Rock & Roll Homicide

by R J McDonnell

  “I can’t give any details on him, but I can tell you the bombshell he laid on me just before I came over here,” I said, then proceeded to recount our emails.

  Shamansky said, “I want to pop the hoodlums as soon as possible, but we need to establish probable cause for a warrant. Considering that we just arraigned Chelsea for the crime, it’s going to take some imagination.”

  I replied, “Nobody is saying Chelsea built the bomb. You could tell the judge you think Nigel helped her and utilized his terrorist friends who visit frequently. Tell him I was at Nigel’s house and overheard him say, ‘We better get rid of everything at Thompson’s house when you get to town.’ Do you think that would fly?”

  “You’d be sticking your neck out on that one, lying to a judge,” he said.

  “I’m not lying to a judge, I’m lying to a cop,” I said with a grin.

  “I can live with that,” he replied.

  When I returned to my office I saw Michael Marinangeli sitting on Jeannine’s desk, interlocking his fingers with hers. “Hey dude,” he said when he saw me.

  “Hi Michael,” I said. “Drop by to give Jeannine a hand?”

  “Just doing my best to get a date with this lovely lady,” he said, then gazed into her eyes.

  “Good luck,” I said and turned to go back into my office.

  “Jason, hang on. I also wanted to tell you something. Have you got a minute,” he asked.

  “Sure,” I replied and waved him into my office.

  He shut the door and I was sure he was going to start asking uncomfortable questions about Jeannine. But instead he said, “Nigel Choate called me yesterday and wants me to audition for Doberman’s Stub. I’m meeting them at Jack Pascal’s home studio tomorrow morning. Can you believe it?” he asked with the enthusiasm of a teenager.

  “Wow!” I managed to say. “What did Nigel say?” I asked.

  Michael replied, “He said he liked the way I played with the band and that he was planning on leaving right after the Doberman set, but hung around another half-hour to hear me play. It sounds like I’ve got a real shot,” he said. “You don’t seem all that happy for me.”

  “I’m sorry. I think it’s great that you’re getting recognized for your incredible talent. It’s just that we still haven’t caught the bad guy and the Russian Mafia is still in the picture. Just keep your eyes open and don’t trust anybody, and I mean anybody, until this thing gets sorted out. OK?” I asked.

  “Got it,” he replied.

  “One more thing. If anybody asks you about what I’m doing with the case, make sure you don’t tell anything you learned from Jeannine or me. Alright?” I asked.

  “OK,” he said with a slight bit of irritation in his voice.

  “That said, now go out there and knock ‘em dead,” I said with a smile. Michael gave me a fist bump and departed.

  At 4:15 PM I got a call from Dad. “Guess who just arrived by cab?” he asked.

  “They must have jumped on the first flight after getting the call,” I responded.

  “Are you sure you want Cory relieving me at 5:00?” he asked.

  “I want him there to take night pictures if they try moving the trunk tonight. But, he could definitely use some help. I’ll hang in there with him until they turn in for the night. If somebody leaves I’ll be able to tail him,” I said.

  “I could do another shift,” Dad said.

  I said, “This thing could drag out a few more days. I need you fresh. I’ll be there by 6:30.”

  I called Shamansky and told his voice-mail of the hooligans’ arrival and my plans to stay with Cory on the stakeout. If the stars were aligned just right I suppose there was a chance that he’d get the message in time to find a judge who would issue a warrant on a Friday night, but I thought it highly unlikely.

  As I was getting ready to leave I got a call from David Cooper. “Don’t use my name during this conversation,” he said instead of hello. “The guesswork is over. The ad was placed and paid for the day before Terry was killed. I have no doubt this guy was in on it. He had to be.”

  I responded, “Is it possible to find out if Nigel made any moves in the US or the UK that would indicate he knew he was coming into a large sum of money soon. Particularly any activity the day Chofsky placed the ad.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but I didn’t have much luck with his US accounts last time I looked. Maybe he was a bit less security conscious in the UK, but I doubt it. You either are or you aren’t. You’ll have to find another link. I gotta run,” he said and hung up abruptly.

