Stone Cold

by James Glass

  “Here’s what I’m going to do,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll pull the file and begin looking into the case. Perhaps with a fresh set of eyes there might be a clue—DNA that’s never been entered, a witness statement, or any other evidence to point to who murdered your father. But before I do, was there anyone you suspected or who you suspect now?”

  “Anna Watson.” The name rolled off my tongue without delay. I couldn’t believe I blurted it so easy. “My mother.”

  ****

  Instead of checking into their room, Tony Francisco and Jerry Carrubba decided to go straight to the police department. If their witness provided a solid lead in catching Dexter Allen, they would cancel their room reservations and fly back tonight.

  They entered the double doors to the San Diego Police Department and walked to the front desk. A young woman with short curly brown hair chewed gum as she spoke on a phone. Her red fingernails tapped on the yellow pine desk.

  Francisco flashed his badge and read her name on the nameplate on the desk. She hung up the phone and returned the smile.

  Her caramel-colored eyes looked him up and down. “My, my, aren’t we a big boy.” The gum smacked as she spoke. He detected a hint of peppermint in the air. “How may I help you?”

  Francisco picked up the nameplate. “Ms. Stevens, we’re here to speak with Detective Banks.”

  “Please, call me Maggie.” She looked at his ring finger. “And if you’re here for a while, I could show you around town. San Diego can be a fun city if you have the right guide.”

  He winked at her then set the nameplate back on the desk. “Thank you, but I’ll have to take a rain check.”

  Maggie shrugged a shoulder then picked up the receiver and pushed a button.

  “Detective Banks, I have two gentlemen from the Eugene Falls, Florida Police Department here to see you. Would you like me to walk them back?”

  There was a short pause. “You got it.” Maggie removed a pen from her hair and scribbled something onto a yellow sticky note. “Is there anything else?”

  She hung up and stared into Francisco’s blue eyes. “Banks is waiting for you in homicide. Take a left down the hallway and the door is the second on the right.” She picked up the sticky note and stood. “My offer still stands if you decide to stick around.” She blew a bubble, turned, and walked away.

  The homicide division was made up of twelve back-to-back gray metal desks. Francisco whispered to Carrubba, “The desks look old enough to have served in World War II, man.”

  The white paint on the walls was faded and peeled back in several places. A dry heat filled the room. The rancid smell of body odor hung in the air. Activity was still rife, even at this hour, as half the cubicles were taken by the men and women who worked in homicide. A black man with receding salt-and-pepper hair grunted on the phone, then slammed the receiver on the hook. Sweat stains were noticeable along his armpits.

  “Ah, you must be Detective Banks,” Francisco said, smiling. “I’m Francisco with the Eugene Falls Police Department and this is Special Agent Jerry Carrubba from NCIS.”

  Banks tugged at his yellow tie. “Nice to meet you both. Call me Rodney.” They all shook hands. “That was the maintenance guys, if you can call them that.” He pointed to the ceiling. “They’ve been here half a dozen times this week to fix the air conditioning, to no avail.”

  Banks stood and adjusted his blue chinos. The pants hung low on his thin frame. There was a red stain on his gold tie. He grabbed a damp paper towel bunched up on his desk to try and get the stain out. He looked up and noticed the two men looking at him. “I had a fight with a jelly donut. It was a war to the bitter end, but I won, but not without casualties.”

  The red stain seemed to grow as he continued to rub at the spot. Growing increasingly agitated, he removed the tie and put it in a drawer in the desk. “Okay gentlemen, let’s go speak with Mr. Hogan. I had our secretary take him to interrogation room three.”

  “Do you have anything to drink?” Carrubba asked.

  Banks sighed. “Where are my manners? Would you like soda, water, or coffee?”

  “Soda, if you’ve got it.”

  Francisco nodded. “Me, too.”

  “Sodas are in the fridge in the back corner.”

  The two of them walked over to get their drinks. Carrubba grabbed two cans, handed one to Francisco and then looked over his shoulder.

  “Want anything, Rodney?”

