't have anything to do with it but I had to eliminate you from anyone else's suspect list, and I had to do it before the Feds show up."

  "I didn't have any choice but to get in the dumpster, Dan. I didn't even want to take the time to dial 911 first because if there was someone in there and she was still alive, every second counted."

  "But you did take the time to race up and down the street looking for your phantom vehicle. Why didn't you go straight to the dumpster first for the same reason you just stated?"

  CJ considered that for a few seconds. "I don't know."

  "Because you were drunk and you shouldn't have even been out on the road. That part I'm trying to slide under the table in lieu of bigger fish to fry here. You all but passed out on top of her. I should be glad you didn't throw up on her as well."

  CJ pulled his fingers through his hair, found something that shouldn't have been in there, looked at it and then flipped it aside. "I'm sorry, Dan. Have you found anything that points to the killer?"

  Dan shook his head. "Nothing yet, but all we've managed to do so far is separate you from the scene."

  Dan's phone chirped. He put it to his ear. "Payne... Thanks."

  "Your girlfriend is here. Put on your boots and get out of here."

  CJ pushed his feet into the boots and didn't bother tying them. "When can I have my car back?"

  "I'll call you about that and your apartment later today, or maybe tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow!"

  Dan shrugged and opened the door. "We're understaffed and overworked. Except for budget cuts it never changes. Your phone and personal effects are at the desk. You know where that is, right?"

  "Yeah," CJ growled as he walked out.

  "And take a bath," Dan said after him.

  When CJ walked out Stella was sitting next to Lucas reading a magazine, her legs crossed. She looked up, dropped the magazine and came to him. "You okay, Clint? What happened? Detective Payne wouldn't tell me anything."

  CJ eyed Lucas and then said, "Let's just get out of here and then I can fill you in."

  "Sure. Sure." She turned toward the door. "Come on Lucas."

  Lucas jumped and ran ahead of her, catching the door from someone coming in. As CJ and Stella passed through he said, "You smell funny."

  "Lucas!" Stella said.

  "Don't worry about it," CJ said. "He's right. I need a shower."

  "I'll drop you by your apartment. Where's your car?"

  He drew in a deep breath. "That's going to be a problem. They impounded my car."

  "Oh," she said.

  "And my apartment."

  "Why did they pound your car?" Lucas asked.

  "Impound, Lucas," Stella said. "Means the police took his car."

  "Will they give it back?"

  "Eventually."

  "How do they impound an apartment?"

  "They didn't impound his apartment. Mr. Washburn was just being funny. What he meant is they won't let him in his apartment until they are through searching it."

  "What are they searching for?" Lucas looked up at CJ.

  "That's the same question I have," Stella said and pushed the unlock button on her key fob. "Let's worry about any more questions later. Why don't we stop and pickup some lunch on the way home. Since Mr. Washburn can't get into his apartment I'm going to let him shower at my place."

  Lucas got in the back seat. When they were all in the car and pulling out of the parking lot, Stella said, "When do you get back into your apartment?"

  "Maybe tomorrow," CJ said.

  "Oh."

  Chapter 12

  When CJ awoke it was after 7:00 in the morning. He'd eaten takeout with Stella and Lucas after showering in Stella's bathroom and cleaning up his face. He'd then put on the same clothes because she didn't want Lucas to know that he had clothes there. With fresh clothes concealed in a trash bag tucked under his arm they'd delivered him to a hotel on Broadway.

  "If you need anything else, Mr. Washburn, just give me a call," Stella had said just before driving away with her new best friend in the passenger seat next to her.

  Like hell, he'd call her.

  With no place to go and nothing to do he'd watched TV until he thought his head was going to explode, only going out for a fast food dinner because that was all that was within reasonable walking distance. He'd considered calling Trish, but didn't know if he could take being rejected, or in her case, ignored, twice in the same day. He'd fallen asleep with the TV on, waking an hour later long enough to turn it and the light out and going back to sleep.

  He rolled off the bed, stumbled a little and then went straight to the shower. When he was done he stood at the sink staring at his scabs, realizing he had no razor, toothbrush or comb.
He already hadn't shaved in two days. Maybe the beard would hide the worst of his face.

  He finger-combed his hair, got dressed and headed down to partake in the hotel's breakfast. He was starving, and still had a headache. He was counting on coffee helping.

  Sitting at a table by himself, irritated by a couple of male siblings squabbling several tables away while their parents filled plates, CJ sipped on his coffee and chewed on a pastry. He was trying to watch the morning news on a TV monitor over the boys' heads, had to strain hear the commentary.

  "And here is the scene again from early yesterday morning when a fourth dumpster victim was discovered by a former Tucson police officer. As you know, it took a bazaar turn when the officer, or I should say ex-officer, wound up in a scuffle with police and then was subdued and handcuffed."

  CJ froze in mid-bite as he saw himself in the video pushing at the uniformed police officer and then being knocked to the ground and handcuffed.

  "His car, which was at the scene, was impounded. When our reporting team attempted to visit his place of residence they found a police seal."

  "What do we have here, Chelsea? Is it possible that a former Tucson police officer is responsible for these gruesome murders?"

  "That's the big question isn't it Reuwben. We have learned that the former police officer, one Clinton Joshua Washburn, currently a Tucson private investigator, was released under his own cognizant. I can't imagine the police would release an actual suspect."

  "Do they have any other leads at all?"

  "None that we know of, but they are keeping the investigation very tight."

  CJ put his pastry down and looked around the breakfast room. No one appeared to recognize him as being the same as the crazed individual the news team was just talking about. As a matter-of-fact no one took notice of him at all when he dumped his entire breakfast, including coffee, into the trash, picked up his bag of clothes and walked out.