It clearly had been lived in. He could make out a small pile of coins on top of the dresser, a Bic pen, and what might be a roll of antacids. Yates was already busy working these for latent prints. Dart edged over to the closet and carefully opened it, his hand sweating inside the latex glove. There were a dozen shirts on hangers, and a white wire rack that held folded jeans, socks, underwear, T-shirts, a sweatsuit and other clothing.
Gritch tapped Dart on the shoulder, moved him, and began shooting photographs of the closeted clothing, Yates training the special low-level flashlight on the contents.
“We have an unidentified male approaching on foot on Zion,” the voice in Dart’s ear announced.
“Heads up, people,” Schultz’s voice said into Dart’s earpiece. “Let’s rendezvous at the base of stairs immediately.” He paused. “Right now, people.”
Yates returned to the clothes dresser and wiped down the pen and several of the coins. Gritch prepared and then bagged the digital camera and said to Dart, “This was closed, correct?”
“Yes.”
She shut the closet door. “Fully closed?”
“Fully closed,” Dart acknowledged.
“Suspect is turning down Hamilton,” came the spotter in Dart’s right ear.
“Team leader,” inquired the male voice from the van, “do you copy that please?”
“Copy,” replied Schultz.
“Prepare to evacuate all personnel,” the operations van announced calmly.
“Roger.”
Over the communications device Schultz ordered, “Down here now, people. Get the lead out!”
As Dart headed out of the bedroom, he glanced over his shoulder to see both Gritch and Yates dash into the bathroom and then back out through the bedroom, their heads and the ungainly goggles sweeping left to right. During the briefing, Schultz had informed Dart that he wanted these two particular technicians because of their incredible photographic memories. He had told a story about Gritch returning from a raid and reciting forty-five tides of books contained on the study’s shelves—he estimated that Gritch had been inside there less than a minute. A later SID report had confirmed all forty-five titles.
“Report?” the operations van requested.
“Subject is entering Hamilton Court,” the male voice replied. “You’ll need to abort via the back route. Copy?”
How could the dispatcher sound so calm? Dart wondered. His chest felt on the verge of exploding.
“Copy,” said the van.
“Back route. Copy,” replied Schultz.
Schultz and his two men were waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“We have an abort situation,” Schultz announced over the unit intercom. “Unidentified subject approaching.” He tripped a button on his belt pack and said to the operations van, “Status?”
“The back is still clear,” Dart heard in his earpiece.
Schultz repeated this.
Schultz now addressed Dart directly, the night-vision goggles making him look like some kind of bug. “Your call, Detective. Do we apprehend or not?” This was first time Dart heard emotion override the man’s military manner—Schultz wanted to stay and apprehend the suspect.
Dart asked Gritch, “How did we do in here?”
“Well below what we might have hoped for.” Yates nodded his agreement. She was saying that they had nothing. No evidence of consequence.
In a flurry of activity, Dart then heard the operations van direct the field surveillance operatives.
OPERATIONS VAN: This is Control. Shepherd, can we get a video of the subject with a drive-by?
DETECTIVE SHEPHERD: Negative. He’s already in the alley. If you get a pickup you’ll be lucky. I’d advise the team to enter Pope Park. We’ll pick up at York Street.
OPERATIONS VAN: Negative on Pope Park. We’re rolling. Team leader, acknowledge abort.
Schultz, off mike, said, “Well?”
Dart did not want to apprehend, given the lack of evidence. He wanted this suspect, but not yet. “Negative.” Then he immediately voiced a consideration to Brandon. “Can we get a look at him?”
Brandon, aware of the order of rank, looked to Schultz for the answer.
“We can get anything, Detective.” Schultz said. “It’s your call.”
PERSONNEL VAN: What’s the call?
OPERATIONS VAN: Team leader?
FIELD AGENT: Suspect has passed target. He’s turning down the drive.
Schultz yanked the gooseneck microphone to in front of his mouth and said for everyone to hear, “He’s going for the back door. We’ll take the front.” He threw the switch on his communications device and spoke.
SCHULTZ: We’ll need ten seconds.
