by Walter Marks
A patrolman had been assigned to keep order. When he saw Jericho, he tried to escort him through the crowd. Jericho pushed him away, saying these were peaceful protestors and he didn’t need protection.
When the detective entered Krauss’s office, the chief was sitting at his desk, staring catatonically into space. The anti-Krauss chants could still be heard, a faraway, insistent mantra. When he saw Jericho, Krauss snapped out of it.
“Jericho,” he said. “The shit’s hittin’ the fan. Those Hispanics been out there all morning — people taking videos with their fucking phones. And some eager-beaver chick from the East Hampton Star showed up and photographed this whole mess. Said it would be in the paper tomorrow. Fuck me! Jericho, this case is your goddamn responsibility!”
“Relax, Chief. I’m making progress.”
“What kinda progress?”
“I’ve tracked down and contacted the hate group that killed Lopez. I’m gonna join up and start attending their meetings.”
“I thought you said going undercover was chancy.”
“It’s a chance I’ve gotta take,” Jericho said. “Don’t worry, I’ve done plenty of undercover work in East Harlem. Trust me on this.
Also, we may have found the killer’s DNA under the victim’s fingernails.”
Krauss looked pleased. “Hey, that’s good,” he said. “But you still gotta find the killer to make a DNA match.”
“I’ll find him.”
“You better,” Krauss said. “You gonna use the old saliva-on-a-soda-can trick?”
“Possibly.”
“What if that doesn’t work? Goin’ for hair follicles? discarded Kleenex?”
“Probably Touch DNA,” Jericho said.
“Touch DNA? That’s a new one on me.”
“It’s DNA from anything the subject has touched.”
“Whoa!” Krauss said. “How does that work?”
Jericho was getting irritated with this Q&A. “Epidermal sloughing,” he said. “Followed by a process called polymerase chain reaction.”
That stunned Krauss into silence.
“Look,” Jericho said. “Enough with the forensics. I’ve got work to do.”
“All right, all right,” Krauss said. “First thing you gotta do is go outside and address those demonstrators.”
“C’mon, Sid. That’s your job.”
“I’m assigning it to you.”
“But...”
“Get out there and calm them the fuck down. That’s an order.”
Jericho nodded and went to his office.
On his computer he entered: Google Translate and typed in: Good morning. I am the detective assigned to the Lopez case. I am working hard to find the murderer. I will not stop until the killer is caught. I will be honest with you. Crimes committed by hate groups are hard to solve, because they have a code of silence. But we are going to do the best we can. Please be patient. This is my responsibility. Protest if you wish, but please do not attack Chief Krauss. Thank you.
He hit “translate”, then printed out the speech in English and Spanish.
He went outside. Standing on the top step of the building entrance, Jericho addressed the crowd — first in English, then in Spanish. He knew his accent was pathetic, but he wanted to show understanding and respect for the community.
“Buenos días. Soy el detective adjudicado al caso Lopez. Estoy trabajando duro para encontrar el asesino. No pararé hasta que el asesino sea agarrado. Voy a ser honesto con ustedes. Los crímenes cometidos por los grupos de odio son difíciles de resolver, ya que tienen un código de silencio. Pero vamos a hacer un gran esfuerzo. Por favor tenga paciencia. Esto es mi responsabilidad. Protesta si usted desea, pero por favor no ataca al Jefe Krauss. Gracias.”
There was a smattering of applause. The chanting didn’t resume but the demonstration continued.
A matronly woman stepped forward.
“Detective,” she said. “I’m Lily Reyes. I am on the OLA committee that met with Chief Krauss yesterday. I'm also a reporter for Noticia, the Spanish language weekly.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Lily stuck out her phone. “Can you tell us if you have any leads in this homicide?”
“I wish I could,” Jericho said. “But revealing any information at this point would jeopardize the case. I know how frustrating this must be. Like all people of color in this country, you’re often made to feel the police don’t care about you, that they regard you as the enemy.”