  At 6:18 I got into the passenger seat of Dad’s Riviera and told him about the latest development. He said he wanted to hang out until we heard from Shamansky. He didn’t have to wait long. Shamansky called just before 7:00 to say he reached his favorite judge at a wedding rehearsal party, “Nothing’s going to happen tonight, but I have his assurance that if I bring the warrant to his doorstep at 7:00 AM, he’ll sign it.”

  “That should work,” I said. “How do you want to play it with Chofsky?” I asked.

  “I think you should show up at the compound wearing a wire at the time Chofsky is supposed to be meeting with Nigel. I’ll send a couple of black & whites to hang out at the gate while you’re in there. Tell them the house was raided, the boys were picked up, the headphones and bomb kit were found and the boys gave up Nigel. Tell them about the ad and how you know they were in it together. If we’re lucky one or both of them will say something we can use at trial,” Shamansky said.

  “My dad’s here. He wants to know if he can be of further assistance,” I said.

  “Ask him if he wants to be an unofficial consultant at the stationhouse tomorrow while I sweat the hooligans,” he said. When I did, Dad broke into a smile that didn’t want to go away.

  “We’ve got a big affirmative on that one, Kojak. Do you think he should stay here all night on the stakeout or do you want him fresh for the interrogation?” I asked.

  “Tell him to get his ass in bed ASAP,” Shamansky replied as I held the cell phone so Dad could hear.

  “Yes sir!” Dad said enthusiastically.

  Dad headed home with that same smile glued to his mug. I climbed into Cory’s vehicle, explained the situation and was pleased to learn he had a sleeping bag in the back of the van. I carefully explained all of the circumstances where I wanted Cory to wake me up, then got into the sleeping bag as soon as night fell. I laid awake thinking about contingency plans for almost an hour before drifting off. At 11:00 PM Cory woke me up to say someone just went into the garage. Although the door was left ajar, we didn’t have the angle to see inside, so we waited about a half-hour, then saw Devin Billingsly emerge with only a flashlight in his hands. At least he hadn’t removed the trunk. Cory said he might have had something in his other hand when he entered. He took a photo through the night scope. We’ll know more tomorrow when he enhances it with his software.

  Just as I settled back into the sleeping bag my phone rang. “Jason Duffy,” I answered.

  “No names,” said David Cooper, “I’ve got something for you that might help if you get a chance to interrogate the hoodlums.”

  “Let’s hear it,” I said.

  “Warren Bates and Devin Billingsly both have a couple of years of college and passing grades. Theodore Pine, however, is dumber than a 286 with a virus. He would have flunked out of high school if he weren’t an All-Conference rugby player. The other two have a few minor convictions, mainly for Orangemen related activities that got out of hand. But Pine spent three of the last five years doing time. Where the other two might get the benefit of the doubt with a jury, Pine looks like a career criminal. If you can’t get him to flat out roll on his mates, you should have no trouble outsmarting him,” he said.

  “Thanks, dude. You’re the best. Anything else?” I asked.

  “I’ll call if I get anything important,” he said and hung up.

  Chapter 28

  I woke up at 6:30 AM to a profanity-laden argument c
oming from Cory and someone in the passenger seat that escalated into shouting. I pulled myself up on the van console that separated them and in my loudest whisper I yelled, “Shut up! Are you guys trying to blow our cover?” Then to the stranger in uniform, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Lieutenant David Jensen, Special Weapons and Tactics,” he said. “You must be Duffy. Is this asshole with you?”

  Cory started to respond, but I held my hand up, looked at Cory and he stopped. I replied, “This is my photographer and he has Tourette’s Syndrome. Leave it alone.”

  “I don’t put up with that shit from anybody. I don’t care what he has,” Jensen said getting worked up again.

  “He can no more control his swearing than a guy with Parkinson’s Disease can keep himself from shaking,” I said.

  “I don’t want to hear excuses, just get him the fuck out of here,” he said.

  “You’re the asshole, Jensen,” I said.