OPERATIONS VAN: You won’t get it.
Schultz placed his gloved hand on the doorknob.
Pointing at Brandon, Dart asked, “Can we leave the camera set up in here?”
“If we leave Brandon, we can,” came Schultz’s answer. “We don’t have the necessary warrants for wire surveillance, but we are allowed in here. If you want to record this guy, it’s going to have to be in person. Your decision.”
“But we’ll pick it up in the van?” Dart asked.
“In the operations van, yes,” Schultz answered.
“Brandon and I stay,” Dart said.
OPERATIONS VAN: Suspect is inside the back gate. You better get out.
Dart heard a rattle at the back door as a key turned.
Schultz faced his crew and said, “We’re going to take him, people. Positions!”
“No!” Dart objected with a harsh whisper, his body in full sweat, the sound of the key in the lock somehow louder.
“We can’t make it.” Schultz countered, “We’re too late.”
Dart argued, “We hide. Ride him out. Maybe we get a shot to leave.”
Schultz and Dart faced each other, and despite the goggles, Dart felt as if he were looking directly into the man’s eyes and that they were locked in a battle of wills.
Schultz acquiesced. “Observation only until further notice. Go!”
The door cracked came unlocked and cracked open tentatively.
The ERT crew scattered and disappeared instantly. Brandon and Dart raced up the stairs. Dart didn’t see where the others went, only Schultz, who stashed himself into the front coat closet. As he reached the landing, following closely on Brandon’s heels, Dart heard something like static in his right ear and realized it was Schultz, barely whispering over the intercom:
SCHULTZ: I want location reports. Check in ASAP.
Give me suspect’s position, people.
ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Philgim. I’m in the kitchen.
ERT AGENT DONALDSON: Donaldson. Basement stairs.
ERT AGENT BRANDON: Brandon. Upstairs bedroom.
DART: Dartelli. Upstairs bedroom.
SCHULTZ: Split it up, up there.
ERT AGENT YATES: Yates. Basement with Donaldson.
ERT AGENT PHILGIM: He’s inside.
Silence over the intercom. Dart heard a floorboard creak downstairs, and he prayed it was the suspect, not one of Schultz’s commandos. He didn’t want a dead suspect, and these ERT types were weapons-sharp. Brandon, following orders, motioned for Dart to enter the closet and that he, Brandon, would take up a position in the bathroom.
To Dart, it felt as if several minutes passed before another voice came over the intercom.
ERT AGENT GRITCH: Gritch. Living room. He’s heading for the stairs. He’s using a flashlight.
The idea of a flashlight didn’t sit well with Dart. The resident would certainly use the lights—unless, Dart thought, he wanted to disguise his coming and going.
Perhaps hiding in the closet affected Dart, so much of his youth having been spent hiding in places like this. Perhaps it was that even all these years later by imitating his actions as a child, he was suddenly a part of those emotions. A surge of frustration, anxiety, and anger swept through him, stealing control of the rhythm of his heart. He realized
that he was not standing inside this darkened closet by choice but because someone else had directed him here. Brandon. Schultz. It didn’t matter who. He had done this not by choice, but necessity. Adrenaline filled him with panic. He felt claustrophobic, as if this tiny space were shrinking in on him. He heard footsteps coming up—and he could actually smell his mother’s cheap perfume, could hear the woosh of her dress. He knew where he was, a cop standing in a darkened closet, that it was their suspect coming up the stairs, not his mother. But nonetheless, he smelled her. No mistaking that perfume. He yanked the goggles down over his eyes and wondered if the beating of his heart could be heard through the closet door.
SCHULTZ: Suspect is at top of stairs. Donaldson, Philgim, provide backup.
Schultz was seeing to it that Dart and Brandon—an HPD cop and a techie; the lowest of the low in his opinion, no doubt—had some ERT support, something Dart could do without. He mustn’t lose this suspect or find himself in a firefight.
He heard breathing on the other side of the closet door, and it was everything he could do not to imagine his mother. I’m a grown man! he told himself. And yet the past remained. He held his breath—he could hide better than the best of them. He reached down and fingered his weapon. If that door came open, there was going to be hell to pay.