“You got that right!”
“Hopefully the situation is changing,” Jericho said, “And making your voices heard is one reason why.”
“You sure sound different from Chief Krauss,” Lily said. “At our meeting yesterday, here’s the first thing he said.” She pressed re-wind, then play on her cell phone —’I don’t need a bunch of pissed-off, low information Hispanics barging into my office and telling me how to do my job.’
“Terrific, huh?”
“I’ll talk to him,” Jericho said. “Now please excuse me. I’ve gotta get back to this case.”
In his office, Jericho checked his e-mail. It was mostly spam, except for one from his ex-wife, stating that Katie would be arriving in two weeks at JFK on JetBlue. The round trip airfare was $432.00 if he wanted to send her a check.
He wrote out a check immediately and put the stamped, addressed envelope in the office’s outgoing mailbox.
Jericho logged onto his “Hated” e-mail address
[email protected]. In his inbox he was surprised to see a quick response from Sigheil:
Hey HASS — I could do an interview with you this week, on Thursday. Can you make it? I’ll be at McDonald’s on the Sunrise
Highway, just past the Hampton Bays exit at 4pm. I’ll be wearing all black, and I am (of course) bald as a billiard ball, so you can’t miss me.
Make sure you complete the JOIN US form before you come. And bring photo ID.
BTW As you know, we are an organization of skinheads. And we expect all prospective applicants to follow suit. And please wear all black.
Please RSVP. Looking forward to sharing Big Macs with you at McDonald’s. 8668 — Sigheil
Jericho grimaced in revulsion. McDonald’s...Big Macs! He thought of Hannah Ahrent’s words in her book The Banality of Evil, saying the scariest thing about Adolph Eichmann and the other Nazi monsters, was that they were all so terribly and terrifyingly normal.
CHAPTER 13.
The next day, back in his office, Jericho hadn’t yet answered Sigheil’s e-mail. He kept vacillating about the meeting. Infiltrating The Hated could be a fool’s errand and dangerous as hell. On the other hand, he was determined to solve this brutal crime.
The interview was scheduled for Thursday. So he still had today and tomorrow to decide.
Yeah, but better not take too long. Or they’ll think you’re not committed.
He decided to wait till tonight, when he’d receive his fake ID from Mouse. He’d have to create a new persona based on those documents, and once he had a handle on that, he’d feel more secure about the upcoming interview.
Vangie appeared at his open door holding a piece of paper.
“Detective, got a minute?”
“Sure. Come on in.”
She sat down in a chair opposite him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been doin’ a little research on the Lopez murder. I wondered about those numbers 8668 written on his forehead, so I went on Google...”
“So did I.”
“Check this out.”
It was a printout of a Google page:
◄ 8668. teshuah ► Hebrew
teshuah: deliverance, salvation
Original Word:תְּשׁוּעָה
Part of Speech: Noun Feminine
Transliteration: teshuah
Jericho looked puzzled. “I didn’t see this when I entered 8668.”
“I typed in meaning of 8668 and this came up.”
The detective was annoyed with himself. First the Lopez b
oys found something he missed, now so did Vangie. This was a simple matter of searching Google correctly, and he’d blown it. He tried to conceal his irritation as he spoke.
“A Jewish connection doesn’t make much sense.”
“I know,” she said hesitantly. “I was thinking... maybe a Jewish hate crime?”
Jericho responded with an edge to his voice. “If Lopez were Muslim, a Jewish hate crime might make sense. But this is East Hampton, not East Jerusalem!”
“You’re right.”
I’m getting a little snarky here, Jericho thought.
He spoke in a softer tone. “But I won’t rule it out,” he said. “Right now I’m taking a different tack, but at times, in the past, I’ve followed a straight path, only to find the facts suddenly took me in an entirely new direction.”
Vangie got up to leave. ”Okay. I’m glad you don’t mind me playin’ detective. Well, I’ve gotta get back to 911.”