  “I don’t like you Duffy. You should think about who’s gonna have your back here today,” he said.

  “You don’t have to like me, just do your job by not telling the bad guys we’re here,” I said.

  “Your guy is a liability in this situation and I don’t want him on the scene,” he said while glaring at Cory.

  “Normally I’d fight you on Cory’s right to be here. But, I need him to take the pictures he shot last night back to his lab and enhance those images,” I said to Jensen. Then, to Cory I said, “I really need to know what was in that guy’s hand when he walked into the garage. Call me as soon as you know.”

  Cory nodded and I exited the van behind Jensen. When we got back to the SWAT truck, filled with his men, Jensen climbed into the back, turned around to me and said, “Why don’t you wait out here? You probably need a stretch after being in that van all night.”

  “That’s fine with me,” I said. “I thought the guys who are going in might like to know the floor layout and which rooms the perps are going to be in. But you probably prefer surprises."

  “Is that Jason Duffy out there?” said a voice from inside the SWAT truck.

  I stepped to the door opening and said, “Who’s in there?”

  “Dennis Kerrigan. My dad was on the force with your dad. I was at a couple of your backyard barbecues when I was a kid,” he said.

  “I remember you. How are you, Dennis?” I asked.

  He replied, “We’ll catch up later. Now get in here and tell us about that house. I’m one of the guys going in.”

  I looked at Jensen who said, “Whatever,” and sat between two of his men.

  “I then climbed into the truck and conducted as thorough a briefing as possible without disclosing how I came by this knowledge. I didn’t tell and they didn’t ask.

  At 7:45 AM Shamansky arrived with a warrant in hand. He took charge once he got in the truck, “Did Jason brief you on the layout?” he asked.

  “We got a lot more than we expected,” said Jensen. I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or if he was still pissed about Cory.

  Shamansky continued, “Here’s how it’s going down. We have to give them a chance to let us serve the warrant peacefully, but I think they’re going to give us trouble. That’s why you guys are here. We suspect that these men built the bomb that killed Terry Tucker, and we think it was built here. I was going to have you launch gas grenades into the upstairs windows, but I think we’ll need maximum visibility in case one of these guys goes for a stick of dynamite or some other explosive.”

  “Do we know they have dynamite?” asked Kerrigan.

  Shamansky shot a look at me and replied, “The owner of the house works for a construction outfit next to an excavation site. We know they use dynamite at the site, so there’s a good chance they picked up some dynamite when they stole the blasting caps that killed Tucker. The stuff might be in the house and it might be in the garage if they have any brains. The warrant covers both structures.”

  Over the next fifteen minutes Shamansky laid out his plan and Jensen asked questions. At 8:07 AM Shamansky rang the front doorbell while four SWAT guys with a battering ram took up a position by the back door. A minute later he rang the bell again, holding the warrant in his left hand and his 9mm pistol behind his back in his right hand. Kerrigan and I had our backs to the exterior wall away from the front window. It was decided that I could go in because I had knowledge of the items being sought in the warrant, and time might be of the essence once we got inside to keep evidence from being destroyed.

  The door opened up and I heard, “What can I do for you, mate?”

  “Detective Shamansky, San Diego Police. I have a warrant,” he said.

  “COPS!” screamed Devin Billingsly.

  Shamansky whipped his gun around his body, shoved it in Devin Billingsly’s ribs and pushed him inside. I followed behind Kerrigan through a small entryway into the living room. I started to look for the headphones when I became aware of a huge ogre of a guy sitting at the head of a table in the adjoining dining room, with a cereal bowl in front of him. Suddenly, he jumped out of his seat and dove through a bay window that overlooked the side yard and garage.

  I followed Kerrigan into the dining room in time to see him roll through the glass on the lawn, then bounce to his feet and dive through the garage window. Billingsly screamed, “NO!” just before a massive explosion leveled the garage and knocked us all to the floor.