He could picture the two ERT men ascending the stairs delicately, not emitting a sound despite the old planks. Trained to be weightless. Trained killers. He wondered what their nightmares were. What demons possessed them?
The sound of the suspect’s heavy breathing passed by the door, grew faint, and then disappeared.
ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Suspect is inside the bathroom.
Dart heard a sweep of fingers on the outside face of the door, like a faint scratching, and realized that the ERT men were signaling him, warning him they were in the room. They didn’t want Dart firing on them.
SCHULTZ: I don’t want Brandon at risk. Apprehend suspect. Repeat: Apprehend.
ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Apprehend. Copy.
Dart gently eased the closet door open. Philgim’s goggles swung to face him. The agent nodded, pointed toward the bathroom and then to the weapon in his hand. Dart slipped his sidearm out. Philgim pointed to Donaldson, who was also facing Dart. Donaldson held a phosphorous grenade up for Dart to see and indicated for Dart to remove his goggles—the bright light would be blinding. Dart nodded, lowered his head, pulled the goggles up onto his head, and covered his eyes.
ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Brandon. Phos. grenade.
Dart heard the click of a tongue. Brandon, being in the same room as the suspect, could not speak, not even in a whisper, and yet had communicated his acknowledgment.
These people aren’t human, Dart told himself.
He heard a loud pop, and even with his eyes shielded, a flash of blinding white light flooded him. There was a series of harsh shouts and commands as the ERT agents announced themselves. “Police! Stay where you are! No movement! Hold it!” They moved in careful orchestration, one protecting the other.
Dart, screening himself with the doorjamb, saw the suspect kneeling on the floor, both hands over his eyes. The grenade had blinded him. The effect would last several minutes. There was a smell of bitter smoke and a gray haze floating on the ceiling.
The porcelain lid that belonged on the top of the toilet tank was off, and a wet brick and a plastic bag containing small glass vials sat on the closed seat. The brick, ostensibly inside the toilet to conserve water, turned out to be a hollow plastic imitation—a hiding place designed and sold as such. In their quick assessment of the bathroom Yate and Gritch had missed this.
Philgim yanked the man’s arms behind his back, announcing, “You are under arrest on suspicion of tampering with crime scene evidence.” This was the way the search warrant read. Dart was amazed at the team’s efficiency, and the way that they stuck to procedure. The handcuffs snapped into place.
“Fuck off!” said the husky voice of the suspect, his head still bent toward the ground.
Dart knew that voice. It belonged to Roman Kowalski.
CHAPTER 25
John Haite looked exhausted, rubbing his eyes to get the sleep out. He, Dart, and Kowalski sat in the second of the two CAPers interrogation rooms, Dart still dressed in black. On the room’s only table was the plastic bag containing the glass vials that Dart had seen on the toilet. Brandon’s fiber-optic video had recorded all of Kowalski’s movements once inside the bathroom. Ironically, by their efficiency, the ERT team had invalidated this evidence by showing that Kowalski had collected it, and Kowalski’s name was not listed on the warrant. It was a bugaboo that had both Haite and Dart in a lather.
“I want to hear that again,” Haite said angrily. Dart had to let Haite conduct the first round of questioning. Rank had its privileges.
Kowalski said, “A phone call. A tip. A snitch. I got the call. I responded. I was told if the key was outside, the place would be empty, but I wasn’t about to go inside calling hellos. What the fuck? Guy told me there was some shit hidden inside a fake brick in the toilet. I headed straight there. He was talking like I wouldn’t have much time—”
“All without a warrant,” Haite interrupted.
“I understand the problem here,” Kowalski answered.
“And we’re supposed to buy this?” Haite questioned.
“What the fuck do I care, Sergeant? That’s the way it is.”
“Watch it!” Haite warned.
“The key to the back door?” Dart asked.
“Hanging on the nail, right where the snitch told me I’d find it.”
“Jesus, what a pile of shit,” Haite said. “And what about this?” he said, pointing to the bag on the table.