  “The blue can.”

  He searched the fridge. “They’re all out. Anything else?”

  Banks shouted across the room, “Who took the last diet soda? You all know that’s the only thing I drink and you are not to take the last one without informing me.” He slammed his fists onto his desk. “You’re all a bunch of assholes.” He jostled some papers on his desk and murmured through clenched teeth, “Sonsabitches.”

  Several detectives sitting at their desks tried to look busy. One picked up the phone as though talking to someone, but Francisco noticed him speaking into the earpiece.

  In a soft voice Carrubba said, “Guess itʼs happened before.”

  “Guess so.”

  The three of them walked down a narrow corridor, passing several closed doors along the way, before heading up a flight of stairs to the second floor. Banks retrieved a set of keys from his pocket. “Hope you boys don’t mind the close quarters. I wanted an area where we could speak and have a little privacy around here. It can be a zoo sometimes.”

  The room was 10x10 with fading gray paint—a large mirror affixed to the rear wall. Francisco knew it was a one-way mirror—typical for an interrogation room. Several dust bunnies tumbled along the floor. The air was stale. In the middle of the room was a scarred wooden table he thought had heard a lot of confessions over the years. Four metal chairs were bolted to the floor facing each other from either side of the table.

  “I feel like I’m a suspect instead of a witness,” a short, plump man with sausage fingers said in a raspy voice. He was decked out in a colorful Grateful Dead shirt and khaki pants. A rust-colored beard swallowed his face. He combed his fingers through a mop of hair the color of tea. “Do I need to call my lawyer?”

  “Cool your jets, Mr. Hogan,” Banks said, crossing the room. He set some files on the table while Carrubba and Francisco sat in the chairs facing Hogan. “These two gentlemen want to speak to you. They flew all the way from Florida, but if you want to call your lawyer, go ahead. It would mean waiting in this stale, cramped room until your attorney gets here.”

  Hogan rolled his bloodshot eyes. “Florida. Well that explains it. That’s one fucked up state. Full of all kinds of crazy psycho killers. Ted Bundy, Aileen Wuornos, and now The Silencer.” His hand fidgeted with his shirt. “I only agreed to come in because you thought my life might be in danger.”

  Banks stalked to the door. “I’ll be outside if you need me, detectives.”

  Francisco opened the soda in his hand and slid it across the table. Sometimes a good gesture went a long way in getting a witness to trust you enough to talk. Hogan nodded his thanks and took a long swig, followed by a burp.

  Francisco removed his charcoal-gray sports jacket, revealing a lavender shirt and burgundy tie. He placed the jacket on the back of his chair and sat. He wanted the man sitting across from him to feel relaxed. It was a trick he’d learned from Rebecca. “Hey, Ned, you ever see the Grateful Dead when they performed at Soldier Field?”

  Hogan grinned, took another swig and set the drink on the table. “Sure did. Great show, but not as good as the one at The Matrix before your time, kid. Man, what a show. I was only twelve, but man-oh-man, that was the greatest concert ever.”

  Francisco nodded. “Well before my time. But when they played at Soldier Field, my father and I had VIP backstage passages.”

  “You were lucky, kid. I never had VIP passes.”

  Francisco had the man’s attention. He moved onto the next phase.

  “Ned,” Francisco began, “weʼre here because your l
ife might be in danger. So far, the killer has murdered several people who knew each other.”

  Hogan raised his hands, palms out. “So? I don't see what that has to do with me.”

  “Well, for starters, serial killers don’t normally target people who know each other. Granted they have common traits when hunting their prey such as race, gender, physical characteristics, or some other specific quality to connect them to their victims. But in this case, the victims all knew each other to some degree. Do you know Lee Green, Jason Grogan, or Eric Baxter?”

  Hogan’s eyes darted across the table. He swallowed hard. “Maybe. Why?” he asked with hesitation.

  Carrubba leaned forward. “Ned, you know something. Don’t you? Something happened down in Gitmo. We need you to tell us about the court-martial of Dexter Allen.”