  A few seconds later a battering ram knocked the back door open and SWAT poured in both doors. The cops that came in the front door ran straight up the stairs and three shots were fired immediately. The SWAT response that followed sounded like the ending to the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. “Come out with your hands on your head or I’ll throw in a grenade,” we heard in a booming voice.

  “They’ll destroy the evidence,” I said to Shamansky with panic in my voice.

  Shamansky shook his head and Billingsly yelled, “He’s bluffing!”

  After 100 rounds of ammunition smashed through the master bedroom door, Desmond Thompson was no longer taking orders from Devin Billingsly. Two minutes later Desmond tromped down the stairs in baby blue boxers and was followed by the girl I encountered yesterday morning. She was wearing the same green T-shirt and with her hands on top of her head she was commanding way too much attention, while Warren Bates was still on the loose. “Did you find Bates?” I asked the guy who was bringing up and admiring the rear.

  “I didn’t see him,” he replied without looking at me.

  Jensen heard this and yelled, “Jackson, Anderson, Dickson, go up there and find that guy!”

  Dickson popped a new magazine into his weapon and followed the others up the stairs. “We want him alive,” shouted Shamansky. Over the next ten minutes we found the two sets of headphones in the living room and became increasingly aware of the total silence on the second floor. Finally, Jensen went up to check on his men. He came back down a couple of minutes later and told us Bates was nowhere to be seen.

  “Keep a close eye on him,” Shamansky said to Kerrigan as he let go of the handcuffed Billingsly. He then turned to me and said, “Come with me.” We walked up the stairs and half-way down the hall when he called, “Shamansky and Duffy in the hall.”

  “Let’s get the headphones,” I said and Shamansky nodded. The door was open and Officer Jackson was staring at the closet.

  “He must have gone out the back door last night,” Jackson said.

  “They came here by cab. Thompson has the only vehicle and it’s parked outside,” I said.

  “Well he ain’t here,” said Jackson.

  I looked at the stereo and immediately noticed that the headphones were no longer plugged in. I stepped quickly to the shelving unit that held them, along with speakers and numerous CD’s, but no headphones. “Damn,” I said and dropped to the floor for a look under the bed.

  “He ain’t there either,” Jackson said.

  I rummaged through drawers while Shamansky checked the closet, but no sign of the headph
ones. We looked for about ten minutes, then moved to the guestroom where we suspected Warren Bates was staying. A check of his open suitcase containing his passport and clothing confirmed that he was here. I looked out the room’s gable window and saw the space where the garage had been. I also saw several cops and seriously doubted that Bates could have climbed down the side of the building and past the cops. In fact, there wasn’t anything to climb on even if the cops weren’t there to notice.

  We tossed the room and failed to find the headphones, then continued from room to room but came up empty. When we got back downstairs I checked the serial numbers of the two sets we recovered, in case the one Chelsea had purchased was moved to the living room, but no luck. They were the same sets I had seen the previous day. After an hour and forty-five minutes of searching we gave up.

  Outside, Shamansky told the crime lab guys to look for any sign of blasting caps, BBs and a BB box. While he was helping to define the areas he wanted combed thoroughly, I walked to the border of the yellow police tape across the street. There were several neighbors on the other side of the tape checking out the cops and SWAT team. I peaked inside the SWAT truck and saw Kerrigan talking to Jensen. I decided not to interrupt and hung out by a few of the neighbors.

  A little five-year-old boy holding his mother’s hand kept pointing at the house and telling his mom, “I saw Santa. Santa’s here. Is Santa coming to our house?”

  Kerrigan and Jensen emerged from the truck and Jensen walked back toward the house. “Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Kerrigan.

  “Not everything,” I said and remembered that I turned my phone off before approaching the house with Shamansky. I checked my messages and got a voice-mail from Cory who conveyed that Billingsly had a pair of headphones in his hand when he walked into the garage. He had only the flashlight when he emerged a half-hour later. He must have rigged a bomb to destroy the evidence and not bothered to tell Pine.

  I started to explain this to Kerrigan when the five-year-old went limp in the knees as his mother tried leading him away. “I wanna see Santa! I wanna see Santa!” he cried adamantly.