After she left, Jericho took a few deep breaths. Stop being so hard on yourself. Police work is not an exact science — everybody makes mistakes from time to time.
He reconsidered the idea of a Jewish hate crime.
Is that conceivable? Right now I’d have to say no, the Jewish angle is just a red herring.
A Jewish red herring? That could be a joke but this isn’t funny...
His computer dinged. It was a message from the medical examiner:
Subject: Upon further review.
Jericho — The tissue found underneath the fingernails of Carlos Lopez turns out to be his own. It is nasal mucosa. Sadly, I wish it were the killer’s genetic material, but it's snot. Forgive the pun-ditry. — John
Jericho was not amused. This complicated an already difficult decision. Without the chance of getting a DNA match from the killer, he’d have to infiltrate The Hated without any clear plan. Well, even with the DNA possibility, I was still essentially playing it by ear. And I know damn well playing it by ear is never advisable in a murder investigation. On the other hand... what choice do I have?
Not exactly a good day for Detective Jericho.
CHAPTER 14.
When he got home after work, it was still light. A Fedex package was propped against the front door. He picked it up and saw it was from the Spy Audio wristwatch company.
Jericho heard the squeal of brakes and turned to see a brown slope-nosed UPS van. The driver, dressed all in brown, got out and approached Jericho. He was a big man, whose muscular arms were forced outward by his over-developed lats — obviously a body builder.
“Package for Neil Jericho,” he said.
“Yep.”
“Sign here, please.”
As Jericho signed, the driver spoke to him. “’Scuse me, but I recognize you. You’re the cop who spoke to the crowd at the police station yesterday. Right?”
“That’s me.”
“I was there. Man, you made a heck of a speech,” the driver said. “Calmed those people the hell down. I was marchin’ with the LCBC group.”
“What’s that?”
“Let Cops Be Cops,” the driver said. “I’m a member, so I got an e-mail ‘bout the demonstration. Since my regular route is Hampton Bays to Montauk, I figured I’d stop along the way, take off a couple hours on company time, and join in. ...Please don’t report me.”
The driver grinned. Jericho nodded. He hadn’t figured his speech would appease the counter-demonstrators.
“You cops do a great job,” the driver said. “I know if them freakin’ rabble-rousers would just leave you alone, you’ll catch that damn killer.”
“We’re doing our best.”
The driver gave him a thumbs-up and walked to his van. He started the engine, made a U-turn in front of the house, and sped away.
At his kitchen table, Jericho opened the UPS package. Inside he found a drivers’ license with bogus name and home address, Discover card, and a membership card from L.I.U.N.A — Construction and General Building Laborers Local Union #79.
Included was a typed note from Mouse, informing Jericho that he was now Vernon Thomas Pettibone, an unemployed construction worker from Ronkonkama, LI.
GLHF, Vern.❤ — Mouse.
Jericho looked at his drivers’ license photograph. He had that mug-shot look most people can’t seem to avoid. But when he looked at his full head of hair it hit him. I’ll have to go skinhead in my interview with Sigheil. Shit!
That night he dreamed he was in the bathroom, lathering up his hair and shaving himself bald. He woke up in a cold sweat.
CHAPTER 15.
At breakfast Jericho was still in turmoil about becoming a skinhead. He’d always been proud of his full head of hair, keeping it a bit longer than police regulations required, but he’d gotten away with it. Okay, it was vanity, but when he was forced to get a crew cut at the Police Academy, his ears stuck out and he thought he looked like Mad Magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman. Women always loved his healthy looking, sandy colored locks. Maria had once told him his hair reminded her of JFK’s.
Suddenly Jericho was wrestling with this most banal issue — a haircut. The Banality of Goodness, he thought. Here I am trying to solve a murder and I’m worried about my ears sticking out.
Maybe I can do this interview without shaving my head. I could say I’m planning to go skinhead after I join up.
No! Sigheil was very specific about that.
So what if I have no hair? It’s not forever.