  “So that stuff about the Grateful Dead that Kid Wonder told me was a load of crap…a way to get me to open up.” He shook his head and sighed. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t discuss the trial.”

  “Why not?”

  “Gag order. If I discuss this case, I could lose my retirement.”

  Carrubba shook his head. “That’s a load of crap and you know it. And even if it were true, Judge Wiggins wouldn’t know you told us.”

  “Why, did he die?”

  “No. But he’s in a hospital in Virginia. Dexter Allen cut out his tongue and gave the old man a lobotomy.”

  Hogan froze. His face turned ashen.

  Carrubba leaned forward and touched him on the shoulder. “We really need you to tell us what happened in Gitmo. Why was Allen the only person convicted for the six detainees who committed suicide?”

  Hogan resisted. “It was a long time ago, man. Let it go.”

  “Then why all the secrecy? If there’s nothing to hide, then come out and tell us what happened.”

  Hogan gave Carrubba a sideways glance.

  Francisco pointed a finger at him. “Then can you at least tell us why Allen leaves biblical quotes behind at the crime scene?”

  “Sure. His nickname was Preacher. Some of the sailors thought he was cuckoo because he’d walk around the compound spewing Bible quotes. He even converted several of the Muslim inmates to Christianity.”

  Francisco nodded.

  “Okay, so Allen was a man of faith, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the night the six detainees committed suicide, what else happened out of the ordinary?”

  Hogan cocked a brow. “How did you know?”

  “Weʼre cops. Call it a hunch.”

  Hogan sighed. “The evening was a typical night at E-block. That’s where we kept the worst offenders. You know, the bomb makers, murderers…the real scum of the earth.” Hogan used a finger to trace the edges of something carved into the table. “At around 2100, several detainees threw cocktails at the guards.”

  Francisco raised a brow. “Cocktails?”

  Hogan smiled. “Semen, urine, and feces were the norm. The detainees would combine their gifts into a ball and when a guard they didn’t like walked by, they’d throw it at him. Then the extraction team would go in, remove the detainee, and toss them in the holding cell. The guard who was unlucky enough to get the shit thrown on him had to see medical and be cleared before coming back.”

  “Does that mean manpower would be low until the guards returned?”

  “Yeah. Those hit with the cocktails usually returned in an hour or two.”

  Francisco leaned forward. “So a number of the guards were targeted that night to distract the Chief of the Guard and his staff from stopping the suicide, right?”

  “Yes, but we didn’t know that until afterward.”

  “Okay, let’s back up a minute. How did they commit suicide?”

  “Took the sheets off their bunks—formed one end into a knot, about the size of a woman’s fist, and tied the other end to the cell bars. They soaked the knot in the sink, then swallowed it, got down on their knees and leaned back. Because it was so thick, the knot couldn’t be pulled out once it was swallowed. Essentially they hung themselves.”

  “But why the cover-up? I mean why did Captain Williams go after Dexter Allen? More to the point, why only Allen?”

  “You don’t get military politics, Detective. The captain by default would have had a permanent stain on his record. He was up for rear admiral and something like this would have dashed any hopes of moving up.”

  Carrubba shook his head. “You mean the captain was more worried about his career? Are you serious?”

  Francisco raised a hand, signaling for Carrubba to quiet down. “Is this true, Ned? Did the captain really set Allen up to be the fall guy? And if so, how come you didn’t step in?”

  Hogan hissed through clenched teeth. “Let’s get something straight right now, kid. The facts are six detainees committed suicide on Allen’s watch. He was supposed to have people looking in on them. Instead, he failed to maintain order and discipline. So get off your pedestal of justice and get with the program.”

  “And what program is that? Conspiracy? Because that’s the only program I see.” Francisco paused to see if Hogan had anything to say about that. When nothing came, Francisco opened the file he had brought with him and shoved several pictures of The Silencer’s victims across the table. “Take a good look at these and see what happens when a conspiracy goes bad.”

  Hogan turned away from the gruesome pictures.