“He told me where to find that too,” Kowalski said reluctantly. “I know it sounds bad—”
“It sounds god-awful,” Haite corrected. “Impossible is more like it.”
“It’s the way it went down,” the man said sheepishly.
“Bullshit,” Haite counted. “It’s fucking bullshit, Kowalski, and we all three know it. You had better shit or get off the pot, pal, because otherwise a load of trouble is coming your way.”
Dart, trying to calm things down, asked, “What did the snitch say about this stuff?” He pointed to the table.
“He said there was shit pertaining to the suicides that I’d be interested in. He said there was some kind of cover-up, some kind of cleanup man involved. He said there was evidence there that could bust the thing wide open, and that if I was interested I had better get my butt over to Hamilton Court. Shit, it sounded good to me,” he complained. To Haite he whined, “It sounded good, Sergeant. What the fuck do I know?”
“You know about warrants, for Chrissakes! Procedure. Jesus, you’re a fuck-up.” He hesitated, his voice rising as he went. “And that is if we believe any of this crap, because I, for one, don’t believe a goddamn bit of it, Detective. Not one goddamn bit. You’re a fucking embarrassment to this division, a fuck-up of a cop, and you’ll be waving traffic or doing time when I’m through with you! Now tell us what the fuck you’re up to, who the hell this Wallace Sparco is, and how the hell you fit in, or I’m sending your ass to booking and you’re getting a number, pal.”
Kowalski paled. In all his years of service, Dart had never seen the man lose his color. Despite that, he placed his spread hands onto the table and said calmly, “I got a call from a snitch.”
“A snitch you’d never heard of before,” Haite pressed.
“True. But he knew about the suicides. He seemed to know what he was talking about. He told me I’d be interested. Told me where the key was. Told me what I’d find. I followed up on it. Then you guys,” he said to Dart. “Honest-to-fucking God, it’s all I know.”
“Without a warrant!” Haite protested.
“I know, I know.”
“This stuff is useless to us!” Haite shouted, pointing at the table. “It’s probably key evidence to this fucking investigation, and it’s absolutely useless!�
��
It wasn’t until Haite put it so succinctly that Dart understood. He couldn’t mention it to the others—they would never believe it. It was Zeller. He had found a way to invalidate the evidence. Knowing Kowalski would sucker into anything easy, he had made a pawn out of the man and used him to cancel out this evidence.
Dart stood up.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Haite thundered.
“There’s something I’ve got to do.”
Tommy Templeton did not appreciate being awakened at four in the morning. He had lit a cigarette coming out of bed and opened the door with it dangling from his mouth. He was wearing a pair of blue boxer shorts. “Exactly what the fuck are you doing?” he asked Dart.
The detective handed him an envelope. “I need five, maybe ten minutes of your time.”
“You look like a fucking Ninja.”
“It’s been a long night. We’ve got Kowalski in lockup. It’s a mess.”
“Come in. Let me put some coffee on. I can’t think without coffee.”
“I’ll get the coffee. You take care of that.”
Templeton undid the clasp and opened the manila envelope. He slipped out a five-by-seven black-and-white photograph and turned it around. “Walter Zeller? What the hey?”
“You can do what you do in reverse, right?”
Templeton appeared puzzled. “I’m telling you, I need coffee. You got the advantage here.”
“This morphing stuff.”
Glancing at the photograph again, Templeton’s brow knitted. “Sure.”
“I have a driver’s license photo. I have the composite that you made with the girl.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I think they’re both Zeller,” Dart said. “And this is not for public consumption.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Templeton swore. “Skip the coffee. I’m awake now.”
Ten minutes later the two sat before Templeton’s monitor. The artist had carefully enlarged Sparco’s drivers license photo and superimposed this into the scanned image of Zeller’s police ID. Zeller’s face fit perfectly inside Sparco’s. “It’s the distance between the eyes and temples,” the artist explained. “Those are two givens that can’t be changed.” He worked with a small pen on a digitized pad and gently erased Sparco’s jowls, thinned the man’s swollen lips, and reduced the discolored bags under his eyes. A moment later, there was only Zeller’s face on the screen.
(1995) Chain of Evidence Page 19