But when Katie comes to visit, what will she say?
Doesn’t matter. I’ve got to go all in.
Assembling the ID material in front of him, Jericho began working out a description of his new persona — Vern Pettibone.
Going undercover requires a detective to become a completely different person. Many criminals, through experience and instinct, are adept at identifying cops. Jericho knew he’d have to change his look, his voice, his attitude. And he’d have to create a complete backstory of his new life.
He’d spent over an hour working through various scenarios when his phone rang. It was Vangie Clark.
“What’s up, Vangie?”
“Jericho, something terrible happened over at the Lopez house. Paz called me this morning and said she’d found her daughter Caroline lying on her bed crying, with her Cabbage Patch Kids scattered all around the room. She... she’d torn the legs off every doll. Her mom asked what happened, and the kid just kept saying, ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.’”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“I called my wife,” Vangie said. “She’s gonna pick me up and we’ll drive over there. Y’know, Ingrid’s a child therapist, and she said kids sometimes act out when a parent dies — they believe it’s their fault and punish themselves by destroyin’ their own possessions.”
Jericho sighed. “Death is a tough blow for anyone, but kids... they don’t have the experience to deal with death as a reality.”
“Ingrid will have medication with her,” Vangie said. “And if it’s necessary, she can take Caroline over to Southampton Hospital.”
“I’m sure the girl’s gonna need long term therapy.”
“Ingrid runs a free clinic at the hospital. She can see Caroline on a regular basis.”
“That’s good.”
“Well, I better get goin’,” Vangie said. “Ingrid’ll be outside soon.”
“Hold on,” Jericho said, “Did you say Caroline pulled the legs off her dolls?”
“Yes.”
“Geez. That would take a lot of strength,” he said. “I mean, for a six year old kid to yank off those sewn-on legs.”
“Mrs. Lopez said Caroline took the scissors from her sewin’ basket.”
“And she only removed the legs?”
“Yes.”
Jericho shook his head, puzzled. “Why just the legs? Why not the arms, the heads?”
“I have no idea.”
Neither did Jericho. But picturing the little girl crying and destroying her precious dolls made him very sad. And angry.
&nb
sp; That’s it, he said to himself. I’m gonna nail that killer!
He told Vangie to make sure Mrs. Lopez put the scissors in a safe place. Then he hung up and went online to [email protected]. and replied to Sigheil:
Okay, Sig. Will CU tomorrow. 8668 — HASS.
He jumped in the shower. As he lathered up his hair with the fragrant, pearlescent green Prell, he thought wistfully — this could be my last shampoo for quite a while.
He got dressed and went out to his car.
CHAPTER 16.
Salvatore Testa founded Sal’s Barbershop, on Main Street in Amagansett, over forty years ago. His son Danny now runs the place, though Sal still works occasionally, when his arthritis permits. Outside the shop is a red, white, and blue revolving barber pole, which stopped turning years ago.
When Jericho entered the shop, Danny, wielding a wicked looking straight razor, was shaving the lather-covered face of some trusting soul. Jericho could never get over the notion of exposing your bare throat to someone wielding a finely honed blade.
When the shopkeeper’s bell jingled, Danny stopped shaving, looked up and smiled. “Hey, Jericho.”
Jericho waved. “How’s the Demon Barber of Main Street?”
Danny didn’t react, clearly not a Sondheim fan.
“Be with you in a couple,” he said. “Siddown, take a load off.”
Jericho tried to calm his nerves by imagining what he might look like bald. Hey, I’ll be another Vin Diesel, Samuel L. Jackson, The Rock, or even better — Mister Clean.
When Danny’s customer left, the barber motioned for Jericho to sit in the chair.
“What’ll it be, Detective? Just a trim like always?”
“No, Danny. I want you to take it all off.”
“All off? Ya gotta be kiddin’.”
“I’m just sick of the same ol’ same ol,” Jericho said. “I wanna go skinhead.”