  “What’s the matter, Ned? Can’t stomach the fact the man you sent to prison has a grudge? Guess you and your co-conspirators didn’t see that one coming, did you?” He let the questions linger for a moment. “We’re done fishing for answers. Now either be straight with us or we walk.”

  For several long minutes the room was quiet. Too quiet.

  Hogan finally broke the silence. In a somber voice he said, “What do you want to know?”

  Chapter 32

  7:25 p.m.

  Francisco watched as Hogan sipped his soda and set it on the table, and then stared at the black liquid.

  “What I’m about to tell you may sound like something you only read in books or see in movies, but sometimes…” He continued to stare at the silver can. “Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

  “Even before the six committed suicide, we had intel that something was going down that night. We didn’t know the details, but several of the detainees had provided gouge to Grogan and Baxter.”

  Carrubba leaned forward. “Gouge like from informants or rumors?”

  “Informants. Grogan and Baxter routinely conducted interviews and interrogations with the detainees. Over the years, they had connected with several who would trade information for favors.”

  “What kind of favors?”

  “Mostly for American food. They loved eating fast food. Burgers, pizza. This stuff was like ambrosia to them. Sometimes they’d ask for a new Koran or magazines like People or Sports Illustrated, but mostly it was food.” He fiddled with the soda can a moment. “Anyway, they received this information and gave a threat assessment to the captain and me about 1700. The captain pretty much waved it off because he wanted to get in nine holes with the base admiral before nightfall. But when the shit hit the fan that night and we were called back to the compound, Captain Williams’s demeanor had changed.”

  “Changed how?”

  Hogan ran a finger in circles on the tattered tabletop. “He called a meeting with Grogan, Baxter, and me in his office. Williams told the investigators they needed to find a fall guy. Otherwise there would be hell to pay and everyone would feel the heat—except for him.”

  “So he threatened the three of you? Did Williams really think he could get away with something like that?”

  “You don’t understand how much power that man has. As the head of Detainee Operations, he’s got free rein to do whatever the hell he wants. Put a narcissistic micromanager in there and you have…” his voice trailed off again.

  He remained silent for a long minute, until Francisco finally pro
mpted him. “How could Williams know they would be found guilty in an internal investigation?”

  “Because I would have been the one investigating it.”

  “But you said he blew off their threat assessment. If it ever went to a court-martial, wouldn’t you have to testify?”

  He shook his head. “The threat assessment they gave the captain and me was a courtesy call. There’s no record of that meeting. But the one Grogan and Baxter wrote up after the fact was sent to Washington. They send all threat assessments to the capital. So you see the captain had them by the balls, so to speak.”

  “Wait, what? You’re telling us Williams ordered a cover-up and they, you included, went along with it?”

  “Basically, yes. The captain had a lot of power. If this had blown up in his face, six detainees committed suicide, and he had knowledge of this fact beforehand, it wouldn’t be his career he’d have to worry about. He would’ve been sent to Leavenworth.”

  Francisco pinched the bridge of his nose. He stood and stalked around the table once, then stared at Hogan. “So, better to put the blame on the Chief of the Guard rather than to take responsibility for your actions…well, inactions.”

  “You can judge me if you want to, but no one’s innocent. Not even Dexter Allen.”

  Francisco placed his hands on the table, flexing his arms, the muscles trying to break free of his lavender shirt. “Then please enlighten us, Mr. Wizard.”

  “The man had a bad temper. If one of his guards stepped out of line, he read them the riot act in front of everyone. Detainees, other guards. It didn’t matter. I counseled him on the matter once but it didn’t seem to help. But what upset the captain was when Allen chewed out a newly reported sailor in front of the press. This young sailor walked outside without a cover on.”

  “What’s a cover?”

  “A hat. Every sailor wears one in uniform when they’re outside.

  Francisco nodded.

  Hogan continued. “Anyway, Allen snatched him by the collar and went off on the poor kid. The captain apologized to the press but his face turned red from embarrassment. Later that night the captain wrote a letter of reprimand on Allen.”